It was a beautiful day in April. The flowers were blooming, painting the fields with the vibrant colors of spring. Cyrus lay on a flower field, his wooden sword resting beside him. In just a month, he would be celebrating his eleventh birthday, but he didn't care much about it. He preferred to lose himself in the peace of the moment—gazing at the sky, watching the clouds drift lazily by. Being one with nature always brought him the greatest sense of tranquility.
Cyrus liked that no one was around to disturb him. At school, he was a solitary boy, keeping to himself. How could he befriend others when all they seemed to care about were shallow, superficial things? The last time he had tried to share his knowledge about spirits and shamanism, he was ridiculed. It didn't help that his family, known for their centuries-old tradition of shamanism, owned a mansion that made them the subject of rumors and mockery. While the Miravine family was renowned among historians, their reputation didn't bring them popularity—just misunderstanding.
The bullying Cyrus endured only deepened his sense of isolation. How could he relate to others when he could see spirits, and they couldn't? This was why he rarely spoke to anyone outside his family. They were the only ones who understood him.
It was also probably why he had decided to skip school that day—just like he always did.
He sighed, then sat up and continued to gaze at the sky with lazy eyes as he heard a noise behind him.
"Cyrus, you damn brat! How many times do I have to tell you to stop skipping school?"
An old, short man came running toward him at full speed. He veered to the side of the road, then stepped into the flower field. With a swift motion, he swung a wooden staff at Cyrus' head, but Cyrus, still seated on the ground, effortlessly dodged.
The old man, now catching his breath, muttered, "You damn brat!"
He continued swinging his staff left and right, but Cyrus easily dodged every strike without so much as blinking. As the old man paused to catch his breath, he said in a fatigued voice, "You're fast, I'll give you that, brat…"
Cyrus got up, picked up his wooden sword from the ground, and placed it casually over his shoulder. He sighed and said, "What do you think you're doing, Grandpa Sol?"
The old man pointed his staff at Cyrus' nose and replied, "What am I doing? What are you doing? It's been at least a year since you became a shaman, and you're still so irresponsible. How do you expect to go to high school if you can't even pass middle school?"
Cyrus lingered for a moment, then spoke in a nonchalant tone.
"Our family is extremely wealthy, so I don't have to worry about money. In fact, when you die, pass me your inheritance."
The response made Grandpa Sol tremble with anger. He swung his wooden staff again, his voice seething, "You goddamn brat!"
Cyrus effortlessly parried the strike with his wooden sword, which caused Grandpa Sol's eyes to widen in surprise.
"Tsk… still carrying that wooden sword around, huh? I don't know why your mother thought you were worthy enough to wield such a sacred relic of our family when you're still just a brat!"
The two were in a stalemate, each locked in a clash of their respective weapons. But it was clear that Cyrus was so strong, he could afford to hold back against his grandfather. With the same indifferent tone, he said, "Relic? It's just a musty old wooden sword."
Grandpa Sol screamed in rage, stumbling back before charging at full speed toward him.
"Skipping school is one thing, but disrespecting a divine relic that has been in our family for hundreds of years is something I can't allow!"
He swung his staff, but Cyrus quickly dodged by lowering himself. In the blink of an eye, he disappeared from Grandpa Sol's sight, moving so fast he appeared as little more than a blur. Suddenly, he was behind him. Cyrus tightened his grip on his sword and said, "Even you are starting to annoy me, Grandpa."
With that, he swung his wooden sword behind his grandfather, stopping just a couple of meters from hitting him. A rush of air blew against Grandpa Sol's face, causing him to tremble as the sword hovered inches away from striking him.
Cyrus sighed, placing the wooden sword over his shoulder as he turned and said, "I'll be back for dinner."
With that, he walked out of the flower field, heading toward the side of the road, disappearing toward an unknown destination.
***
It didn't take him long, but soon he was sitting on the side of a mountain. This mountain was famous and iconic in the city because it offered a view of the entire cityscape. The sight would have been beautiful to anyone else, but for Cyrus, it felt more sad than anything. He sat on a part of the mountain that was off-limits to the public, having veered off the designated path. He didn't care, though—his wooden sword rested on the ground beside him. The crisp mountain air carried the scent of damp earth and pine, but it did little to ease the weight in his chest.
He sighed, his breath barely visible in the cool air, and muttered to himself, "When will they learn...?"
Then, he heard the sound of someone walking behind him. The crunch of footsteps on gravel was unmistakable. He closed his eyes, already knowing who it was.
"You know, you really need to stop following me everywhere, Grandpa Sol."
Without warning, the old man smacked Cyrus on the head. It wasn't a hard hit, but it carried the weight of familiarity, a gesture meant more for scolding than pain.
"It's normal for a grandpa to worry about his grandchildren, moron!"
Cyrus didn't flinch, nor did he bother rubbing his head. Instead, he merely let out a slow exhale as Grandpa Sol lowered himself to sit beside him on the mountainside.
The two sat in silence for a moment, gazing at the vast expanse of the city below. The sun was beginning to set, dyeing the skyline in hues of orange and purple. The buildings cast long shadows, stretching like fingers toward the mountains.
Grandpa Sol broke the silence with a sigh, his voice softer this time. "Why don't you want to go to school?"
Cyrus, still gazing at the city below, responded in a relaxed tone, "All of it is pointless anyway. I can teach myself at home... but I just hate being around ignorant people."
Grandpa Sol let out a small chuckle, shaking his head. The wrinkles on his face deepened slightly as he smiled.
"'Ignorant people,' huh? You think you can judge others just because they don't have the same gifts as us, Cyrus?"
The wind picked up slightly, making the leaves on nearby trees rustle. Cyrus's brown hair shifted with the breeze as he continued, his voice distant yet firm.
"It's not just that they can't see spirits, Grandpa Sol… It's that no matter where I look, humans will always be ignorant. They're like an uncontrollable wildfire…"
He ran a hand through his hair, his fingers briefly clenching before relaxing. His sharp eyes fixated on the city, as if trying to see through its very foundation.
"They exploit and burn everything to the ground. It doesn't matter if it's animals, resources, or land—they'll take everything until only ash remains..."
As he spoke, the distant hum of the city could still be heard—a constant reminder of its restless, unrelenting nature. Cars moved like glowing veins through the streets, their lights flickering like artificial stars.
Grandpa Sol listened patiently, his expression unreadable. His old, calloused hands rested on his lap, fingers slightly curled as if holding onto a past that Cyrus could not yet understand.
When Cyrus finally finished his tirade, the old man let out a deep sigh, his breath slow and measured. His eyes, clouded with years of experience, traced the cityscape with a quiet melancholy.
"So that's what it's about, huh? But that doesn't explain why you're not going to school, Cyrus."
Cyrus closed his eyes for a moment, inhaling through his nose before exhaling slowly.
"It's the same thing, Grandpa. They're all ignorant. It doesn't matter where you go..."
He opened his eyes again, his gaze more intense now, as if he could see the weight of the world pressing down on the skyline. The sun had dipped lower, casting everything in deeper hues of red and gold, like the last embers of a fire burning out.
Grandpa Sol remained silent for a long while, letting the words settle between them. The distant cry of a bird echoed through the mountains.
Then, he chuckled—a soft, almost amused sound. He raised both his left and right hands, studying them as if searching for something long forgotten.
"Humans... they're an interesting bunch," he said, his voice filled with both weariness and wisdom. "In the country to the left, children can starve to death, even though in the country to the right, they can produce and receive hundreds of millions of tons of food…"
As he spoke, a flock of birds soared overhead, their silhouettes dark against the vibrant sky. They moved as one, their flight effortless, unburdened by the problems of the world below.
Cyrus listened, his hands resting on his knees. His fingers absentmindedly traced the fabric of his pants, as if grounding himself.
Then, Grandpa Sol placed a hand over his own chest. His voice, though still calm, carried an undeniable weight.
"That's what the burden and pride of a shaman are all about."
Cyrus blinked, then let out a slow sigh, shifting his gaze to his wooden sword resting beside him. The worn wood, marked with faint scratches, held memories he could never let go of.
"Mom also said that when she gave me the sword..."
Grandpa Sol nodded, a knowing look in his eyes.
"We carry a heavy burden as shamans, but we also have a pride that's worth trying for. We're capable of great sin, but we're also capable of great virtue. That burden and pride are what have kept me going as a shaman in a world where shamans are considered a thing of the past."
He stood up, his joints cracking slightly from age. Dusting off his robes, he cast one last look at the cityscape before patting Cyrus on the head. His touch was lighter this time—not scolding, but something closer to reassurance.
"Cyrus, you only focus on the burden of being a shaman, but... also believe in the pride. Believe, and be proud of the pride that we shamans carry on our shoulders every day."
With that, he turned and began walking back toward the designated path. His footsteps grew quieter and quieter until he was no longer seen or heard.
Cyrus remained sitting on the mountainside, staring at his hands. The wind had calmed, and the sky had darkened into the first shades of twilight.
"Believing in the pride…" he muttered under his breath, as the last rays of sunlight faded beyond the horizon.
Chapter Forty-Three End
{after chapter poem}
The world is turning too fast for me, "who knows" to follow,
As the white moon and radiant sun descend and rise to the boundless heavens above us,
Tiny, destructive, ignorant ants in search of true happiness,
I only realize one thing: that I am powerless.
If the wheel keeps us trapped in our ignorance and suffering, then there is nothing we can do.
If it's possible... if it's possible,
I wish for an unstoppable blade, firing an unstoppable slash,
That will not only sever the wheel but also the ignorance and the wickedness within our own hearts.
An unstoppable slash that severs the wheel,
That stops us from reaching true understanding and true happiness.