The mountain air smells of pine and cold stone. Evening mist drifts through the training ground, pooling in the low places like shallow water. Chen Qinghe stands with his wooden sword lowered, chest rising slowly, sweat cooling on his skin. Across from him, Shen Ziyu plants the butt of his practice spear into the earth and wipes his brow with his sleeve. Neither speaks. Their master watches from the veranda, slowly sipping on his tea while he watches the two children aged less than ten with an expression unreadable.
Usually the old man's voice cuts through every mistake — angle too shallow, foot too heavy, breath out of rhythm. Today there has been only silence. Even the sparring matches felt hollow, as if they were performing for an empty courtyard. But today, he has corrected nothing.
That is what unsettles the two the most.
"Okay, that's enough for today." Their master cuts into their training with a voice as calm as usual, raising his teacup to his eye level as he calls, "Qinghe, Ziyu, come and have some tea with me."
The two children immediately lower their wooden practice weapons, glancing at each other just before they react to their master's words and approach. Kneeling down before their master at the table with two teacups already placed there only seconds before. Lifting the cups up and drinking the warm tea poured inside as their master does the same action.
Their master puts down his cup gently back onto the table, eyes still staring at the tea while he asks, "How long have you been here, on this Taishi Mountain?"
"As long as we have been here."
The master smiles faintly, "when you turn eighteen, you may venture out." He then glances at the sun hovering above them, and with a smile he sighs deeply, "it is about time we say our goodbyes..."
A long pause follows. Wind moves through the trees, carrying the faint scent of rain.
"What...?" The word slips out of Shen Ziyu before he can stop it, thin and uncertain, as if speaking too loudly might shatter something fragile in the air. Chen Qinghe does not speak at all. His fingers tighten imperceptibly around the smooth edge of the wooden mask resting in his palms, the carved surface still faintly warm from the old man's hands. Up close, the grain of the wood is visible — fine, deliberate cuts, each line shaped with care rather than haste. It does not look like something made for ornaments. It looks like something made to endure.
Their master does not answer immediately. He lifts his teacup again, though it is already empty, and tilts it slightly as if studying the last traces of liquid clinging to the porcelain. The veranda is quiet except for the distant whisper of wind threading through the pines below the cliff. Mist has begun to thicken in the training ground, softening the edges of the stone courtyard and swallowing the far wall in pale gray. "I will be leaving," he says at last, his tone no different from when he comments on the weather or instructs them to correct their stance. "Now..."
The word settles between them without weight at first, as though it has not yet decided what it means. Ziyu blinks, frowning in confusion rather than fear. "Leaving… to the town below?" he asks. Their master sometimes disappears for a day or two to barter for salt, oil, or cloth, always returning before the lanterns burn out. The idea of anything longer has never occurred to him.
The old man's smile is gentle, but it does not reach his eyes. "Further..."
Silence follows again, longer this time, stretching until even the small sounds of evening seem to withdraw. A drop of condensed mist falls from the edge of the roof and strikes the stone with a soft tap that echoes faintly in the stillness. Qinghe's gaze remains lowered, fixed on the mask in his hands, but his breathing has slowed in a way that suggests deliberate control rather than calm.
"For how long?" he asks quietly.
The master's eyes lift then, resting on the boy's bowed head. For a moment something like hesitation flickers across his features, so brief it might have been imagined. "I do not know."
Ziyu straightens abruptly, the movement sharp enough to disturb the mist pooling around his knees. "Then we will go with you."
"No."
The refusal is immediate, not raised, not harsh — simply absolute. It carries the quiet certainty of a door that cannot be opened because it was never meant to have hinges at all. Ziyu's mouth opens as if to argue, then closes again when he sees the old man's expression. Not anger or disappointment, instead, it is something heavier, deeper, like a sadness that has already accepted itself.
"You will remain here," their master continues, folding his hands loosely atop the table. "Until the both of you finally step into the line that refuses order and become an exorcist." His gaze drifts briefly toward the courtyard, toward the familiar places where every hour of their lives has been spent.
"But—"
"Children."
The boy falls silent. He has never heard his name spoken in quite that tone before — not stern or soft, but final, as though it marks the end of a conversation rather than the beginning of one.
Qinghe finally lifts his head. His eyes are clear, though something in them has grown distant, as if he has stepped back from the moment to observe it from afar. "Is it... dangerous?" he asks.
A faint breeze stirs the old man's sleeves. He looks at Qinghe for a long time, long enough that the mist thickens further and the first dim hints of twilight begin to seep into the sky beyond the eaves.
"Yes," he says.
Neither boy speaks again.
"When you leave this mountain," he says softly, "the world will not see children. It will see threats, tools, obstacles, prey. Allow yourself to decide which of those you wish to be." His fingers linger briefly on the wood before withdrawing. "Do not trust plain rumours lightly."
The wind shifts, bringing with it the distant rumble of thunder too far away to hear clearly, felt more than heard. Shadows gather along the veranda floor, creeping inward until the lamplight behind them begins to glow against the encroaching dark.
Their master rises slowly to his feet. For a moment he seems older than he ever has before, the lines at the corners of his eyes deeper, the set of his shoulders carrying a weight that had never been visible during training. He turns toward the courtyard, pausing at the edge of the steps as though memorizing the shape of the place.
"Till we meet again," he says without looking back, "you will be ready."
The words hang in the air, quiet but unyielding.
He descends the steps and walks across the stone ground with the same unhurried pace he has always had, neither stealthy nor ceremonial, simply the gait of a man going somewhere he has already accepted. "Remember, boys, there are no right or wrong paths. Just follow where your heart guides." His voice echoes, fading as the mist parts around him in slow curls, closing again behind each step until his figure becomes a blurred silhouette, then a darker shape within gray, then nothing at all.
Ziyu lunges to his feet. "Master—!"
Qinghe's hand catches his sleeve, though not in a strong grip. Discipline holds them both in place, the countless hours of training pressing down heavier than panic, heavier than grief. By the time Ziyu tears his gaze from Qinghe and looks back toward the courtyard, there is no one there — no retreating figure, no movement in the mist, not even the sound of footsteps fading into the trees. Only the empty training ground, the silent veranda, and the faint scent of tea cooling in forgotten cups.
Dusk deepens into night without ceremony. The thunder never arrives. Somewhere in the forest below, an owl calls once and then falls silent, as if reconsidering the wisdom of making itself known. The mountain, which has always felt vast yet contained, suddenly feels immeasurably large — as though something that anchored it in place has been quietly removed, leaving only space where certainty once lived.