Tao stood at the center of the dojo, his bare feet firm against the cool wooden floor, each plank creaking under the weight of his stance. His grandfather, an imposing figure even in his frailty, lay across the wooden bench with his eyes closed, his body still and calm, yet his voice rang clear, cutting through the still air like a sharp blade. "Again, Tao. Do it properly." Tao's body was a perfect mirror of his grandfather's discipline—every motion precise, calculated, yet fluid, like a river that never broke its course. His arms moved in perfect synchronization with his legs, pivoting on his right foot as he executed the crane stance, every inch of his form following the exact instructions drilled into him over years of training. His breathing was steady, measured, controlled—each inhale drawn deep through his nose, the air filling his lungs before exhaling through his mouth in a controlled stream. His right fist sliced through the air as he transitioned into the dragon's claw strike, his body shifting seamlessly with the fluidity of a trained martial artist. Each turn, every twist, every movement was a rhythm of precision, like gears meshing together without resistance. His grandfather's eyes, though closed, were always watching, tracking each of Tao's movements. There was no room for error, no room for hesitation. "Focus, Tao. Feel the energy, let it guide you," his grandfather's voice hummed, as Tao's body twisted into the next movement, his feet shifting with measured grace, lifting at exactly a 45-degree angle before landing softly in the stance that followed. A small bead of sweat formed on Tao's brow, his body beginning to hum with the energy of the choreography, his mind sharp but also beginning to burn with the intensity of repetition. Then, the words came, spoken slowly, deliberately. "Go to the bamboo field. Chop 500 trees." Tao stood still for a moment, his body frozen, processing the command. His grandfather, without opening his eyes, let out a soft sigh. "Go. And do it right." Tao didn't hesitate. He knew what was expected of him, and without a word, he turned and strode toward the dojo's entrance. His steps were measured, each footfall perfectly timed with his breathing. He walked slowly at first, deliberately, allowing his body to adjust to the shift in energy from the dojo to the outside world, his feet sliding across the ground in a rhythmical pace. As he moved past the courtyard, the sun beat down gently, but his mind was focused on the task ahead. Every step was exact, and each stride carried the weight of the journey. The dirt path stretched before him, its surface cracked and dry, with the occasional patch of wild grass pushing through. Tao's pace increased as he reached the edge of the forest. With each stride, his legs flexed powerfully, muscles coiling like springs beneath his skin. His feet kicked up small puffs of dust as they hit the ground, his knees bending in perfect arcs with each step, the rhythm of his movement steady, unbroken. By the time he entered the bamboo field, the air had thickened, the sounds of the forest quieting around him. The bamboo stalks loomed high, their green tops swaying gently in the breeze. Tao's eyes scanned the trees before him, his heart rate steady as he took a moment to adjust his posture. He cracked his knuckles, the sound echoing in the stillness, and with a sharp inhale, he lunged forward. His right hand slammed into the first bamboo stalk, his fingers digging deep into the soft, outer layer. The tree shuddered under the force of the strike, but it held firm. Tao's breath was steady, but the intensity of his focus began to sharpen. His left foot slid back, planting itself firmly in the earth as his right leg bent, coiling with energy. Then, with a swift motion, he struck again—this time, the bamboo splintered, falling with a resounding crash to the ground. Tao didn't stop. He turned, his left fist raised, his feet shifting in perfect sync with the motion of his body. The next tree was already in his sights. He moved to it, his steps quick and sure, the sound of his footfalls a soft but constant beat in the quiet of the field. His left hand met the second stalk with a forceful slap, his palm striking the smooth wood. His muscles tightened, the force of his strike reverberating through his arm and into his chest. The bamboo snapped and fell, tumbling to the ground with a low groan. Tao wasted no time. He turned to the third tree, his breathing controlled as his foot planted again, his body readying for the next strike. This time, his right fist slammed into the bamboo with a grunt of effort, and with a satisfying crack, the stalk shattered. Tao's movements didn't falter; his mind focused only on the task at hand. Each strike was deliberate, each motion flowing naturally from the last, his body a perfect machine of force and fluidity. His steps were swift now, his pace quickening as the bamboo fell around him, one after another. The rhythm of his strikes became faster, the air around him thick with the energy of his focus. He didn't count the trees—he didn't need to. His grandfather's words echoed in his mind, urging him forward, pushing him to continue, to move, to perfect the art. With every chop, the bamboo fell before him, each tree a challenge met with unwavering resolve, the ground littered with remnants of what had once stood tall and proud.
As Tao continued chopping the bamboo, his rhythm uninterrupted by the strain of his task, something strange caught his eye. Beneath a thick cluster of bamboo, near a large hole that appeared to have been caused by something—or someone—crashing into the earth, a figure lay sprawled out on the ground. The hole was enormous, its edges jagged, as if a giant had fallen from the sky itself. The man who lay within the wreckage wore black and white monk robes with a golden tilt along the edges, the material frayed at the seams, and a golden torn crown rested on his head. His hair, a golden brown, was matted with dirt, and his face, youthful yet rugged, held the tone of someone who had seen much of the world but had long since given in to exhaustion. His body was limp, twisted in an uncomfortable position as though he had fallen unconscious in mid-flight. Tao stood frozen for a moment, his gaze fixed on the man, his mind racing to make sense of the scene. Curiosity mixed with caution as he stepped closer, poking the man lightly with his finger. The man turned, shifting with a low grunt, then settled back into his stupor. Tao frowned. The weight of the situation hung in the air, and for a moment, Tao wondered if this was some sort of test. He attempted again, this time reaching down and trying to lift the man. But the god was heavy—much heavier than Tao had expected, his body like dead weight. Tao gritted his teeth, straining with the effort, and his muscles groaned under the load. But he didn't give up. He took a deep breath, assessing his surroundings, and made his decision. He rushed to the nearby stream, filling his hands with water and splashing it onto the man's face, but there was no response. The man remained in his deep, drunken slumber. Tao's resolve hardened. He wasn't about to leave him there. With slow, measured steps, he bent down again, this time hoisting the man's body over his shoulder. His legs shook with the strain, the muscles in his back and arms screaming in protest as the man's weight pressed down on him. Despite the difficulty, Tao pushed forward, his feet sliding through the dirt, his breathing heavy and erratic. The distance from the bamboo field to the dojo was no small feat—9 kilometers of rough terrain, each step a test of strength and perseverance. But Tao didn't stop. With each kilometer, his body grew weaker, but also stronger, the journey pushing his limits in ways he never thought possible. His progress was slow, each step measured and deliberate as he trudged through the distance, the burden of the fallen god a weight on both his body and mind. Despite the sweat soaking through his clothes and the ache in his bones, Tao kept moving, the dojo's distant outline becoming clearer as the sun began to dip lower in the sky. By the time he finally crossed the threshold of the dojo, his legs were shaking, his body exhausted, but there was a newfound strength in his movements—strength earned through the weight of the journey, and the unyielding determination that pushed him through.Tao's breath was ragged as he finally reached the dojo, his legs nearly giving out beneath him as he staggered to the entrance. The weight of the god on his back had sapped his strength, but his determination had carried him through. He stumbled over the stone threshold, collapsing to his knees, the heavy body of the god still draped across his shoulders. Sweat poured down his face, his muscles trembling with exhaustion. His grandfather, who had been meditating on the porch, opened his eyes and looked at Tao with quiet but piercing gaze. The old man's expression didn't change, but his eyes seemed to measure the boy's effort, silently calculating the toll the journey had taken. Without a word, Tao pushed himself up, using every ounce of his remaining energy to pull the god inside. His movements were slow, each step a painful reminder of the grueling 9 kilometers he had just covered, but he didn't stop. He dragged the man across the floor of the dojo, his own body screaming for rest, until he managed to lay him down in the center of the room. Tao wiped his brow, glancing at the fallen god who was still deep in his drunken slumber. His grandfather, without a word, slowly stood and walked over to Tao, his movements steady, unaffected by the effort that had nearly broken his grandson. He placed a hand on Tao's shoulder, feeling the weight of his muscles, the new strength that had bloomed from the pain of the journey. "You've done well," his grandfather finally spoke, his voice low but approving. Tao didn't respond. His breath was still heavy, and the world seemed to tilt as his body begged him for rest. Instead, he turned his gaze to the man who had fallen from the sky. Something about him felt different, as if he wasn't just a mere traveler, but something much older, much more powerful. His curiosity flared again, but it was tinged with the fatigue that draped over him like a heavy blanket. He couldn't help but wonder who this mysterious figure was, and why the universe had thrown him onto his path. What was the true nature of the man lying in front of him, and why had he been chosen to carry him across such a distance? His grandfather stood silently beside him, his sharp eyes never leaving the unconscious god. "He is no ordinary man," his grandfather muttered, his voice barely audible. "You will learn much from him, Tao, but only if you're ready. The road ahead is not easy." Tao nodded faintly, still struggling to catch his breath. His grandfather's words carried weight, but they were distant to him now, as he struggled to keep his balance. With a final glance at the unconscious god, Tao collapsed to the floor, his body finally succumbing to the exhaustion that had been building up throughout the journey. The last thing he saw before his eyes closed was the silent figure of his grandfather, watching over him, as the strange god lay in the center of the dojo, still unaware of the boy who had carried him from the depths of the bamboo forest.
Tao stood still, bare feet rooted into the cracked earth of the once serene dojo courtyard, his chest rising with each trembling breath, his muscles quivering from the unholy storm that had just passed, the scent of burning bamboo still thick in the air, his eyes wide and stained red with the weight of loss as he stared at the last collapsing breath of his grandfather's body, flame-cindered robes now soaked in cold silence, his fingers slightly clenched as if they were still fighting in another realm, Tao didn't move at first, not even an inch, not even to wipe the blood trickling from his lip, his body stiff like stone as the black ash around him began to scatter into the wind like whispering curses fading into the heavens, the shadows within him had vanished but their echo clung to his soul like a parasite licking his rage, his fists slowly tightening until his veins pulsed over the skin like ripples on water, he turned his head to the bamboo trail without thinking, his legs began to move slowly—left foot forward first, 25 centimeters in length, heel brushing the dust and raising only 2 inches with each step, breathing in through the nose, 3 seconds in, holding it for 2, exhaling sharp through clenched teeth—his body hurt but his purpose was louder than pain, he entered the dojo through the broken sliding gate, wooden panels shattered from the earlier shockwave, he walked past the training scrolls hanging half-burned from the ceiling, eyes locked onto the corner chamber, the place where his grandfather always slept in silence, covered by a red silk curtain laced with sacred threading, Tao brushed it aside with two fingers, stepped exactly 9 steps in—each step 30 centimeters exact, his hands trembling now not from fear but from suppressed grief—and he knelt by the old stone bedding, the scent of fire and sage still lingering on the pillow, he placed his palm flat on the cracked floor and pushed downward, a soft grind of stone echoed as a hidden latch opened beneath him, revealing a narrow passage lit only by faint golden inscriptions glowing on the walls, he descended slowly, foot by foot, down a spiral of thirty-seven stone steps, each one 20 centimeters in height, right foot always first, just as his grandfather taught, until he reached a circular chamber carved out of ancient blackstone, in the center lay the scroll, coiled tightly within a transparent sphere of layered light energy, hovering 6 feet above the ground, slowly spinning in a clockwise rotation, Tao stepped forward with his hands open, took a deep breath, and reached into the light—his fingers touched the scroll and the moment they did, everything around him trembled as the scroll lit up with burning script, a voice speaking not in words but in energy pulsed through his chest like a heartbeat, "He who takes the path must burn the past." Tao's eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched, and his body stood tall—this was no longer training, this was destiny dragging him forward.
Tao's fingers uncoiled from the burning scroll, his chest still heaving with shallow broken breaths as the golden chamber dimmed back into shadow, the weight of prophecy now soaked into his bones, his eyes bloodshot from rage and sorrow as he ascended the stone spiral again, 37 steps, each one echoing louder than before like the drums of war, right foot first—always right foot first—as he emerged back into the ruined dojo hall, the sky above still pulsing with thin traces of black mist, smoke trails dancing from shattered tiles and broken bamboo shafts, and there, just as he left him, the man—the so-called god—lay stretched across the dojo mat, golden-brown hair tangled against the floor, his torn golden crown crooked on his head, his black-and-white monk robes slightly stained with the wine he reeked of, snoring with a calmness that broke something inside Tao, because how could he sleep—how could he do nothing—while the only person who ever loved Tao was dying, Tao stomped forward with no hesitation, each step 45 centimeters, each stomp louder than the last, until he stood over the god's body, tears bursting from his eyes not in weakness but in pure disbelief, he clenched his fists and with a voice shattered by fury screamed, "You watched! You watched and did nothing while he fought for me!"—the god stirred slowly, groaning, rolling to his side, then sat up rubbing his eyes like waking from a lazy dream, and looked up at Tao, eyes glowing faint gold beneath the wine fog, his voice calm and soft, "It is not my place to change fate." Tao snarled, tears hitting the floor as he dropped to his knees, "You could've saved him—" but the god raised a single finger and spoke gently, "Had I interfered, the balance would have shattered. The entire weave of the cosmos is stitched together by the threads of Yin and Yang—light and dark, order and chaos, pain and peace... One cannot erase loss without inviting worse consequences." he stood slowly, posture straightening, the foolishness in his face washing away to reveal divine wisdom as he continued, walking in slow, precise steps, each footfall 33 centimeters apart, "The gods do not act on impulse. We are the keepers of harmony, not the saviors of every tear. The balance demands we do not intervene unless a ripple threatens the very fabric of existence." Tao's body trembled as he whispered, "What about the curse… my grandfather's curse… could you not have stopped that?" the god's expression softened, and his voice dipped with ancient sorrow, "The All-Seeing Goddess foresaw it… She sees beyond the thread of time, but even she, though high above all gods, cannot rewrite destiny alone. For fate is woven by a council—not a single hand. She sent me instead… not to fight, but to guide you." Tao stared, confused, broken, "Guide me? You just slept—" the god nodded, "Because you were meant to stand on your own. The gods cannot gift strength… only reveal the path." he stepped forward and placed his hand on Tao's shoulder, surprisingly warm and grounded, "You are the storm in stillness, the fire of balance. From this day forward, I walk beside you—but I will not fight your battles unless fate demands it. You must become more than your pain… You must become the warrior who restores balance
The dojo floor was still cracked from the battle hours before, but now a strange peace drifted across the wind as the fallen god stood at the center of the courtyard, arms folded beneath the wide sleeves of his black-and-white monk robe, his golden tilt glowing faintly under the moonlight as he drew a perfect circle with his bare feet, each step measured precisely at 41 centimeters, circling clockwise seven times around the center until ancient inscriptions burned into the earth like fire from memory itself, Tao watched silently, breathing heavy but focused, standing five meters away, arms bruised and soul still mourning, when the god suddenly raised both hands, his fingertips glowing with ethereal light as golden feathers began to fall from the sky—not birds, but fragments of pure divine energy shaped like crane feathers, each one landing softly in the circle and sinking into the markings with a pulse, and the god spoke, voice low and echoing with layered tones, "This is the Rite of Soaring Flame, the ritual of the Crane Element—those who seek the wind must first master stillness." Tao stepped forward slowly, each step 28 centimeters, deliberately steady, his bare feet grazing over burned grass as he entered the circle, the god clapped his hands once and the air shifted violently, wind rising only within the circle as Tao stood at its center, the golden feathers now circling him like spirits, and then the god continued, "To wield the Crane, you must rise against gravity not with force—but with balance, grace, and the silence of motion." he snapped his fingers and the winds pushed Tao backward—but the boy grounded his feet and adjusted instantly, stance wide at 67 centimeters, breath syncing with the rhythm of the wind, and suddenly black veins pulsed across his chest, the curse reacting violently to the divine energy, his hands trembled and shadows surged up his neck whispering temptations and wrath, but Tao growled, clenched his teeth and exhaled slowly—4 seconds in, 6 seconds out—just like his grandfather taught, locking his chi through his core to contain the shadow's influence, sweat pouring down his temple as he held his balance despite the whirlwind of light and dark clashing inside him, the god watched closely, arms still crossed, golden eyes flickering with subtle pride, and then he said, "Now—rise." Tao closed his eyes, focused on the crane feathers circling him, and stepped with his right foot exactly 33 centimeters upward into the air, not flying, but suspending—as if the wind beneath his soul caught him and held him still, shadows around his body dissolving like ink in water, his body lifting slowly, barely 6 inches off the ground but stable, firm, divine, and in that moment, a single feather of light touched his forehead, sinking into his skin, igniting his veins with radiant energy that clashed against the darkness until the two forces found an uneasy balance inside his heart, and the god spoke again, softer this time, "This… is only the beginning."