At a time when the world did not know the rules apart from the sharpness of the fangs and the harshness of the fist, the heavens were always a witness to the abominations of human. In a remote valley bounded only by steep cliffs and untouched forests, civilization is just a word that has not yet been invented. All that exists is hunger, fear, and an ancient desire for power.
On the branches of an old oak tree that was shaking, a young man named U-Mo sat sculpting. Its slender body was wrapped in a shabby braided pale flax fiber. He did not look like a soldier; There are no muscles that stand out arrogantly, nor are there any threatening facial expressions. It only seemed to be a part of the tree itself—growing in silence, breathing in silence.
Beneath his feet, the red soil of the valley was drinking blood. Two groups of travelers from different tribes are fighting in a terrible chaos. In the midst of the turbulent mud, they fight over a handful of raw treasures: crude copper sheets, unforged chunks of silver, as well as a few grains of gold collected from the riverbed. However, what is more heartbreaking is the sight of women chained with leather ropes, dragged like cattle in the midst of the noise of angry cries. The art of fighting in that era was just an undirected savagery. They lunged at each other like hungry wolves; biting the throat, gouging out the eyes, and smashing a pointed stone into the skull. There was no dignity in their deaths, only a brutal void. U-Mo closed his eyes slowly as the first raindrops began to touch the earth.
To him, the sound of the wood hitting the flesh and the screams of despair slowly faded away, refracted by the rhythm of the rain. It breathes deep into the ocean's trough. The cold air he directed flowed down the pores of his skin, gathering in the center of his body—a warm spot that he guarded like a single flame in the midst of a storm.
"Enough," U-Mo whispered. His voice was no louder than the rustling of leaves, yet somehow, its vibrations seemed to cut through the noise of the valley.
A giant man with a scarred face looked up. In his hands, he clutched the hair of a whimpering woman. "Get down, you woodlouse! Or do you want me to brt.eak your neck to end this day?"
U-Mo didn't answer.
He dropped from the branch three spears high. But instead of crashing to the ground, he landed with impossible grace—like a feather landing on the surface of a pond without causing a ripple.
The giant roared, swinging a massive stone hammer capable of crushing a bear's ribs. The wind generated by the swing whistled sharply, aiming for U-Mo's hair.
U-Mo moved.
But his movement wasn't a countermeasure. As the hammer nearly touched his hair, he twisted his body in the direction of the opposing wind. He was like a shadow that shifted before the light could catch it. So calm, so light.
With a movement that looked like a mother's gentle touch on her child's cheek, U-Mo landed his palm on the giant's solar plexus. There was no visible burst of power, just a gentle push in rhythm with the heartbeat of nature.
Thud.
Instantly, the giant froze. His eyes widened, not from pain, but from utter astonishment. Every joint felt weak, as if his energy had been cut off by invisible fingers. He fell to his knees, gasping silently, while his stone hammer fell to the mud.
The rain was falling harder now, but strangely, not a speck of mud stained U-Mo's hemp cloth. He stood amidst the frozen crowd, surrounded by people who had known only violence, but now forced to witness something far greater.
On that day, in a nameless valley, U-Mo had not merely stopped a fight. He had introduced the world to a new concept that would change the course of history: that true power lies not in clenched fists, but in breath at one with the universe.
The first unique move had been born, and it came not with grandeur, but with the humility of a feather in the rain.