The mountain had woken early that morning.
Wind whispered through the tall pines, brushing against the bark like fingertips on strings. The stream glimmered under the golden light of dawn, its gentle voice harmonizing with the rustle of leaves. The air was clean, sharp — filled with that rare clarity that only comes when the world itself seems to pause and listen.
In the clearing, Goran stood in silence. His white hair swayed in the breeze; his eyes were half closed, his breathing so even that he seemed carved from the same stillness as the peaks behind him.
Arin and Karo watched from a few paces away, curious.
"Master," Arin asked quietly, "why do you stand so still?"
Goran's voice came soft but sure. "Because movement without purpose is noise. Stillness teaches the heart to sing before the body moves."
He opened his eyes then — and something in him changed. The air grew heavy, the way it does before rain. His presence expanded, invisible yet vast.
"Watch carefully, Arin," he said. "This is the Water-Flow Fist. I learned it when I was young — before I understood what strength truly meant. It is not meant to conquer, but to remember."
---
He moved.
It was slow at first — almost delicate. His foot shifted slightly, his hand rising as if greeting the wind. But in that subtle movement was precision, rhythm, and power so tightly coiled it was almost invisible.
Then came the second motion. A twist, a step, a pivot — fluid and soundless. His body seemed to flow like water, each motion following the next without interruption, without hesitation.
His robes rippled with each turn, catching light and shadow. His fists cut through air so smoothly that the wind itself began to respond, swirling around him in tiny spirals.
It was a dance. Not a performance of violence, but of harmony — a conversation between flesh and nature.
The stream below seemed to quicken its pace, as though the water itself followed his rhythm. The trees swayed, whispering softly. Even the sunlight flickered with the rhythm of his movements.
Arin stood frozen, breath caught in his chest.
He had seen Goran train before, but never like this. Never with such… grace. Each motion was both soft and fierce, each strike both creation and destruction. He felt as though he were watching not his master — but nature itself remembering its form.
---
Then, without warning, Goran stopped.
He turned to Arin, his expression calm but his eyes gleaming with that rare light of quiet pride. "Now you," he said.
Arin blinked. "Me?"
"Yes. What you just saw was not a sequence to memorize, but a rhythm to understand. Forget the steps. Feel the flow."
Arin nodded nervously. "I'll try."
He stepped forward, mimicking the stance he had seen. His movements were hesitant at first — awkward, uncertain. He shifted too quickly, then too slowly, his hands not quite finding the same grace.
But then something strange began to happen.
The longer he moved, the quieter the world became. His mind stopped thinking about where his feet should go or how his arms should turn. The rhythm of the stream seeped into him, guiding him. The wind pressed gently against his body, helping him move, correct, adjust.
His muscles relaxed. His breath deepened. His movements smoothed.
And then, as if something ancient awoke inside him, he began to flow.
---
Goran's breath caught.
The boy's body — small, still unrefined — began to move with frightening precision. His limbs followed the same pattern he had demonstrated, but lighter, freer. There was no strain, no calculation. It was as though the world itself moved through him.
Each step left no trace in the dirt. Each turn made the air shimmer faintly, the temperature rising and falling with his breath. When he struck, the echo rippled across the clearing like a sigh.
Karo whimpered softly, ears pressed flat. The wind changed direction, circling them.
And in that moment, as the final motion of the Water-Flow Fist ended, Arin opened his eyes — and a faint shimmer of light passed through them, like moonlight glancing off still water.
Goran could not move.
The world seemed to hold its breath around the boy.
---
For a long time, neither of them spoke. Only the sound of the stream filled the silence.
Then Arin turned, confused by his master's expression. "Did I… do it wrong?"
Goran's throat felt dry. He swallowed slowly, his voice low. "No."
He stepped closer, studying the boy as though seeing him for the first time. "You did it as though you'd known it for a thousand years."
Arin blinked. "But I only just saw it."
"That," Goran said softly, "is what frightens me."
He turned away, gazing at the mountains. The peaks gleamed white in the sun — ancient, unmoving, eternal. Yet somehow, Goran felt that even they might bow to this child one day.
"Master?"
The old man breathed out slowly, forcing a small smile. "Do you know what separates a fighter from a warrior?"
Arin tilted his head. "A warrior fights for others?"
"Yes. But there's more. A fighter strikes to prove himself. A warrior strikes to protect. And one who has truly mastered himself… never needs to strike at all."
Arin nodded, thoughtful. "Then I want to be that one."
Goran smiled faintly. "Then you are already walking the right path."
---
Later that evening, Goran sat alone by the fire, watching Arin feed Karo bits of cooked fish. The boy was laughing, soft and free, as if unaware of how the world had just shifted around him.
The old man sighed. His hands, gnarled and weathered, trembled slightly as he poured himself tea.
"He learns in hours what others take decades to touch," he murmured. "And yet his heart… stays untouched by pride."
He stared into the fire. "Perhaps the heavens have chosen their weapon well. Let us pray they have not chosen too early."
---
The next day, Arin practiced again. But this time, he didn't move as a student copying his master — he moved as if the world itself were his teacher.
Goran watched from the porch, leaning on his staff. The boy's steps traced circles through mist and light, his strikes painting ripples across the morning air. The movement was no longer imitation. It was expression — honest, pure, without hesitation.
Even the forest seemed to bow to him — not in reverence, but in recognition.
When he finished, sweat glistened on his skin, but his breathing was steady. He turned to Goran, smiling brightly.
"Master," he said, "when I move like this, I feel like the world moves with me."
The old man nodded slowly. "That's because, Arin… it does."
He smiled, a tired, proud smile. "Remember this feeling. Someday, the world will move against you. And on that day, your peace will be your greatest weapon."
---
That night, as the firelight danced on the walls, Goran thought back to his youth — to battles fought, victories won, the arrogance of strength. How different it had felt then. How hollow.
And here sat a boy — a boy who moved like wind, smiled like sunlight, and spoke like spring water running over stone.
He closed his eyes and whispered a quiet prayer — not to gods, but to the mountain itself.
"Keep his heart clean," he murmured. "Let his power never forget its kindness."
Outside, the wind answered — gentle, steady, carrying the scent of pine and snow.
And somewhere within that soft breath, the world seemed to whisper back:
> "As long as he listens, he will never lose his way."
---