Saō Hyun had not expected the inside… to be this vast.
He had imagined a narrow corridor, or a dark hall, or cold chambers like caves — but when he stepped in behind Shin Ri, he found himself within a wide space carved into the mountain itself. The ceiling was high, the walls smooth and polished from dark gray stone, from which small oil lamps hung, casting a gentle warm light that neither stung the eyes nor left the shadows thick.
The place was silent — but it was not dead.
There was a breath within it… as if it were a home that people had lived in for a long time, and then it had learned how to wait for them.
Saō Hyun looked around slowly.
Every step made him feel as though he had entered a world that was not his.
He said in a very low voice,
"This… is big."
Shin Ri heard him.
"It is not big," he said. "You are small."
Saō Hyun lowered his head.
That was true.
He was small before the walls, and before the ceiling, and before the man who was leading him inward, and before the road that had begun without him knowing how it would end.
He walked behind Shin Ri through a long corridor, on both sides of which stood closed dark wooden doors — each one seeming to hide an entire life behind it.
Shin Ri stopped before one of the doors.
He opened it.
He went in.
Saō Hyun followed.
The room was spacious, clean, simple.
A low wooden bed, a clean white cover, a small table, a chair, a window carved into the rock through which faint light entered from above.
"You will stay here," Shin Ri said.
Saō Hyun nodded.
"Thank you," he whispered.
Shin Ri looked at him for a moment.
Then he turned toward the corridor and raised his voice slightly — not shouting, but calling gently:
"Lin Hua."
Only moments passed before a girl appeared from the hallway.
She was in her early twenties, her long black hair tied with a white ribbon, her eyes calm and dark, her features simple — neither strikingly beautiful nor ugly, but visually restful, like still water.
She bowed slightly.
"Yes, sir."
"This is my new disciple," Shin Ri said.
She lifted her eyes a little and looked at Saō Hyun.
She did not stare.
She did not smile.
She did not show surprise.
She only said,
"Welcome."
Saō Hyun lowered his head.
"Take care of him," Shin Ri said.
"Bathe him. Change his clothes. Feed him well."
Then he added after a moment,
"He is… tired."
"Very well," Lin Hua said quietly.
Then she looked at Saō Hyun.
"Come."
He hesitated.
Then he followed her.
She led him into another room.
It was a warm bathing chamber carved into stone, light steam filling the air, a deep stone basin of warm water from which a soft vapor rose, scented with medicinal herbs.
"Undress," Lin Hua said.
His face reddened slightly.
"I…"
She said gently, without embarrassment,
"It's all right. I'll wait behind the curtain."
Then she turned away.
He undressed slowly.
He looked at his body.
It was thin, covered with bruises, small scars, bite marks, signs of falling, signs of a life that had not been kind.
He stepped into the water.
It was warm.
Very warm.
As if it were the first warm thing that had happened to him in a very long time.
His body trembled.
Then he began to cry silently.
His tears mixed with the water.
Lin Hua washed him quietly — without many words, without questions.
As if she understood that the child before her did not need explanations, only that his pain be washed from him, even if only a little.
After that, she dressed him in clean clothes.
White cotton. Simple trousers. A light robe.
He felt a strange lightness.
As though it were not his body.
Then she fed him.
Warm soup.
Rice.
A small piece of meat.
He ate slowly.
He was not hungry only in his body.
He was hungry for something that resembled care.
When he finished, Lin Hua led him back to his room.
"Sleep," she said.
Then she left.
He was alone.
He sat on the bed.
He did not sleep immediately.
He listened to the silence.
Not the frightening silence.
But the silence that felt like a large embrace.
He thought of Ara.
Of Jon.
Of the grave.
Of the cart.
Of the gray-haired man.
Of everything he had left behind without farewell.
Then he thought of now.
He said to himself, in the voice of a child who did not want to lose what had suddenly been given to him:
"Since my master takes care of me…"
He paused.
Then finished:
"I will strive… until I become worthy of his expectations."
He pulled the cover around himself.
Closed his eyes.
And slept.
For the first time…
Without fearing that he would wake to a scream.