The ancient trees swayed gently in the breeze as I moved through them. I was twenty-eight years old, climbing a mountain in the middle of nowhere, caught in an endless journey to find myself—to find meaning.

Some men spend their lives seeking fortune; others chase power. Me? I chase the questions no one wants answered. The kind that make people fidget, that hang in the air long after they’ve been asked.

I had followed the faintest whispers across distant lands, tracing stories of a hidden monastery deep in the mountains. Some spoke of dark gods granting the monks unnatural abilities; others claimed they were not of this world at all. Regardless of the tale, one thing remained the same—they were more than human, their devotion transforming them into something else, possibly something more.

They worshipped not love nor wisdom, but suffering itself. The Deity of Pain. A belief so strange, so carefully concealed, that even those who spoke of it did so in hushed voices, their eyes flicking side to side, worried someone might overhear. 

The village clung to the edge of the valley like a stubborn weed, its crooked buildings leaning into one another for support. Snow dusted the rooftops and frosted the cobbled streets, thickening the hush that already hung over the place. I pulled my hood tighter against the biting wind. My boots were worn, my body aching from the road behind me, but my mind hummed with anticipation.

I moved through the town with purpose, my breath curling in the cold air. The streets were nearly empty, the last remnants of daylight sinking behind the mountains. A trader stood ahead, unloading burlap sacks from a weathered pull cart, the rough fabric dusted with frost.

“I’ve heard of a monastery hidden in these mountains. Do you know of it?”

The man froze. His grip on the sack tightened, knuckles whitening. He didn’t look at me. Didn’t speak. With a grunt, he hoisted the sack onto his shoulder, turned, and disappeared through the nearest door, shutting it behind him with more force than necessary.

At a nearby stall I asked the same question and the seamstress stiffened, muttering something about "bad omens" before slipping into her shop, pulling the door closed like she feared the very air might follow her inside. I knew then that this would not be a topic easily discussed. 

I exhaled slowly, standing at the edge of the market as the sun disappeared behind the jagged peaks. The shadows stretched long, swallowing the village in uneasy silence. They would not speak. That much was clear. But their silence was louder than any denial. They knew something here. 

A flicker of light caught my attention—the town’s tavern, standing alone, its windows glowing faintly through the gathering dark. If there was anywhere people might loosen their tongues, it would be over a mug of ale.

Inside, warmth greeted me, the scent of smoke and stale ale thick in the air. I ordered a drink, scanning the room. Most kept their heads low, uninterested in conversation.

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One figure stood out—a white-bearded old man sitting alone in the corner.

Mug in hand, I approached. “May I join you?”

The man’s pale eyes fixed on me, unreadable. A pause, then a slow gesture toward the empty chair.

We spoke in circles at first—nothing important, just the kind of talk that tested the air between strangers. The weather. The roads. The creeping cold. But as the conversation stretched, something shifted. Not trust, but something close enough.

At last, I leaned forward. “I’ve heard stories about a monastery in these mountains. A place devoted to a god unlike any other. Can you tell me about it?”

The old man studied me in silence, his moon-pale eyes unreadable. He took a slow, deliberate sip of his ale before answering. “What makes you want to find such a place?”

I answered as plainly and honestly as I could. “I’ve come a long way. I’m searching for something important. I’m not like other men—I don’t find comfort in the things they covet. I search for something far greater than power. I search for wisdom. Can you help me?”

The old mans lips twitched into something like a smile.

The fire crackled louder, filling the space between us. His expression hardened, his gaze flicking toward the window as though the mountains themselves might hear.

“I know of it,” he said at last.

I sat straighter. “Can you tell me where it is?”

He took another long drink, his fingers tightening around the mug. “The path’s not for the faint of heart. You’ll find it high above the treeline, where the air cuts like a blade and the snow swallows men whole. But finding it isn’t the hardest part. It’s what comes after.”

I held his gaze. “What do you mean?”

His voice dropped to a whisper. “The monks there worship a god unlike any other. Not a god of love or wisdom, but one of pain. They say suffering is the only truth—that through it, they find enlightenment. Magic, some call it. Witchcraft, others. Whatever it is, it’s not meant for ordinary men.”

“Why would anyone follow a god like that?” I asked, though I wasn’t sure if the question was for him or for myself.

“Because pain is a teacher,” the man said simply. “And they’ve learned things no one else dares to know. Every man experiences pain, but few among us are strong enough to choose the pain we wish to suffer.”

The words hung heavy in the air, and for a moment, I felt the weight of existence pressing down on me. I thought of the years I had spent wandering, searching for something to fill the hollow space inside me. The idea of answers—no matter how unorthodox—drew me like a flower to sunlight.

“That sounds like exactly what I’ve been searching for,” I said, my smile widening.

The old man let out a short laugh, though it lacked humor. “Unique, yes. You’d have to be mad—or desperate—to go looking for it.”

“Perhaps I’m both,” I replied with a grin.

He gave me a long, measuring look. “Follow the eastern ridge. There’s a narrow trail, hard to see unless you know where to look. That’s your path.”

“Thank you,” I said, my tone warm.

The old man chuckled darkly. “Don’t thank me yet. The mountains are unforgiving, and the monks even more so.”

Outside, the cold hit me like a slap, but it only stoked my resolve. The jagged peaks loomed above, their snow-capped edges glowing faintly under the moonlight.

For the first time in weeks, I felt truly alive. And yet, I could not shake the question that gnawed at the edge of my thoughts—why was I so possessed by this need to dig deeper? This yearning to understand it all?