She had once felt what it meant for something to seem impossibly far beyond reach.
The old woman turned over a memory from long ago.
She remembered the day she first took up a sword, how the chill of it had startled her so badly that her body flinched. She even remembered the faint current that had run down her spine.
If that was not fate, then what was?
She had run away from home at a young age.
It had been after hearing rumors brought by passing travelers. They said there was a mountain where sword fiends gathered to live.
In truth, it had been a journey beyond reckless—an impossible one.
Had it not been for a talent she herself had yet to discover, and a succession of fortunate coincidences.
That did not mean there had been no sacrifices.
By the time the girl reached the mountain, she had already learned the sword’s true purpose.
Killing.
She had regretted it sincerely.
It had been something done out of childish recklessness. Wasn’t that the age when, only after suffering through every manner of hardship, one finally realized anew that the adults had been right?
Even so, she could never forget the sight she had seen on the day she arrived at the mountain.
It was late at night.
Perhaps the practitioner guarding the mountain gate could not bear to leave a shivering little girl alone, because he took her by the hand and led her up the mountain.
Very high.
It was part of the initiation process.
To formally become a member of the mountain, one had to endure the climb from its foothills all the way to the summit.
Of course, it was not something that absolutely had to be done…