"I'm going to Mount Hua," the words hung heavy in the morning air, as unexpected as a sudden storm. It was him, the boy you'd known since the world was a blur of hunger and cold, the same kid who'd shared your meager scraps and dreams of a warmer day. But the boy you knew was gone, replaced by a stranger with a determined glint in his eyes. You were by the river, a thin, winding ribbon of silver cutting through the emerald expanse of the forest. The usual carefree spark in his eyes was extinguished, replaced by a solemn intensity that chilled me to the bone. It was as if an invisible hand had reached down and rearranged the familiar contours of his face, transforming the boy you knew into an enigma. Why Mount Hua? A question hung unspoken between us, a chasm as wide and deep as the river. The world, as I knew it, was a small circle drawn with the chalk of survival. Mount Hua was a a broken down sect and he never asked about this before, a peak lost in clouds, a place for training but not anymore. And here was my friend, my companion in dirt and despair, talking about it as casually as if it were the next village over.