Sartor stepped out from the back gate of the castle. A blend of damp stone and aged wood greeted his senses. The air was thick, carrying something lifeless yet awake. Mist blanketed the path ahead, weaving between the trees like the slow breath of a world holding its silence.
Beneath his feet, the newly paved stones clicked softly with every step, yet his attention was too sharply fixed to be distracted. His eyes searched the ground as if seeking meaning in its shifting pattern.
He followed the narrow path through that heavy stillness until he reached the newly built structure. It looked like it belonged to another time—more refined than the castle, but colder. Just as he stood before its door, a calm voice rang out from within:
"Come in."
He entered.
The inside bore strangeness in its details. The walls were marked by unfamiliar patterns, and the silence felt too alive. There was no sign of Tian, so Sartor moved to the adjacent building, connected by a narrow corridor.
The adjoining room was wide, floored with dark wood, and its shadowed windows opened toward a garden veiled in mist. In the center of the room sat Tian in seiza, his back straight, clad in hakama with a sword resting on his right side. His eyes were closed.
Sartor approached quietly.
"Good day, Master Tian. I apologize for disturbing you."
Tian offered only a slight bow of the head—acknowledgement, silent and sufficient—before closing his eyes once more.
Sartor understood. This man valued silence. He sat on the cold wooden floor, waiting without complaint, unaware that Tian was testing him—testing his character, his patience, his ability to dwell in stillness.
Time passed.
The light through the window dulled to a muted gray as the day waned. Hours slipped away. Still, Tian did not move. The silence grew sacred, almost unbearable.
At last, as the afternoon drew near its end, Sartor stirred.
Tian opened one eye, assuming the boy had reached his limit. He prepared to speak, half a lesson forming on his lips:
"Young man, patience is a virtue. You must—"
He stopped.
Sartor wasn't leaving. He was adjusting his position, shifting into seiza, mimicking Tian's posture precisely—despite the obvious strain on his limbs.
Tian smiled faintly, the corner of his mouth barely lifting.
"You win this round, boy... You fooled me."
His senses were sharp, honed like his blade, but not even he could read thoughts—and Sartor's innocent expression had hidden his cleverness well.
Sartor bowed his head slightly.
"Master Tian, my grandmother told me you would be my teacher. Thank you for offering your time. I will do my best under your guidance. But... I have a question."
Tian remained still, eyes closed, but his thoughts stirred.
What would the boy ask?
Would he inquire about the world's true nature? About what lies beyond the fog? About the boundaries of the system? Or would he ask about himself, about the hidden past that no one dared speak of?
Sartor stood. The creak beneath his feet echoed faintly.
He looked directly at Tian and asked:
"Master Tian... am I cursed?"