The mountain nights were quiet, as they always were.
Wind carried the sharp scent of pine and the distant echo of running water. Crickets whispered in the undergrowth, and the stars hung like cold lanterns in the sky.
But far from the mountain where Ming lived, there was another place—one hidden from mortal eyes.
Mist stretched endlessly, thick yet weightless. The ground shifted like flowing stone, and the horizon curved into nothingness. Here, time was neither day nor night. It was a place between worlds.
And in this place, a lone figure stood.
The elder's robes, once simple and heavy, drifted lightly as though untouched by gravity. His eyes, calm as the deepest ocean, were fixed on a distant peak far beyond the mist—on the very mountain where Ming trained and waited.
For a long while, he said nothing. His silence was like stone, unbroken, ancient. Yet behind that silence lay thoughts that would not rest.
The elder remembered the boy.
Ming's small hands, once clumsy, trying to copy his breathing technique.
Ming's face flushed red as he failed to hold a stance, then tried again and again until sweat soaked the earth.
Ming's bright blue eyes—eyes too sharp for his age—watching him with both confusion and admiration.
The elder's lips curved faintly. Not quite a smile, but something close.
He whispered, though no one was near:
"Ming… you stubborn child. Even when I was there, you never once asked for rest."
He closed his eyes and allowed the memories to settle, but they only deepened the ache in his chest.
He had left without farewell. Not because he wished to abandon Ming, but because the boy's path was not one the elder could walk for him.
There were truths too heavy, mysteries too deep, dangers too near. To speak them before their time would shatter the boy instead of strengthen him.
And so, he had chosen silence.
The mist stirred around him as he drew a breath. His voice carried softly into the emptiness.
"Ming… this path, it belongs to you alone."
The words felt heavy, as though carved from stone.
"I have given what I can. My teachings, my warnings, my care. But I cannot choose your road. If I guide your every step, you will never learn to walk. If I shield you from every storm, you will never know your own strength."
The elder lifted his gaze. In the distance, the outline of Ming appeared faintly in the mist, not real but remembered. A boy sitting by the stream, fists clenched in practice, shoulders trembling but never yielding.
"You will stumble. You will bleed. You may even curse me for not being there. But still, you must walk forward. For only in walking forward will you find the answer that belongs to you."
His words echoed softly, fading into the boundless mist.
The elder's thoughts grew quieter, but not lighter.
He knew Ming's path was not ordinary. He had sensed it long ago, in the boy's eyes, in the rhythm of his breath, even in the strange fate that bound him to this mountain.
But what that path meant—he could not say. Even he, with all his years, could not read it fully.
He admitted this to the emptiness, a confession no one else could hear.
"Your road… is not mine. Its meaning, even I do not know. Perhaps it will bring light. Perhaps shadow. But still… I believe in you."
For the first time, his voice trembled slightly. Not with fear, but with a weight that pressed deeper than flesh.
"Ming… I cannot see where you will go. But I am confident you will reach an answer. Even if that answer is pain, even if it is loss, it will be yours. And in that, you will grow."
The mist curled gently around his figure, as though listening.
For a moment, the elder looked weary. His shoulders, once unshakable, lowered slightly. He was not a god, not an immortal untouched by time—he was a teacher, carrying love and sorrow both.
He remembered Ming's laughter, rare but bright. He remembered the boy's anger when he failed, and his quiet pride when he succeeded.
And he remembered the promise he had made silently, the day Ming first called him "Teacher."
That no matter what, he would never abandon him.
The elder's eyes softened. His words were slow, almost like a vow.
"No matter what path you walk, Ming… I am your teacher. That will never change."
The mist thickened, pulling gently at the edges of his form. His outline blurred, his robes fading like smoke.
"I do not leave you. I do not abandon you. Even if unseen, I remain by your side."
The words hung heavy, carried nowhere yet everywhere, like a whisper woven into the fabric of the world.
As the elder's figure dissolved further, only his eyes remained.
They shone faintly in the mist—calm, unwavering, filled with quiet pride.
They lingered, watching the distant mountain, as though refusing to turn away.
And then, at last, they too faded into nothing.
Only silence remained.
Silence, and a vow unbroken.