The next morning dawned clear and blue, the kind of sky that felt so close you could almost reach out and touch heaven. Dew glittered on every blade of grass, and the stream shone like molten glass under the rising sun.
Goran stood in the clearing with his staff in hand, eyes calm but sharp. Arin was in front of him, barefoot and bright-eyed, his hair damp from the cold water he had used to wash himself at dawn.
"Today," Goran said, "we begin the first discipline of body and will."
Arin tilted his head. "Is it like balancing?"
"In a way," the old man replied. "But today, the mountain will no longer hold you up. You will learn to stand on your own strength."
He planted his staff firmly in the ground, the sound echoing faintly through the trees.
"Strike this post with your fists until I tell you to stop."
Arin blinked. "Won't that hurt?"
"Yes."
"And I should still do it?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because pain is not your enemy," Goran said simply. "It's your teacher."
---
Arin approached the post. It was thick, made from the trunk of an old pine. Its bark was rough, its scent sharp with sap.
He hesitated, then clenched his tiny fists. The knuckles were small, soft — untested. He drew a breath, then struck.
Thud.
Pain blossomed instantly. His fingers throbbed, and he winced, shaking his hand.
"Again," Goran said.
Arin hit again.
And again.
The sound of his blows echoed through the clearing, mingling with the stream's endless murmur. After the tenth strike, his skin began to redden; after the twentieth, small bruises formed; after the thirtieth, his breath grew ragged.
Goran watched in silence, his eyes half-closed, neither pitying nor cold. He had done this same training once, long ago, under a master who had shown no mercy. He knew this pain — the sting of awakening one's limits.
Finally, Arin stopped, panting, his knuckles raw. "Master… it hurts."
"It should," Goran said softly. "The body grows only when reminded of its weakness."
"But I can't even make a dent."
The old man smiled faintly. "You're not trying to hurt the tree. You're teaching your fist to listen to your heart."
Arin frowned. "My heart doesn't like hitting things."
"Then teach it to love endurance."
---
Days passed.
Every morning, Arin struck the post until his arms trembled. Every night, Goran rubbed healing herbs into his knuckles, his touch rough but careful.
And with each sunrise, something began to change.
His strikes grew heavier. The wood began to splinter where he hit it. The pain that once made him grimace now passed through him like wind.
But more than that — the boy was changing inside. The act of hitting, of enduring, was no longer about force. It was about stillness.
Each strike became a prayer.
Each bruise, a lesson.
Each exhale, a release of everything that wasn't pure.
By the tenth day, the old pine post was cracked through the middle.
Goran stared at it in silence for a long moment, his weathered hand resting on the wood. "This tree has stood for fifty years," he murmured. "You broke it in ten."
Arin looked alarmed. "Did I do something wrong?"
The old man smiled, a faint trace of awe in his eyes. "No. But the mountain may start whispering your name."
---
As weeks passed, Goran introduced new trials.
Punching stones until they no longer bruised his skin. Carrying buckets of water up the slope without spilling a drop. Standing in waterfalls until his breath became one with the rush of falling water.
Through it all, Arin never complained. He would fall, bleed, or shiver in silence — then rise again with a grin that belonged more to the wind than to a boy.
One evening, after hours of training beneath the waterfall, Arin sat cross-legged beneath the roaring cascade. The water hammered against his shoulders, but he didn't flinch. His breathing was slow, steady.
Goran stood watching from the rocks nearby. He could sense it — that strange hum beneath the boy's skin, like the quiet pulse of thunder waiting to be born.
When Arin finally emerged, steam rose faintly from his body though the water was ice-cold. Goran placed a hand on his shoulder — and felt warmth, alive and radiant.
"What are you thinking?" Goran asked.
Arin smiled faintly. "That the water sounds happy."
"The water?"
"Yes," Arin said. "It said it's proud of me."
The old man chuckled softly. "Then even rivers know your spirit."
---
That night, they sat by the fire, silence stretching long and comfortable between them. Arin's hands were wrapped in bandages, but he held them calmly, unbothered.
Goran studied him for a moment, the light of the fire painting gold across his young face.
"You're different," he said at last. "Most men break before they understand pain. You've made peace with it."
Arin looked puzzled. "Pain isn't bad. It just tells me I'm alive."
The old man laughed quietly. "That may be the wisest thing you've ever said."
"Didn't you teach me that?"
"No," Goran said. "You learned it on your own. The best teachings cannot be spoken — only lived."
---
The next morning, Goran decided to test him.
"Show me what you've learned," he said.
They stood facing each other in the clearing. Sunlight poured between the pines, painting the ground with golden patterns. Arin's bare feet pressed against the soil, his stance steady.
Goran raised his staff and swung lightly — testing, not attacking. Arin dodged, the movement fluid and effortless.
Again. Again.
Each motion was simple, but the boy's body responded as if the world itself whispered where to move. His breathing was calm, his eyes sharp.
Then, when Goran struck a final time, Arin stepped forward instinctively — his hand rising, open-palmed.
Crack.
The staff split cleanly in two.
Silence fell.
For a long moment, even the forest seemed to pause.
Goran looked down at the broken staff, then at his hand. He felt no pain — only shock. Arin blinked, realizing what he'd done. His hand trembled.
"Master— I didn't mean to—"
Goran raised a hand, stopping him. His face softened into something between awe and sorrow.
"No, my boy," he said quietly. "You didn't mean to. That's what makes it even more extraordinary."
He placed a trembling hand on Arin's shoulder. "You've stepped beyond the limits of flesh."
Arin frowned. "Is that… bad?"
Goran looked toward the sky, eyes heavy. "It depends on the heart that carries it."
He smiled faintly, though the expression didn't quite reach his eyes. "You've learned what your fists can do. Now you must learn when not to use them."
---
That night, as Arin slept, Goran sat alone outside the hut, the broken staff lying across his knees. The wind was soft, carrying the scent of pine and ash.
He stared at the stars above, the same stars he had prayed under for years.
"Why him?" he whispered. "Why now?"
There was no answer, only the quiet rustle of the forest.
But deep in the pit of his heart, the old hermit knew — the child he had raised was no ordinary boy.
He was something the heavens themselves had forgotten how to make.
And though pride swelled within him, a shadow of fear followed close behind.
---