Teng felt more alive and happier than he’d ever felt.

The faint, musky aroma of a female fox, tending its curious cubs near the underbrush, mingled with the earthy scent of trampled leaves and damp soil.

The soft patter of a small deer’s hooves, interrupted by its sudden snort as it caught his scent on the wind.

The crunching of a ripe, shiny acorn in the paws of a tiny squirrel, observing him from above with dark, beady eyes.

Profound impressions of the world were swept over him by the wind, so detailed and vivid it was hard to put them into words. Nor could he completely understand how he sensed these impressions. They were abstract, yet clear. Foreign, yet familiar.

Then, from nowhere, came a building pressure behind his eyes. Teng groaned and closed them, but there was no escape. The throbbing, rising pain made him cringe and bend over against the bark of an old oak, head resting on its furrowed surface.

To his great relief, the essence movement shattered from his faltering focus, and the essence flowed back into his belly, the pain beginning to recede. When the boy was upright again, there remained but a mere soreness of his mind and behind his eyes, a dull ache reminding him of overused muscles and healing bruises.

The boy was unsure about what had happened and could only conclude his mind’s ability to understand the wind’s impressions was like any other muscle. Swinging a branch made his arms ache. Working with hides and skins made his hands burn. It was not unreasonable to accept that listening to and feeling the wind with his mind would make his head hurt.

He arrived at the glade soon after and immediately heard thudding branches and yelping boys, which served only to compound his already fatigued mind.

Kai, Jirki, and the two other boys were in the midst of training with Bai, who stood to the side. As Teng walked over, Bai leaned forward, his eyes furrowing. “Anything wrong?” he asked.

“Sorry for coming late,” Teng said quickly.

Bai clicked his tongue. “Not that. I mean, are you okay? You look unusually pale today.”

Teng shrugged. “Bad sleep. Is it so obvious?”

The boy couldn’t exactly say he had eaten a blue bird and gained the ability to listen to and feel the wind, and that this power made him feel like a corpse, could he?

Bai nodded and sighed. “Well, just watch for now. I have something good planned for later, so if you’re feeling unwell, it's better to save your strength.”

“Unless you feel you can’t fight today,” the younger man added quickly. “But a hunter must always be ready to fight even when in bad conditions.”

“I’m not... a hunter.”

This time it was Bai’s turn to shrug. “Between you and me, I have a feeling you’ll be one soon enough. My brother and the big fellow too, of course. Just don’t be arrogant and get yourself eaten by a beast just because you’ve trained a little.”

“Arrogant?” he asked.

“Too full of yourself. Believing nothing can hurt you. Like my little rascal Kai.”

The explanation made Teng grin, and he promised himself to take the younger man’s words to heart. Doubly so, considering his ability to feel the impressions of the wind. He was not even the best fighter among them, and the wilderness was a scary place—or so he’d heard. To be honest, he’d never ventured too far out from the village’s borders.

He watched the two ongoing fights. Kai and Jirki circled each other; when one stepped forward, the other retreated. When one thrust, the other deflected. Neither side seemed to have an advantage. Jirki was bigger and stronger; Kai was faster and more skilled—at least in Teng’s eyes.

The other fight, however, was a different matter. The two boys, the tall and gangly Prat and the burly, short Toff, had both lost their branches and were rolling around in the grass, trying to hold the other down.

Teng looked at Bai, who simply shrugged.

“Sometimes a hunter loses his fighting stick,” he said, as if that explained it.

When the boys had finished their battles, they gathered around Bai.

“Today, we will test the fruits of your work—with real fighting sticks,” the young man said, smiling. “Who’s first?”

Bai faced each boy in turn, starting with Prat, who attacked with enthusiasm but lacked skill in wielding the fighting stick. Bai quickly disarmed him with a swift block, sending him stumbling back, bewildered. Toff was next, coming in with more power, but Bai sidestepped his swings and used a quick blow to knock Toff off balance and end the bout.

Jirki stepped up with a stoicism that matched his strength, and Bai had to stay light on his feet, deflecting Jirki’s powerful thrusts and even taking a step back under the force. But Bai’s skill won out in the end, as he found an opening and tapped Jirki’s side with the butt of the fighting stick.

Finally, Kai took his stance, managing to dodge Bai’s initial strikes. Their exchange was faster, more fluid, more alive. Bai pressed hard while Kai responded with that unreasonable agility he possessed, forcing Bai to go even harder in return.

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After several intense moments, however, Bai found an opening and brought his younger brother to the ground.

“Last but not least.”

Bai finally beckoned Teng over with a nod, extending one of the sturdy fighting sticks to him. Teng took it and realized it was a bit heavier than the branches they had been using, but not much so. He tried to get a grip on the weight, imitating Bai, who twirled his fighting stick with ease and watched him with a half-smile.

“Ready, Teng?” Bai asked, a gleam of anticipation in his eyes.

Teng nodded, adjusting his stance, one foot slightly forward, stick grasped in two hands, body slightly crouched. They circled each other slowly, and Teng felt his pulse quicken, his senses sharpening. Bai struck first—swift, low, aiming for Teng’s knees. Teng sidestepped, bringing his stick down to block. Wood met wood in a sharp crack.

Bai didn’t wait, following up with a quick thrust toward Teng’s belly. Teng twisted out of the way, barely catching the attack on his fighting stick, stumbling slightly as he stepped back. Bai was relentless, pushing him further back with each thrust, heavy and precise.

"Stay grounded, Teng," Bai instructed, his tone edged with challenge. "If you keep backing off, you’ll never get an advantage."

Bai’s words stung, but he was right; Teng was on his back foot, struggling to keep up with the speed and strength of his opponent’s strikes. His breath came in ragged gasps, his shoulders heaving as he tried to keep his stance steady. He managed a weak parry, but Bai’s attack slipped past his guard, the wood just below the bonehead smacking him hard against his shoulder. He gritted his teeth against the pain. Bai kept pressing, his strikes quick, direct, and practiced, as Teng’s fatigued mind struggled to keep up.

In desperation to impress his teacher, Teng focused inward and steadied his breath. He let his mind focus on the only task in front of him: dodge, strike, dodge, strike. Instinctually, his essence began to surge, flowing from his belly through his limbs, awakening something within. He felt awareness as the wind shifted, carrying impressions of Bai’s movements—the slight tension in his muscles, the narrowing of his eyes before each strike.

Teng raised his stick, this time sensing Bai’s next move before it came. He pivoted, his stick meeting and redirecting the attack. Bai’s eyes widened, but the man quickly adjusted, his strikes becoming sharper as he increased the pace.

The impressions from the wind became more detailed, guiding Teng’s movements as he dodged and countered with growing confidence. He saw openings he’d never noticed before, the subtle shifts in Bai’s stance that hinted at his next move. It felt as if Bai’s movements were his own, as if he could read each intention before it solidified into certainty. He could smell the sweat of the man’s body, hear his breath, hear his bare feet trampling soft grass.

Bai came at him with a sweeping strike. Teng ducked low and brought his fighting stick up in a quick, fluid arc that caught Bai off-guard, landing hard against his ribs. Bai let out a grunt of pain, his eyes flashing with a mix of surprise and approval.

Teng’s heart pounded in his chest, his whole body alive with the sensation of the essence pulsing through him and connecting him to the world around him.

The faint scent of the forest, the sharp tang of crushed fern, the loamy richness of damp roots, the faint, woody scent of distant cedar. Everything was as vivid as Bai’s next step, the pressure in his gaze, the tense coil in his muscles. It was as if he were not just in the glade but part of it, attuned to every movement, every shift in the air, every blade of grass.

Bai backed off, breathing hard, his expression grim. He circled Teng slowly, rolling his shoulders as if assessing the sting of the blow.

Teng sank deeper into the rhythm that had taken over his movements. His awareness narrowed, the impressions from the wind telling him of each shift and strike, his thoughts dissolving into the present and only the present. Teng’s body moved without conscious thought, his stick whirling, blocking, striking. It felt like he was no longer wielding the fighting stick but as if it was an extension of him, his arm, his hand, his fingers.

“Where did this come from?” Bai muttered.

Teng and Bai clashed, and hollow thuds erupted, sounding distant, muffled, as if Teng were hearing them from under the creek bed by the willows, submerged

Bai’s form loomed before him, muscles tensing, stance shifting—large and imposing—but it was instinct now, raw and pure, that drove Teng forward. It felt as if he were gliding on the ground, each step and strike a dance like the ones the village children performed when the snow melted and the sun shone through clouded skies.

Teng lost himself, the world narrowing to the beat of his essence; dividing, merging, dividing, merging. Then came a moment—a point from which there was no return. Bai’s guard dropped ever so slightly, and Teng stepped forward, his fighting stick faster than ever. It felt as if lightning surged through his arms as they extended. The tip connected, sinking past flesh, past resistance, until it broke through Bai’s thigh with a sickening give, the end of his stick protruding on the other side.

Time seemed to freeze. Bai’s face twisted in agony, eyes wide, hands reaching for his thigh as blood seeped from the wound. A gasp escaped his mouth, silence broken, time unfreezing.

A jolt thundered through Teng’s whole body, his eyes wide open but only now understanding what he had done. His hands went numb as he let go of the fighting stick and stumbled back, heaving for breath that was nowhere to be found. The essence divided and stopped and dissolved into his belly, sensations dulling, pain and horror bubbling up so intensely it made him gasp and groan.

He heard running footsteps and only had time to sluggishly move his head to see Kai’s fist pummel into his jaw. His head snapped back, but there was no pain.

“What’s wrong with you, Teng?” Kai’s voice shook with rage as he sat down by his panting brother. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Teng fell to the grass. Everything spun, everything hurt, but not from the punch. Tears streamed from his eyes. He looked at Bai, at the blood pooling in the grass, his heart feeling as if about to burst against his ribs with every beat. The weight of what he’d done sank into him; heavy, merciless, consuming.

“I... I didn’t mean…” he whispered, his voice faint, almost lost in the wind that now felt cold and hollow against his skin. His hands trembled as he reached out, only to let them fall, helpless, useless.

“Are you listening?” Kai’s voice cut through, sharp and bitter. “You hurt him—do you get that? You hurt him!”

Kai suddenly lunged forward, his jaw set, a fire in his eyes, but was violently halted by Jirki, who threw him to the ground and held him down.

Bai looked up at Teng, panting as he tried to stem the blood, then to his brother. “It was an accident, Kai. Just... an accident,” he heaved through ragged breaths. “Get– get a hold of yourself. Get me to the village… now. A boar… attacked me. I got… pierced by… its tusk.”

“Teng?” a voice asked.

“Teng, are you alright?”

But Teng could not hear. His world was unraveling as he fell into a darkness so deep it almost seemed blinding. The echoes of his actions, the violence that had felt so distant in the heat of the fight, now bore down on him, raw, uncontrolled, like raging floods in the wet season; there was no stopping them nor their destination.

He wanted to rewind the moment, to pull back, to change what he’d done, to escape the pain and suffering and blood. But there was no taking it back. Teng’s mouth opened, but no words came. He tried to breathe, but no air came.

The wind no longer held any secrets, no impressions or whispers. There was only the weight of his actions and the pain he couldn’t take back.