The morning fog returned to blanket the small valley with a cold that pierced the bones. But this time, Zahir was not busy lighting the hearth or tending to wounds. Today marked the beginning of something far heavier—the first trial on the long path of martial arts.
Grandpa Ali stood straight in front of the hut. His body still looked frail, but his eyes… sharp and unwavering as ever.
"Zahir," he called softly, yet firmly. "Starting today, you will undergo three trials. The first is endurance and physical fortitude. If you fail, you won't continue to the next ones."
Zahir swallowed hard. He didn't answer, only nodded and tightened his fists.
Grandpa Ali pointed toward the fog-covered hill rising behind the hut.
"Back then… the disciples of my sect climbed that hill carrying weights on their backs. But for you, we'll take it slowly."
He lifted two sacks filled with river stones. Heavy—unbearably heavy.
"Wear these."
Zahir hoisted the sacks onto his back. His body lurched downward instantly, breath hitching.
"Start from the bottom," said Grandpa Ali. "You only need to reach the first large boulder. If you fall before getting there—start again."
Without complaint, Zahir took his first step. The ground was damp, slippery, and steep. Fog obscured parts of the path, forcing him to tread carefully. The weight on his back felt like it was crushing his shoulders.
Every few meters, he stopped, knees trembling.
"Don't hold your breath," Grandpa Ali shouted from afar. "Remember, your breath is the root of every technique. If your breath is chaotic, your body will be too."
Grinding his teeth, Zahir steadied his breathing. In slowly… out slowly. Just like when he tried to feel the flow of the White Tiger.
Yet the burden remained inhuman. And he wasn't even halfway.
**
By midday, the sun broke through the fog. Zahir finally reached the giant boulder. He collapsed beside it, chest heaving, hands shaking. Sweat mixed with dirt streaked down his face.
Grandpa Ali followed slowly.
"Good. But you're not done."
Zahir lifted his head, still gasping. "There's… more?"
The old man nodded.
"Go down. Then repeat. Until dusk."
Zahir felt the world crumble around him. But he said nothing.
That day, he climbed and descended the hill nine times. On the fifth climb, his legs nearly went numb. On the seventh, he vomited. On the final climb, he had no memory of how he was still standing.
By nightfall, he lay on the ground like an empty sack.
Grandpa Ali sat beside him, placing a hand on Zahir's chest to feel his breathing.
"You will die if you only rely on muscle. Listen to the earth—feel how the ground supports you. Don't fight the weight… let it flow."
Zahir closed his eyes, listening to the valley: the whisper of wind, trickling water, his own heartbeat. Slowly, the weight didn't feel like it was crushing him. There was rhythm. There was flow.
The first night of the trial ended with his body battered and bruised. But in his eyes, something new had awakened—a small spark finally catching flame.
**
The following days were harsher. As if Grandpa Ali knew no mercy.
Zahir had to:
— Run around the valley with weights tied to his legs
— Hold horse stance for hours
— Strike a tree until his knuckles bled
— Stand beneath a small waterfall without letting his posture or breathing break
Each time his body nearly gave out, he remembered the White Tiger he had seen that night. Its eyes—sharp, fearless.
On day 10, he fainted mid-training.
On day 18, he woke with swollen limbs but forced himself to train again.
On day 25, his steps grew steadier, his breathing smoother, his balance unwavering.
And on day 30—the day his first trial would be judged—
**
That morning, a thin mist draped over the valley like silk. Zahir stood before Grandpa Ali, his once-skinny frame now toned, his eyes sharper.
"Endurance and Physical Fortitude," said Grandpa Ali, "is not about how strong your muscles are—but how strong your resolve is. Now, perform your final climb. Without the weights."
Zahir blinked. After a month of carrying stone sacks, his feet felt light—his back, weightless.
He began to climb.
For the first time, the hill felt different. His breathing was steady. His steps firm. The earth felt as if it lifted him instead of pulling him down.
In surprisingly little time, he reached the boulder.
Looking back, he saw Grandpa Ali below, smiling with pride.
"Congratulations, Zahir. Your first trial—passed."
Zahir closed his eyes, letting the morning wind brush his face. For the first time in his life, he felt he was no longer just a poor boy from the valley.
He had taken his first step toward the vast world of martial arts
.
And the next two trials—patience and perseverance, and understanding and wisdom—awaited him.