dawn

The biting mountain wind tore at Haoran's thin, patched cloak as he trained alone. Six months had passed since he buried Yuzhe beneath the silent peaks, but the weight of his master’s death never left him. It was a dull, persistent ache that no amount of training could numb. “Master,” he murmured to the wind, his voice lost in its howl, “I will not fail you.”

The mountain had become his sanctuary, its wild and merciless nature shaping him in ways no human teacher could. He’d chosen a desolate spot, far from the familiar training grounds of his youth. Here, the wind screamed endlessly, and the only sounds were the mournful rustle of pines and the distant, haunting cries of eagles.

His makeshift shelter was little more than a pile of timbers barely holding together under the constant assault of icy rain and savage gusts. On stormy nights, as he lay awake shivering, the mountain seemed alive, testing his resolve, daring him to quit. But Haoran had nowhere else to go—nothing else to hold onto.

“Faster!” he muttered through gritted teeth, his breath clouding in the frigid air as sweat stung his eyes. “Stronger! More precise!” His muscles burned as he drove himself harder, his sword a blur in the dim light. Each swing, each block, each parry brought him closer to the memory of Yuzhe’s effortless grace, but he was far from achieving it.

The mountain gave no reprieve. Storms battered him, wild animals stalked him, and exhaustion gnawed at his resolve. One night, a mountain lion slashed his arm before retreating into the shadows. As he cleaned the wound with shaking hands, he muttered, “Another lesson learned.” Pain became his constant companion, but so did progress. He began to feel the rhythm of the mountain—the way the wind shifted before a storm or how silence warned of lurking predators.

One cold morning, while foraging for herbs to soothe an aching joint, a child’s piercing scream cut through the stillness. “Help!” The cry, thin and desperate, jolted him into action. He dropped his knife and sprinted toward the sound.

He found a small group of travelers huddled by a riverbank, their faces pale and stricken with fear. A young woman clutched a trembling child to her chest, tears streaking her dirt-smudged cheeks. An older man stood protectively beside them, a rusty sword trembling in his grip.

“Please!” the woman gasped, pointing to a massive black serpent coiled around a fallen tree. Its scales shimmered like polished obsidian, and its cold, intelligent eyes glowed with malevolence. The child it sought had hidden behind a boulder, his small body shaking violently.

“It wants the child!” the woman sobbed, clutching him tighter.

Haoran’s gaze locked onto the serpent. His heart pounded, but his voice was steady. “Stay back,” he ordered. The travelers shrank away as he approached, each step deliberate.

The serpent struck without warning, its massive body moving with terrifying speed. Haoran’s instincts took over. He sidestepped the attack, his sword flashing as he countered. He aimed for its vulnerable points—its eyes, throat, and underbelly—each strike precise.

The creature thrashed wildly, its tail smashing into the ground with enough force to crack stone. The young man with the drawn sword—Kael, as the woman whispered—lunged to help but barely avoided the serpent’s tail.

Haoran fought on, his body moving on instinct. Every swing, every dodge was a culmination of months of training and years of lessons. But the serpent was relentless, and fatigue crept into his limbs. He could feel the venom from a shallow bite burning in his shoulder, but he forced the pain aside.

Finally, an opening. With a desperate roar, Haoran drove his sword into the serpent’s underbelly, piercing its heart. The beast let out a deafening screech, its body writhing in agony before collapsing in a heap.

Haoran stood still, his chest heaving, his vision swimming. He barely registered the cheers of the travelers as his legs gave out. The last thing he heard before the darkness claimed him was the child’s trembling voice: “Thank you.”

He fell, his body broken but his spirit unyielding. The mountain had not claimed him yet.

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