To Brant, every riddle in this world had an answer. It was simply a matter of time. Like water gnawing at ston…
To Brant, every riddle in this world had an answer. It was simply a matter of time.
Like water gnawing at stone, drop by drop, year after year, until a hole is finally pierced through. So it was for the Mohist quest for the heavens.
If a century yields no hope, then count by the millennium. Only then can a glimmer of hope be found.
With this realization, Brant had been in the outer sect just over a year.
It felt like a path already paved. In a single glance, he could see the man he would become decades from now.
Studying the intricate flying eagle mechanisms was undeniably fascinating. Yet the deeper he studied, the more those hundred years felt like a single, fleeting breath.
He'd write a few treatises and craft some new mechanisms. Eventually, he'd earn a name and take on a few disciples who might one day walk the path he had envisioned.
He often spoke of dripping water piercing stone, and the humble dew enriching the soil. The logic was sound, yet he felt a lack of... fire.
He could see the future, yet he didn't know how to hold on long enough to reach it.
Must every falling drop carry the exact same glint of hope?
Suddenly, it hit him: the riddles of this world need not have one single solution.
Though many strive toward the same destination, the paths they take are theirs alone to choose.
As the ancients said, "Read thousands of books and travel thousands of miles." He had read enough books. Now the journey lay before him.
Time to take the first step forward.