The Mountain Guest did not teach immediately.
For three days, Vale did nothing but chores.
He gathered wood.
He fetched water.
He repaired loose planks on the hut.
No cultivation.
No breathing techniques.
No explanations.
On the fourth day, the Guest handed Vale the blade.
"Hold it," he said.
Vale grasped the hilt.
The blade felt heavier than it looked. Not in weight—but in intent. It resisted motion, as though unwilling to be swung thoughtlessly.
"This is the Burning Wood Saber," the Guest said. "Despite its name, it does not burn."
Vale frowned. "Then why—"
"Because wood burns by surrendering itself," the Guest interrupted. "This saber does not surrender. It endures."
He stepped behind Vale.
"Most sabers cut by sharpening sound," the Guest said. "Vibration. Resonance. You already know why that will fail you."
Vale nodded.
"Burning Wood Saber," the Guest continued, "cuts by separation, not force."
He guided Vale's grip.
"Do not swing."
Vale froze.
"Do not resonate," the Guest added.
Vale steadied his breathing.
"Simply decide," the Guest said, voice low, "where the world should part."
Vale raised the blade slowly.
There was no sound.
No wind.
No pressure surge.
He lowered the blade.
The wooden post before him split cleanly—
not chopped, not shattered—
but divided, as though it had never been whole.
Vale stared.
"That," the Mountain Guest said, reclaiming the saber, "is technique transmission."
Vale swallowed. "Is this… sound?"
The Guest shook his head. "This is what remains when sound is no longer trusted."
He looked toward the mountain's edge, where clouds drifted without pattern.
"Remember this," he said.
"Power announces itself.
Technique reveals itself.
But philosophy…"
He met Vale's eyes.
"…waits for those who stop echoing."