Dark clouds churn over a ruined mountainside. Smoke coils from what's left of a temple—stone cracked, wooden beams charred black. Statues of ancient sages lie decapitated. Wind moves ash like snow, across bloodied stone paths and fallen prayer flags.
"In the end… power means nothing to the hollow."
"But we always chase it. For justice. For vengeance. For love. For meaning."
"And in chasing it, we forget."
"Who we are. Why we began. What we promised."
A lone figure walks barefoot through the ruin. A tattered robe hangs off his shoulders. His hands are empty. His gaze, distant.
"I was once a man with no name. No strength. No enemies. No glory."
"And for that… I was whole."
[Cut to Present – Aftermath]
The monk walks through smoke and silence.
The village below the temple lies in ruin—burned-out homes, shattered carts, the occasional clang of something cooling in the wind. Bodies are half-covered by dirt or rubble. No cries, no survivors.
He doesn't run. He doesn't look away.
He kneels beside a small body, a girl no older than six. Her hand still clutches a burnt ribbon. Her eyes are open.
He closes them gently.
A soldier limps toward him from the wreckage, sword dragging behind.
"You," the man croaks, voice raw. "You were there. You're… you're one of them, aren't you? A cultivator?"
The monk says nothing.
The soldier stumbles closer, rage burning through the pain.
"You could've stopped it. You could've fought. Where were you?"
A long silence. Then:
"I was here."
"You just let this happen?!"
"I am not a cultivator."
The soldier screams and lunges. The monk steps aside without resistance. The soldier collapses, coughing blood.
"I am sorry," the monk says. "But I don't regret not killing."
He keeps walking.
[Flashback Begins – Hours Before the Tragedy]
The temple was quiet that morning.
Birds nested in the rafters. Windchimes clicked softly under the eaves. A pot of tea steamed on the stone ledge overlooking the valley.
The monk sat with his back straight, eyes closed. He hadn't spoken since dawn.
A younger disciple approached, carrying a scroll.
"Master," she said gently. "It's the eighth day of the quiet vow. You don't have to—"
"I know."
"You still haven't given yourself a name. You could choose one today."
He opened his eyes. They were calm. Steady. Old.
"A name comes from knowing who you are," he said. "And I don't know yet."
She frowned. "But you teach us. You walk the villages. You heal. You listen. You live like a master."
He smiled faintly.
"I only repeat what the silence tells me."
[Cut to Village – Early Signs of Collapse]
Smoke rose in the distance just past noon. At first, they thought it was a forest fire. Then came the sound—not thunder, but something deeper. Heavier.
A disciple came running. "Master. Riders. Dozens. And… and one of them is glowing."
The monk didn't move.
The villagers started to panic. Some fled toward the hills. Others gathered buckets, tools, anything that could be used as a weapon.
Still, he didn't move.
The disciples begged him: "Please. If you won't fight, then hide. At least hide."
He stood slowly.
"I will not fight," he said. "But I will not run either."
He stepped out into the courtyard as the enemy approached.
And when the sky tore open above the mountain—when the first blast of spirit flame fell like a meteor—he closed his eyes.
[Cut to Present – Back to Ruins]
He buries the dead with his bare hands.
Not with technique.
Not with cultivation.
Just dirt and grief and time.
By nightfall, the pyres are lit.
He watches the flames consume what's left. Shadows stretch long across the stones.
A disciple—one who survived—crawls to his side, barely conscious.
"You could have stopped them…" she whispers.
He doesn't answer.
"Why didn't you fight?"
He watches the fire for a long time.
Then says:
"Because power taken for the sake of power… devours the one who holds it."
She coughs blood. "So does power refused."
[Final Scene – The Mountain]
The wind howls higher up the ridge.
He stands at the edge of the temple's last step, facing a narrow mountain path that disappears into cloud. No one walks it. No one returns.
It is not on any map.
And yet, it calls.
He breathes in.
The smoke. The cold. The memory.
Then he says:
"I will take power."
"But not for revenge. Not for pride. Not to win."
"I will take it… because there is no other way to stop this."
He turns toward the mountain.
And begins the climb.