And whenever a young boy came to him, fists tight, asking which monster to fight, Kaito would smile and say:
“You’ll what?” His grandfather’s eyes, though clouded, held a sharpness that cut deeper than any blade. “Kill a god? A shounen thinks the world yields to his sword. An otona knows the world yields only to understanding.”
Kaito thought he understood. He had defeated the bandits at the mountain pass. He had bested the rival dojo’s prodigy. He was strong.
The Whispering Grove was not a place of monsters. It was a place of mirrors. The deeper he walked, the more he saw his own reflection in the gnarled bark, in the still pools of rainwater. He saw the boy he had been—proud, impatient, desperate for a fight. He saw the tantrums. The times he had mistaken violence for strength.
“What does the forest need?” he asked quietly.
And whenever a young boy came to him, fists tight, asking which monster to fight, Kaito would smile and say:
“You’ll what?” His grandfather’s eyes, though clouded, held a sharpness that cut deeper than any blade. “Kill a god? A shounen thinks the world yields to his sword. An otona knows the world yields only to understanding.”
Kaito thought he understood. He had defeated the bandits at the mountain pass. He had bested the rival dojo’s prodigy. He was strong.
The Whispering Grove was not a place of monsters. It was a place of mirrors. The deeper he walked, the more he saw his own reflection in the gnarled bark, in the still pools of rainwater. He saw the boy he had been—proud, impatient, desperate for a fight. He saw the tantrums. The times he had mistaken violence for strength.
“What does the forest need?” he asked quietly.