In the depths of the forest, where the canopy blotted out most of the sky, Bu He and Jian Ming walked in a silence that was more companionable than any conversation. The weight of the sword on Bu He's back was a foreign but reassuring presence, while the sack of stones on Jian Ming's shoulders served as a constant, humbling reminder of the path his new friend had walked. The loneliness of the road was still there, a persistent shadow, but now it was a shadow they shared, and it felt infinitely lighter.
Their path, after days of travel, opened into a new valley. This one was different. Carved by ancient waters, it was a land of dancing shadows and monolithic stones. And in its center, rising into the sky like a finger pointing at the disapproving heavens, was a tower shrouded in mist and legend.
"The Secret Tower," Jian Ming said, his voice low with a mix of reverence and caution. He had stopped, his eyes fixed on the structure. "The rules of this valley are written within those walls. Most of the old masters, the ones whose names are still whispered in taverns, were forged inside."
As they drew closer, they saw a large crowd gathered at the tower's base. There were youths with hopeful eyes, warriors with scarred faces, and old men with looks of regret. They all wore different colors, different clan insignias, but their faces held the same mixture of excitement and trepidation. On a high stone platform, a white-bearded master was addressing the assembly.
"Here, every path is tested once more!" his voice boomed. "Only those who pass their own trial may set foot in the tower!"
Bu He and Jian Ming moved to the edge of the crowd to observe. The entrance to the tower was guarded by a strange tradition. Before the main gate lay a massive, shallow basin filled with countless stones of every shape and color—a mountain of shed pasts. To enter, each aspirant had to leave a "life stone," an object that symbolized a piece of their past they were willing to leave behind. It was a symbolic price: a piece of your identity, your pain, or your name, traded for a chance at a new future.
Bu He instinctively thought of the collection of items he now carried: the wooden whistle of innocence, the outcast's talisman of hope, the knife of companionship, and the sealed stone from Usta Mo—the very object that had started it all.
A girl with an unyielding gaze and a small burn scar on her chin stepped forward from the crowd. She held a smooth, white pebble in her hand. With her finger, she traced a symbol upon it: a crescent moon and a single drop of fire. She placed the pebble into the basin and walked toward the tower. A wave of applause followed her.
"Those are the new aspirants," Jian Ming whispered, already sketching the girl's symbol into his notebook. "Everyone here is on the threshold of their own path. They cannot step into the future without letting go of the past."
Bu He's hand went to the sealed stone in his pocket. It was cold and dormant now, its power seemingly spent. But it was his first link to his new life, a gift from his mysterious master. "Leaving a stone behind," Bu He said, his voice barely a whisper, "feels as hard as taking the first step."
Jian Ming gave him a reassuring look. "Leave the stone, Bu He. But never leave the story it tells."
As the crowd thinned, Bu He walked toward the basin of stones. He held the sealed rock in his hand, its weight familiar, comforting. To leave it here felt like abandoning the memory of his master, of that first spark of hope in the forest. But he knew Jian Ming was right. The past was a foundation, not an anchor.
With a deep breath, he gently placed the sealed stone among the countless others. As it settled, it seemed to flash once with a faint, inner light, and then became just another rock in a sea of memories. In that moment, he felt a profound sense of release, as if a great weight had been lifted.
Jian Ming stepped up beside him. He tore a clean page from his notebook, one where the ink had not yet dried. On it was a quick, masterful sketch of a boy with a sack of stones, his back to the world. He folded the page and placed it next to Bu He's stone. "A story unshared is just a memory," he said softly. "A story left behind… becomes a legend."
Together, they turned and walked towards the colossal gates of the Secret Tower. A guardian in grey robes, his face as impassive as the stone walls, held up a hand to stop them. His eyes, dark and hollow, appraised them for a long moment, a flicker of curiosity in their depths.
"Names?" the guardian asked, his voice like the grinding of rock.
Jian Ming answered, his voice steady. Then, all eyes turned to Bu He.
"Bu He," he said, his own voice surprising him with its clarity.
The guardian nodded slowly, a silent permission. As they took their first step across the threshold, into the shadows of the tower, the great gates began to swing shut behind them with a deep, final groan, sealing them inside with their trials, their secrets, and their fate.