The Invincible Young Master

The forest stretched out in every direction, its dense canopy casting shifting patterns of light and shadow over the rough path ahead.

An almost eerie quiet hung in the air, interrupted only by a relentless stream of questions that echoed through the trees.

"So, why do these trees grow differently here?" Zarak's voice bounced through the forest, his tone intrigued. "Is it a different soil type? Or maybe it's the angle of sunlight?"

The old storyteller walked ahead, his face drawn in a long-suffering expression as he muttered under his breath, "This brat…"

Unaware or perhaps unconcerned with the old man's patience wearing thin, Zarak tilted his head and asked innocently, "Did you say something, sir?"

The old man halted, glancing over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised in exasperation. "Has anyone ever told you that you talk too much?"

Zarak blinked, as if genuinely caught off guard.

"No, actually," he replied, sounding almost amused. "Not that I recall."

The old man shook his head, resuming his steps with a weary sigh. "Figured as much."

It had only been a day since, they left the Dwight state.

Zarak had offered the old man a lift, but he refused and preferred treading across the land to the capital. And seeing that Zarak also followed on foot.

But who knew Zarak would start his endless questions, pouring forth like a river without end.

As the Serene Sky Holy Land's top disciple, he was used to an environment where questions were encouraged almost sacred as signs of enlightenment. No one had ever told him to stop asking.

But this old man's patience was a different matter. Every question about the bark of a tree, the twist of a vine, even the path an ant took on its journey had nudged him closer to his limit.

"Look," the old man said, gesturing dismissively toward a nearby cluster of moss-covered rocks, "not every tree, stone, or leaf hides some grand secret. Sometimes, a tree is just a tree."

Zarak frowned thoughtfully. "So… they don't hold secrets, but they might?"

The old man suppressed a sigh. "No, not exactly. Some things in this world are simply what they are. There's no need to dig for enlightenment in every pebble."

Zarak's eyes brightened, as if unbothered by the answer. "But you're saying that with enough wisdom, even simple things could hold meaning?"

The old man allowed a flicker of amusement to slip across his face.

Despite himself, he had to admit the boy's curiosity was rare, a genuine thirst for understanding.

Still, he kept his tone firm. "Boy, when you search for meaning in everything, you'll end up creating meaning where it doesn't exist. Wisdom is knowing what's worth searching for and when to let things be."

Zarak paused, processing this with uncharacteristic silence.

The old man took the moment as a gift, relishing the sudden quiet.

They continued walking through the forest, their footsteps muffled by the thick carpet of leaves and soil.

For a few blissful moments, the only sounds were the soft crunch of leaves beneath their feet and the distant hum of the woods.

But just as they passed an ancient, twisted oak, Zarak's voice broke through again.

"What about this tree, though? It looks older than the others, like maybe-"
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The old man raised a hand, silencing him mid-sentence.

"Tell me, lad," he said, his voice gentler, "what exactly are you hoping to find?"

Zarak stopped, taken aback by the question. He hesitated. "I suppose… I want to understand the world like you do. See things clearly. If I can learn what you know, maybe I'll become… something more."

The old man's expression softened, a hint of empathy breaking through his usual gruffness.

"Then here's my advice," he said quietly. "Learn to listen more than you speak. This forest has its own voice, but you won't hear it if you keep talking over it."

For the first time, Zarak simply nodded, the weight of the old man's words sinking in.

They continued their journey in silence, with only the gentle rustle of leaves and distant birdsong filling the air.

For the first time, Zarak truly listened, allowing himself to hear the forest without interruption, taking in the symphony of life that surrounded them.

As they walked, the forest seemed to respond to the quiet, its presence unfolding in a way that felt both vast and intimate.

And while Zarak held his questions at bay, he noticed something different, the subtle way each tree swayed with the breeze, the rhythmic patterns of chirps and croaks from unseen creatures, even the layers of scent that filled the air.

For a time, the world felt boundless, each detail speaking its own quiet story.

"You write those stories yourself, don't you?" Zarak suddenly asked, his voice softened by the quiet of the forest around them.

The old man gave a noncommittal nod. "Hmm."

Zarak pressed on, eyes alight with curiosity. "So, what's your best story?"

The old man paused, a far-off look in his eyes.

"My best story, hmm… It's not done yet," he said, gazing out over the tree line where the sun touched the leaves like scattered gold.

Zarak's intrigue deepened. "What's it about?"

After a long silence, the old man finally spoke. "A lonely god."

But before Zarak could even ask more, a violent tremor rippled through the ground, and the forest quiet was shattered by a loud explosion in the distance.

Zarak's eyes sharpened. He turned to the old man, already moving. "Let's check it out."

The old man simply nodded, and the two made their way toward the smoke rising through the treetops.

As they approached, the forest opened into a wide, charred clearing.

A massive crater, still smoldering at its edges, stretched before them, its fiery ashes casting a crimson glow over the ash-streaked ground.

At the crater's center, a magical barrier pulsed around a carriage, untouched by the destruction around it. It was simple and elegant, its wheels trimmed in silver, catching the light even amidst the chaos.

Around it, figures in crimson robes held a defensive formation, their faces obscured beneath hoods, their postures tense.

Each one focused, channeling energy into the protective barrier, sweat glistening on their brows.

Whoever sat in that carriage was no ordinary passenger.