"The masters have returned!" yells a senior disciple, interrupting my morning practice.

With that one trigger, people stop everything they were doing, look up, and take notice of the giant peacock coming down from the heavens. The same peacock everyone saw when it took this year's top disciples to the martial meet, its deep jade colour signifying it as the Silk Jade Hall Master's technique. At the same time, they see the disciples who already noticed the peacock running off to the courtyard. Immediately, urgency overcomes them.

People begin throwing themselves off buildings, doing everything they can to secure a good spot overlooking the courtyard. The Grand Bell booms in a heavy beat, shaking the air with every ring, but the disciples are louder than even the bell, screeching, shoving and fighting to get even an inch closer.

They group up according to halls, moving as a unit to fight off fellow disciples. The Silk Jade Hall, known for having the most obsessive fans, jump across buildings in a huge mass, fighting with ferocity akin to being under siege in a war. Every inch of their bodies become weapons, from elbows and knees to hair, nails and spit, all for the purpose of witnessing one man.

Sure, there's intrigue about the tournament results, and there's also interest in the three top beauties, but none of these are the true reason I see a senior disciple trying to take a life-giving pill, perfectly willing to shorten his lifespan for a momentary boost in cultivation. The reason a female disciple is choking another disciple with her hair, the reason people are releasing martial techniques haphazardly, the reason why the masters look at this chaos and do nothing, thinking 'it can't be helped.' It's all one man.

I try to ignore it all.

He's not even a man yet. He's only a senior disciple because he's... well, because he's just that good. They made an exception for him, just like with everything else, but he's only seventeen. He's not senior to any of them.

I try and ignore my own thoughts, letting the pain of my fist hitting the wooden dummy clear my mind. I flinch the moment my torn skin contacts the jagged wood, then I do it again. I do it again and again, giving a strong yell each time.

They say yelling like this brings out more power in your body. That by peaking your voice, your body follows suit and knows to exert more. At first I was pessimistic, but after years in the sect I've found it to be honest truth, though I'm not sure why.

Maybe it's a way of asserting your power, like the roar of a beast, and your body motivates itself with that assertiveness. Maybe it's meant to declare your presence to the world, and you rise to match the ferocity of your declaration. Maybe it's just a trick of the body, or a self-imposed trick of the mind.

But either way, as I punch again and scream, I feel clear, steadfast, and at pea—

“SENIOR MO HAS BROUGHT US VICTORY AT THE MARTIAL MEET!”

Suddenly, I’m blasted by cheers and screams loud enough to level a building, drowning out whatever futile sound my voice was making. I can’t even hear myself think under their booming chants:

“SENIOR MO! SENIOR MO! THE GREAT MO WEISHING!”

I try to punch and punch again, but it feels limp and soft, like I’m not hitting anything. It feels like even the practice dummies are looking towards the courtyard, ignoring the person hitting them to witness the man who seems to be at the center of the world.

I step forward, twist, and dig into the dummy with the blade of my foot, making a deep indent across its side. I pull my foot out, and for a second, I admire the mark I’ve left.

Then, I look right. Not by any conscious thought, but out of habit, since that’s where the worn training dummies go: a fenced-off hole towards the right of the field.

Piles upon piles of mangled training dummies, with trunks blown off and bits crushed into powder. Some are cut smooth, as if done by a blade, some are ripped in half by some hulking display of power, and some are barely even recognizable.

I clean the training dummies, so that’s probably why I developed this habit. Being the last one to leave the training grounds, as well as a low-tier, junior disciple, the task was just relegated to me. Remembering my ‘duty’ and the piles of shredded dummies, I wake back up to reality—

“SENIOR MO! THE GREAT MO WEISHING!”

I hear the chanting again, my elation no longer present to help me forget. I remember how, every time I make a tear on the training dummy, every time I make some decent mark, I habitually look to the pile of dummies used by other disciples. Then, the same thoughts pop up in my mind, which I can feel creeping up now, as I look at the mark I made and the trashed dummies.

I think it’s still got a few hits left. I think the dummy, compared to the others, still looks serviceable. Not very worn. Barely nicked. Just a scratch. An insignificant scratch. An insignificant, tiny scratch not worth acknowledging.

“SENIOR MO~!”

I look towards the center of the training grounds, where two halves of a dummy is displayed on an elevated platform. This monument is the reason why I always stick to the edges of the training grounds, but in my current mood I can’t help but acknowledge it. Two halves, and a pile of splinters in the middle where the dummy was shredded with one punch. All around the monument are signs, stating thus:

“Mo Weishing’s First Strike”

The day we were accepted into the Nature Sect, the test where they evaluated our abilities. I punched and nicked my hand, while Weishing made history. It wasn’t that big of a deal back then, but as he kept exceeding expectations and bringing glory to the sect, it was made into a legend.

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“MO! MO! MO!”

Finally, I look left towards the courtyard. I can’t stop myself from doing so.

The entirety of our sect, heralding and fawning over one man—no, one boy. It’s so…so…

Suddenly, Weishing splits into three and the crowd loses their breath. After a moment, they scream out:

“It’s a wood substitute!”

As I hear their call and notice the parts of Weishing’s body fade into pieces of wood, I release a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. Air quickly refills my lungs, making me extremely aware of how deprived I was in those few shocking seconds.

If he’s not here, then… I think after calming down. Looking beyond the courtyard, I peer at the Grand Forest that surrounds our Nature Sect, picking out one specific area.

Weishing tends to go off on his own. It’s a habit he picked up from heavens know where, around the age of ten. He disappears for days on at a time, doing something so apparently secret and important it needs complete isolation. He was such a troublesome worrier back then, making me look all around to find him.

Here in the Sect, people say he’s secluding, pondering martial arts or practicing his techniques, but he’s been doing it since he was ten. It’s not like he would’ve been practicing martial arts back then. Maybe he does practice now, but I think his seclusion is mostly influence from his younger years. He’s still only seventeen, and he’s always been somewhat shy since. Maybe he just needs his alone time.

Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking. Maybe I’m just trying to downplay his greatness, humanize the Sect’s miracle. Maybe he’s pondering things only a genius would understand, and he secludes because he finds few others worth his time. Maybe he finds the whole sect not worth his time.

“FIND SENIOR MO! Find him, sisters! Spread out! We shall cover the north!”

“We shall cover the south!”

Disciples jump across the roofs, spreading all around the sect in search of the genius.

If he was to be somewhere, it would be—

He wouldn’t be at the sect, where it’s teeming with disciples. He would be out deep in the Grand Forest, where no one would disturb him. And if it’s the Grand Forest he would have to be…

—That cave.

That cave he so frequents. Back when we were still in the same sect residence, there were a set of places he hid away at. Among those, someplace isolated far from the sect, so in the Grand Forest. I can only guess that cave. Carved into the side of a mountain, deep and wide enough to house almost two dozen people and hidden from view.

It’s just a guess, but I feel strangely confident about it. I’ve known him since childhood, after all. But well, just knowing that isn’t going to do much good. How could a lowly disciple like me visit the star child of our sect?

I’m sure if I went, he would just throw me out.

“Find him! Find him!”

I start bandaging my worn knuckles as disciples continue to dart all around the sect. I think I’m done for today. I’ll head back and wait for all this noise to blow over.

“Find that glorious bastard, brothers!”

“Search for that beautiful man, sisters!”

“FIND HIM!”

At the volume they’re yelling at, I think they would just scare him off… As if.

I finish the final loop around my fingers, then pull both ends of the bandage to the back of my hand. Holding them there with my teeth, I twist one strand around the other and push it under, then repeat it the other way, finishing my knot.

As I do, an old, nostalgic tune pops up into my mind, and I can’t help but let it spill out.

“Twist it right, put it under, twist it left, pull it over.” I hum to myself, bringing back the old tune I made as a kid. A bit of my childhood unearthed.

Done with my right, I move on to my left, humming that same, nostalgic tune.

“Twist it right, put it under, twist it left, pull it over~” If there was someone around, I would definitely be flush with embarrassment, singing something childish like this. When was the last time I even sang this? While I can’t remember that, I do recall one more thing: Weishing used to like this.

Yeah… He used to sing it while fiddling with his hair, making tiny knots. He would sing it slightly off-key, and would always stutter around the ‘twist it left’ part. His hair would be a mess by the end of the day, sticking out in bits everywhere. And whenever he had his hair cut short, and it wasn’t as fun to mess with it anymore, he would do it to me. He would call me over, make me crouch down, and fiddle at my hair while humming…Heavens, how long ago was that? When he was five or six, I think?

I wonder if he still does that? His hair is very long now.

…

What am I talking about? A childish habit like that? From the great Mo Weishing? Far as anyone knows, he simply manifested into the world as an unparalleled genius. He didn’t have a childhood like normal people—he never had any embarrassing episodes, or failures of youth. He was always oh so perfect, more divine than human.

So perfect and talented that he’s already among the top martial artists of the continent. So amazing that the sect heralds every mark he’s left on the sect, displaying a training dummy like some sacred statue.

What’s the sect going to come to once he leaves, huh? What’s the plan after he leaves? What happens then? He’s already barely here in the sect. He’s already begun to rival the masters. He’s already among the top of the continent. It’s only a matter of time before he transcends to a new realm, his cultivation becoming too high to remain here.

He’s going to leave soon.

That’s probably why the masters put that training dummy for display. They’re making sure Weishing’s mark on the sect, his legend, isn’t forgotten. To remind everyone that such a transcendent genius was part of their sect.

They can tell he’s going to leave soon. Maybe not now, but definitely in the next few years.

He’s going to leave.

Probably forever.

He’s going to leave and cultivate into some transcendent existence, far from us. Before long, our lifespans will be a mere instant to him, and we’ll fade among his memories like the inconsequential beings we are in comparison.

Once your cultivation surpasses a certain point, the realm no longer accepts you. It forces you out, demanding you leave for the higher realms.

He’s going to leave one day. He’s never going to come back.

…Maybe he’s preparing to leave right now.

I look down at the bandages I just wrapped. I look at Weishing’s displayed training dummy, noticing that a layer of dust has started to build around the bottom. I look towards the empty courtyard, the bombast and people a few minutes ago nowhere to be seen. Dead silence, as the disciples have moved past this area to search further.

“…I should go visit him.”

I’ll bring him those sesame steamed buns he likes, and maybe a little present. As a celebration for winning the martial meet.

Maybe he’ll reject me at the door. Maybe he no longer likes sesame steamed buns. Maybe whatever little gift I get him will be useless, inconsequential junk to him. I even feel like that may be the case. He's the one who told me that he doesn't want to tell the sect we're related. He's the one who distanced himself from me. He's the one who made me write a different name in my sect registry. For all intents and purposes, we're strangers.

But we're not. Even after all that, I’ve known him since he was a baby. I’ve been with him his whole life, and he’s been there for most of mine.

And he’s going to leave.

For me to get to that cave, I need to get permissions first, then supplies and the gift. After that, taking the safest route, I think I’ll get there in about… Seven days. Part of me wonders if this even worth the effort, but after reminiscing for so long, I realize I should, no I must. I need to try, at least, before I no longer have the chance.

I need to visit him not as a fellow disciple, but as his big brother.

Seven days. Please don’t be gone before then, Weishing.