Inside, the hut was sparse.
A low table.
Two cushions.
A single blade resting against the wall.
The man seated inside looked ordinary.
Middle-aged. Loose robes. Hair tied simply at the back. No visible cultivation aura. No pressure.
He poured tea calmly, as though Vale's arrival had been expected since morning.
"You're late," the man said.
Vale stiffened. "I arrived as fast as I could."
The man smiled faintly. "Everyone says that."
He gestured to the cushion opposite him. "Sit."
Vale obeyed.
Only when he sat did he realize something unsettling.
There was no sound inside the hut.
Not suppressed.
Not muted.
Simply… irrelevant.
"I am called a Mountain Guest," the man said, sliding a cup forward. "Not because I belong here. But because I never stay long."
Vale accepted the tea. It was warm, but carried no aroma.
"You practice sound," the Guest continued, "yet you climbed without using it."
Vale hesitated. "Sound doesn't answer me the way it answers others."
The Mountain Guest nodded, unsurprised. "Of course it doesn't."
He lifted the blade from the wall.
It was old. Unadorned. The edge dulled by years of honest use.
"Most people cultivate techniques," he said. "Some cultivate laws. A rare few cultivate absence and mistake it for talent."
The blade rested across his knees.
"You," he continued, "cultivate boundaries."
Vale's fingers tightened slightly around the cup.
"I don't know what that means."
The Mountain Guest chuckled. "Good. Then you won't misuse it."
He leaned forward.
"The Sound Clan teaches that sound is a bridge," he said. "Between self and world. But bridges imply two sides willing to meet."
Vale remembered the wind that did not answer.
"What if the world refuses?" Vale asked quietly.
"Then," the Guest said, eyes sharpening, "you stop calling it refusal."
He tapped the blade lightly against the floor.
No sound followed.
Vale's breath caught.
"This mountain," the Guest said, "is not silent. It is selective."