The mountain breeze was gentle that morning, carrying with it the crisp scent of pine. The sun had only just begun to rise, its pale golden light spilling across the ridges and touching the world with warmth. Ming stood at the threshold of the small courtyard, gazing at the forest that stretched endlessly before him.
For a year he had walked the same paths — running the same trails, training under the same waterfall, punching the same post until his knuckles grew firm and scarred. But today, his heart felt restless in a different way.
He did not wish to train. He did not wish to brood over the silence of the house.
Instead, he wanted to walk. To breathe. To see.
So he stepped into the forest.
The canopy welcomed him with shifting shades of green. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, scattering into fragments that danced upon the ground. Birds sang, their voices weaving through the air, while the faint trickle of a stream accompanied them like a gentle rhythm.
For once, Ming was not here to fight against himself, not here to temper his fists or strengthen his breath. His steps were light, unhurried, as though the forest itself guided him deeper.
He let the air fill his lungs, fresh and cool.
He let his eyes rest on the flowers growing wild by the path, on the squirrels darting through branches, on the butterflies drifting without worry.
It was beautiful.
For the first time in many days, Ming felt a softness within his chest.
Not far ahead, a rustle broke the peace. Ming paused, crouching low, his sharp eyes scanning the underbrush. A hare darted across the ground, its white tail flashing.
And from above, a hawk plunged.
Its talons struck, swift and merciless, pinning the hare before it could even cry out. Feathers flared, wings beat, and in a flurry of motion the predator lifted its prey into the sky.
The forest quieted again, but the silence was different now — heavier.
Ming rose slowly, his heart unsettled. His gaze drifted to the shadows beneath the trees, where the faint outline of a fox slinked, eyes gleaming as it searched for something weaker still.
The realization pressed into him.
This forest, no matter how beautiful, lived on an unyielding rule.
Strong hunted weak.
And weak hunted weaker.
The flowers and streams, the birdsong and light — all of it existed beside teeth, claws, hunger, and blood.
Ming clenched his fists, a storm rising in his chest.
He whispered softly to himself, almost afraid of the thought forming in his heart.
"This… is not only the forest."
His eyes lowered, staring at his own shadow cast against the earth.
"Outside, in the human world… it must be the same."
He pictured it — cities beyond the mountains, filled not with animals but with people. Yet beneath their words, beneath their smiles, perhaps the same law lurked. The strong taking from the weak, and the weak clawing at those weaker still.
His chest tightened. A small part of him longed for his teacher's voice — to ask, is this truly the way the world is?
But the silence around him answered, as it always did.
Ming exhaled slowly.
Then his thoughts grew steadier.
"If this is the way of the world… then I must not be afraid of it. But neither will I close my eyes to it. I will see it clearly. I will understand it myself."
The stream ahead shimmered in the light. Ming knelt by its edge, cupping the cool water in his palms before drinking. His reflection stared back at him, no longer only a boy, yet not yet a man.
He spoke inwardly, words carved into his heart.
"I don't want to accept everything blindly. If I don't understand something, I'll go and search for the answer myself."
His reflection rippled, but his gaze did not waver.
"I don't want to know everything. But I am curious. If I don't find the answer today, I will wait. Slowly. Patiently. Until the time comes."
The wind stirred, carrying the scent of earth and pine.
"And no matter what… I will not give up."
His chest felt lighter after those words. Not because the questions were gone, but because he had allowed himself to hold them without fear.
The forest deepened as Ming wandered further. He found places where sunlight pooled in golden streams, and others where shadows lay thick, roots twisting like coiled serpents.
Once, he startled a deer drinking from the river. It leapt away gracefully, leaving ripples in its wake.
Another time, he glimpsed the silent glide of a snake slipping through the underbrush, its scales gleaming faintly.
Everywhere, life moved in rhythm — gentle, harsh, fragile, fierce.
Two sides, always together.
By the time the sun dipped lower, painting the sky with streaks of orange, Ming had returned to the stone near the stream where he often trained. His body was not exhausted — his journey had not been one of struggle.
But his heart carried a new weight.
And in that weight, a decision.
"My teacher is gone."
The words left his lips softly, but with finality.
"I cannot lean on him forever. The path from now on… is mine to walk. Mine to decide."
The mountain breeze swept past, carrying his voice into the endless forest.
That night, when stars filled the sky, Ming sat cross-legged once more, the sound of water steady beside him.
His heart no longer felt like that of a boy who only waited.
It felt like one who had begun to walk.
"I will face the world," he whispered, "with its beauty and its cruelty. And no matter what answers I find… I will not stop moving forward."
The stars above shimmered. The forest breathed around him.
And Ming, though still only eleven, carried a vow deeper than words.
The vow of one who had chosen to grow on his own.