On the morning I completed two years in the Low Mist, Master Li Yoon appeared carrying two wooden plaques.
Each had a single ideogram carved into it:
One said "Power."
The other, "Wisdom."
He planted both in the damp moss in front of me.
— If you had to choose one — he said — which of these calls to you more?
I looked at the plaques. Then at him.
— Neither.
Master Yoon raised an eyebrow.
— Then which would you choose?
— A third one. One that's not here yet.
— And what would this third one be called?
— Cunning.
— Cunning?
— Cunning is what's left when you're given neither power nor wisdom. It's what you use to survive when the world has already thrown you away.
The old man stared at me in silence.
A kettle whistled in the distance, as if time had started moving again.
Then he laughed. Softly, but genuinely.
— May the heavens have mercy on fools... because the cunning, it seems, no longer need blessings.
Without another word, he knelt down and wiped the ideograms from the plaques with the side of his finger — a slow, almost reverent gesture.
Then he handed me a third plaque. It was blank.
— Write your own path — he said. — We only keep the silence.
I held it with both hands. I didn't write anything. Not yet.
Master Yoon watched me for a while. Then he laughed again — louder this time, almost bursting into laughter.
— Heaven help us... they sent me the brightest failure I've ever seen.
He turned and walked into the mist, still laughing.
And for the first time since I'd arrived at that forgotten sect... I smiled back.