A gentle breeze swept through the quiet village, rustling the leaves of the old banyan tree that stood at its center. Beneath its shade, a boy sat cross-legged, his dark eyes reflecting the golden hues of the setting sun. His name was Arjun.
Unlike the other children who spent their days playing and running about, Arjun was different. He had a mind that never stopped questioning, a heart that never stopped dreaming. Even though he was only eight, he longed for something far beyond the simplicity of village life. He had heard whispers of mighty cultivators who could split mountains, of immortals who soared across the sky on swords, and of heroes whose names echoed through eternity.
He wanted to be like them.
But no matter how many times he asked, his father never spoke of such things.
His father, a man of quiet strength, was known to the villagers as a simple hunter. He provided for them, taught them survival skills, and lived in solitude at the edge of the village. He was respected but distant, a man who carried a sadness in his eyes that Arjun never understood. Whenever Arjun asked about his mother, his father's gaze would darken, and he would say nothing. That silence weighed on Arjun more than any answer ever could.
On the morning of his eighth birthday, Arjun woke up with one thought in mind—cultivation. It had been on his mind for months, ever since he had overheard an old storyteller speaking about the legendary warriors of the past. They were beings who defied the heavens, whose arrows could pierce the sun, whose swords could slice the wind itself.
And Arjun? He was just a boy in a forgotten village.
But not forever.
Determined, he rushed outside, finding his father sitting on the wooden porch, sharpening a hunting knife. The rhythmic sound of steel against stone filled the air, but Arjun was too excited to wait.
"Father," he called out.
His father looked up, his gaze calm yet unreadable. "What is it?"
Arjun took a deep breath. "I want to cultivate."
Silence.
His father's expression remained unchanged, but the sharpening of the knife stopped. For a moment, the only sound was the wind moving through the trees.
"No," his father said finally, before resuming his task as if the conversation had already ended.
Arjun frowned. "But why?"
His father didn't answer.
Arjun wasn't willing to give up so easily. He had imagined this conversation many times, but in his mind, his father had always smiled and agreed. Reality, it seemed, was much crueler.
"But I've read stories," Arjun insisted. "About immortals, about warriors who could fight the heavens. I want to be like them. I want to fly on a sword!"
His father sighed, setting the knife down. "Cultivation is not a game, Arjun. It is a path filled with pain, loss, and sacrifices beyond what you can imagine."
"I don't care," Arjun said, standing firm. "I want to be strong."
His father shook his head. "You are too young."
"Then when?" Arjun's voice rose, frustration creeping into his words.
His father exhaled slowly, his eyes softening for the first time. "The optimal age for cultivation is ten. Until then, your body and mind must be strengthened. If you are serious about this, then you must prepare."
Arjun's heart leaped with excitement. "Then you'll let me do it?"
His father hesitated, then nodded. "If you prove yourself worthy in the next two years."
The excitement in Arjun's heart quickly turned to dread when he realized what his father meant by 'preparation.'
The next morning, before the sun had even risen, his father woke him up and took him to the riverbank. The water was ice-cold, its surface shimmering under the moonlight. Without a word, his father gestured for him to enter.
"Why?" Arjun asked, shivering.
His father's expression was unreadable. "Strength begins with endurance."
Arjun hesitated but stepped in. The cold bit into his skin, making his breath hitch. He wanted to run out, but his father's gaze held him in place.
"Breathe," his father instructed.
Arjun tried, but every inhale felt like knives piercing his lungs. His body trembled, and he wanted to cry out, but he refused to show weakness.
Minutes passed. Then an hour.
By the time his father finally let him leave, his limbs were numb, his lips blue, but his determination had only grown stronger.
This was just the beginning.
The next trial was even stranger. His father handed him a bow—not a real one, but a heavy wooden training bow without a string.
"Hold this," his father said.
Arjun took it, expecting it to be easy, but the moment he lifted it, his arms shook from the weight.
His father nodded. "Hold it out. Do not let it drop."
Arjun gritted his teeth. How hard could it be? But as time passed, the wooden bow felt heavier and heavier. His arms burned, his shoulders ached, and sweat dripped down his forehead. He wanted to lower it, just for a second—but his father's piercing gaze stopped him.
"Again," his father said every time he faltered. "Again."
This became his new daily life.
Each morning, he bathed in the freezing river. Each afternoon, he carried the heavy bow. And at night, his father made him meditate, teaching him how to control his breath, how to feel the energy in the air even if he couldn't yet absorb it.
Two years.
That was the promise.
And Arjun never broke a promise.
One night, as Arjun lay on his mat, exhausted from the day's training, he glanced toward his father, who sat by the fire, lost in thought.
"Father," Arjun murmured.
His father looked up. "What is it?"
"Why won't you tell me about my mother?"
A long silence filled the room.
His father's gaze flickered to the flames, his expression unreadable. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he said, "Some truths must wait until the right time."
Arjun didn't understand.
But one day, he would.
On the night before his tenth birthday, Arjun stood atop the hill overlooking the village. The stars stretched endlessly above him, and for the first time, he felt something stir deep within his soul—a calling, a whisper from the universe itself.
Tomorrow, he would begin his path.
Tomorrow, he would step into a world far greater than he had ever imagined.
As the wind carried his whispered vow into the night, Arjun clenched his fists and made a promise—not just to himself, but to the heavens above.
One day, he would stand among the immortals.
One day, he would fly on a sword.
And one day, he would uncover the truth of who he really was.