The SUV's engine gave one final, wet wheeze and died, leaving the mountain silence to rush back in like a flood. Han Dae-ho stood frozen, his eyes darting between the 7-iron in his hand and the split pine tree on the ridge.
That wasn't a fluke, Han thought, the color draining from his face as he stared at the distant, splintered wood. The trajectory... it didn't even fight the wind. It cut through it.
He turned back to the boy, but Aris was already walking away. A small group of children had emerged from the treeline, watching the city man with wide, curious eyes.
Mina, a girl with a permanent smudge of dirt on her nose and a slingshot hanging from her belt, stepped forward. She was the oldest of the village children, the one who usually led their hunts for wild ginseng. Beside her stood Bora, a stout boy carrying a bucket of crawfish, his face perpetually set in a grin. They were the only "team" Aris had ever known—the support crew that chased his practice stones through the brush.
"Aris!" Mina called out, her voice echoing off the rocks. "Who's the suit? Did he come to buy the timber?"
"He wants to see the strike," Aris replied, not slowing his pace.
Bora laughed, shaking his bucket. "Better show him the big ones then! The city folks usually run when the granite starts flying."
Han watched the exchange, struck by the contrast. These kids lived in a world of dirt and survival, yet they looked at Aris with a reverence that bordered on worship. To them, he wasn't a golfer; he was the boy who could bend the mountain to his will.
"He's right, you know."
The voice was like the sound of shifting tectonic plates. Han spun around to find a towering shadow looming over him. Kang Mujin had moved from his stool with the silence of a ghost. Up close, the old man was even more intimidating—his hands were twice the size of Han's, covered in a landscape of scars and permanent oil stains.
"Mr. Kang?" Han asked, trying to find his professional composure. "I'm Han Dae-ho, lead scout for the Apex Academy. I've seen a lot of talent, but your grandson—"
"My grandson is a mason," Mujin interrupted, the stem of his pipe clicking against his teeth. "He understands the world through the strike. You come here with your plastic car and your hollow sticks, talking about magazines. You're a salesman, Mr. Han. And we aren't buying."
Han swallowed hard. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card, the gold-embossed "Apex" logo catching the dimming sunlight.
"I'm not selling anything," Han said, his voice dropping to a serious tone. "I'm offering a path. That boy has 'Absolute Impact.' If he stays here splitting rocks, he'll be a broken old man by forty. If he comes with me, he'll be a god by twenty."
Mujin let out a short, bark-like laugh. He walked toward the creek and gestured for Aris to follow.
"The city wants gods, Aris," Mujin said, his voice softening just a fraction. "But they don't want to pay the price of the altar. Why do you do it, boy? Why do you hit the stones until your hands bleed?"
Aris stopped by the water's edge. He looked at the reflection of the towering peaks in the stream. For the first time, his stoic mask cracked. His voice was barely a whisper, thick with a longing he had buried under years of labor.
"Because the mountain is lonely, Grandfather," Aris said, his eyes shimmering. "Every time I hit a stone, I feel like I'm sending a message. I want to know if there's a sound louder than the wind. I want to stand where the grass never ends and show them... show them that we were here. That you were here."
Mujin stayed silent for a long time. The wind died down. Mina and Bora stood still, the gravity of the moment settling over the creek like mist.
"I see," Mujin finally said. He walked toward a small, sod-covered shed tucked against the cliff face. He pulled back a heavy wooden bolt and emerged carrying a bag that looked like it belonged in a museum—or a medieval armory.
It was a simple canvas sack, but the clubs sticking out of it were terrifying. There were no brand names. No chrome. Just raw, blackened carbon steel, hand-forged and pitted with hammer marks.
"These are..." Han reached out to touch the head of a 1-iron, but recoiled at the sheer coldness of the metal.
"The Mountain Blades," Mujin said, his voice cracking slightly as he held the bag out to Aris. "I've spent seven years forging these in the nights you thought I was sleeping. I didn't want you to leave, Aris. I wanted to keep you safe in the stone. But a bird with wings like yours... it's a sin to cage it."
Aris reached out, his fingers trembling as they brushed the rough-hewn grips. As the weight of the bag settled into his shoulder, the reality hit him. This wasn't just equipment; it was his grandfather's life, pounded into steel.
A single, hot tear escaped Aris's eye, tracing a path through the dust on his cheek. Then another. He gripped the bag tight, leaning his forehead against the cold metal of the 1-iron. He didn't sob; he just let the salt of his journey fall onto the steel.
"I'll bring them back," Aris choked out, looking up at Mujin through blurred vision. "I'll bring them back covered in the city's gold."
Mujin placed a heavy hand on the boy's head. "Just bring yourself back, Aris. The steel can be replaced. You cannot."
Han Dae-ho felt a lump in his throat he couldn't swallow. He realized then that he wasn't just recruiting a student. He was taking a piece of the mountain's heart.
"The academy has a qualifying tournament in three days," Han said, his voice softened. "Be ready. The city won't know what hit it."
Aris wiped his eyes with his sleeve, the vulnerability vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. He looked toward the distant horizon, where the faint glow of the city began to bleed into the twilight.
"I want to see if their 'gods' can hear the Seam," Aris replied.