John hoisted his backpack onto his shoulders, the weight settling comfortably against his back. The mountain’s imposing silhouette stretched before him, casting a long, formidable shadow that swallowed the path ahead. A gathering of crows watched his departure from the nearby branches, their raucous caws echoing through the still morning air, a sound that seemed to resonate deep within his chest. It was a strange, almost unsettling sensation, yet strangely reassuring at the same time, how they seemed to be following him. One crow, larger than the rest, scouted ahead, flying low over the trail, while the others kept a watchful distance, flanking him like a silent, feathered escort. As he trekked along the path, his thoughts drifted back to the previous night’s lightning strike—a sharp, aberrant flash that had seemed less like a natural phenomenon and more like a stream of digital code cascading from the heavens. His mind then shifted to the Tai Chi sequences he had been practicing, the fluid movements now becoming ingrained in his muscle memory. He visualized himself performing the forms, each posture flowing seamlessly into the next, a silent dance in his mind, as he considered the perfect names to capture their essence.

  “Perhaps ‘The Front Cast’ would be a fitting name for the first movement,” John mused aloud, the words feeling right in his mouth. “And then, naturally, ‘The Back Cast’ could follow, with ‘The Side Cast’ as a third variation.” He paused, considering the next technique, the mental image of the movement clear in his mind. “Setting the Hook” sprang to mind, but it felt too abrupt, too aggressive for the fluid grace he was trying to capture. He wanted something that evoked a sense of continuous motion, something like “The World Turn” or “The Endless Loop,” names that hinted at the cyclical nature of both Tai Chi and the river’s flow. Turning to Max, he shared his thoughts. “Max, I’m trying to come up with names for these Tai Chi-inspired fly-fishing sequences. What do you think?” “Considering the emphasis on circularity and flow,” Max responded, her voice calm and measured, “perhaps a name that reflects the continuous, interconnected nature of Tai Chi, such as ‘The Gathering’ or ‘The Return,’ would be more appropriate?”

  John considered Max’s suggestion, the idea of capturing the rhythmic essence of the movements resonating with him. He closed his eyes for a moment, visualizing the river’s flow, the water swirling and eddying around the moss-covered rocks. He imagined the different casting techniques, some designed to harmonize with the current, others to counter its force. “Casting with or against the current,” he murmured aloud, the words forming in his mind. “Perhaps ‘Into the Current’ for a more offensive stance, a forceful projection of energy, and ‘Against the Current’ for a defensive maneuver, a subtle redirection of force?” A surge of excitement coursed through him as he envisioned the possibilities, the potential for a truly unique and effective style. But his train of thought was abruptly shattered by a harsh, insistent caw. John’s eyes snapped open. A crow, perched on a nearby branch, was flapping its wings erratically, its feathers ruffled and its dark eyes wide with what looked like genuine panic.

  The trail split, one path leading deeper into the dense undergrowth of the forest, the other winding upwards, towards a different face of the mountain. A single crow perched atop a moss-covered stone near the fork, its harsh caws directed towards the ascending path, as if urging John to choose that direction. Trusting this strange, avian guide, John began his ascent. As he climbed higher, a growing sense of disorientation settled over him. The familiar scent of pine, which had permeated the air all morning, began to fade, replaced by a sweeter, almost grassy aroma. Then, he saw it: the towering pines, which had lined the trail until now, had abruptly given way to dense thickets of bamboo. The smooth, green stalks swayed gently in the breeze, their rustling leaves creating a soft, whispering sound that was utterly out of place in this northern landscape. “Max,” John called out, his voice laced with confusion and a growing sense of unease, “is it normal for bamboo to grow in this kind of environment? This far north?” Max consulted its extensive database. “That’s…highly unusual, John,” she responded, a distinct note of surprise in her voice. “There are absolutely no records of naturally occurring bamboo in this region.”

  John stopped, his eyes scanning the strange landscape. The trail disappeared into the dense bamboo thicket, the stalks towering overhead like green skyscrapers, their rustling leaves creating a hushed, whispering sound. A powerful wave of déjà vu washed over him, a sense of having been here before, though he knew that was impossible. The feeling was both unsettling and strangely thrilling, a mix of fear and fascination. He felt as if he were trespassing into some forbidden realm, a place beyond the boundaries of his known world, yet an undeniable force pulled him forward, inviting him to become part of a larger, unknown story. Everything about this place—the scent of damp earth and green bamboo, the soft light filtering through the dense canopy, the almost unnatural stillness of the air—tugged at a distant memory, a persistent whisper just beyond the reach of his conscious mind. It was a feeling of immense significance, as if he stood on the precipice of a profound revelation. He moved forward, the path opening into a small, tranquil clearing. At its center lay a still pond, its surface mirroring the sky above like a sheet of polished glass, framed by a vibrant tapestry of lush green vegetation. But it wasn’t the peaceful pond that captured his attention; it was the vast expanse of clover that carpeted the clearing around it. And within that sea of green, one clover stood out, its four leaves a distinct and undeniable beacon.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  The crow that had been following him landed on a mossy rock by the pond’s edge, its dark eyes fixed intently on the four-leaf clover. It cawed again, the sound sharper this time, laced with a distinct impatience. John felt an almost magnetic pull towards the clover, as if it were calling to him, demanding his attention. Compelled by this unseen force, he stooped down and gently plucked the clover from the soft earth. The instant his fingers brushed against the delicate leaves, a powerful surge of energy coursed through him, a jolt that made his heart pound in his chest. It felt like a missing piece suddenly snapping into place, awakening something deep within him, something that had been dormant for a long time. A cascade of visions flooded his mind—the jagged bolt of lightning against the night sky, the watchful eyes of the crows in the trees, the rustling bamboo stalks towering overhead—all weaving together into a complex, enigmatic tapestry, a story he was only just beginning to understand.

  “The Nano line,” he murmured, a sudden wave of understanding washing over him, like a long-forgotten memory surfacing from the depths of his mind. The crow on the rock cocked its head, its dark eyes gleaming with an almost knowing intelligence, as if acknowledging his realization. Then, with a powerful thrust of its wings, it launched itself into the dense foliage, disappearing from sight. John turned sharply, his gaze following the crow’s flight, a sudden urgency propelling him forward. The crow’s insistent caws, now echoing from within the thicket, urged him to quicken his pace, to follow without hesitation. He felt a powerful conviction that he was on the verge of unraveling a profound mystery, a hidden truth that had been waiting to be discovered. He was determined to pursue it to its conclusion, no matter where it led. The other crows, his silent, feathered escorts, wheeled around in the sky, their dark silhouettes circling above him as he entered the thicket.

  As the path through the bamboo thicket widened, the trees thinning to reveal a breathtaking vista, the landscape opened up before John. The mountain, no longer a distant shadow on the horizon, now towered majestically before him, its rocky peaks reaching towards the sky. But it wasn’t the sheer scale of the mountain that captured his attention; it was something etched onto its flank, a colossal emblem that radiated an aura of ancient power and deep mysticism. In a moment of perfect synchronicity, the lead crow, which had guided him this far, let out a triumphant caw, a sound that echoed through the clearing, and then vanished into the dense foliage. Drawn by an invisible force, John’s pulse quickened, his breath catching in his throat. The emblem was extraordinary, a complex labyrinth of intricate lines and swirling patterns that seemed to glow with a soft, internal luminescence, as if lit from within. As his fingers traced the cool, smooth surface of the etching, a powerful wave of recognition washed over him, identical to the sensation he had experienced when he first touched the crow feather—a feeling of connection, of understanding, of something long dormant finally awakening within him.

  As John’s fingers traced the cool lines of the symbol, a profound sense of connection washed over him, as if the ancient etching was not just on the mountain, but woven into the very fabric of his being. Then, a sudden clarity pierced his confusion: the design wasn’t mere decoration; it was a language, a script that he, inexplicably, understood. His thoughts raced, the pieces of the puzzle clicking into place. The symbol, the gathering crows, the strange lightning strike—they were all interconnected, elements of a complex riddle that he was finally beginning to solve. He felt with absolute certainty that the answer to his quest, to whatever strange journey he had embarked upon, lay within this archaic engraving. Tracing the symbol’s contours once more, he realized it wasn’t just a cipher; it was binary code, a question posed in the language of the ancients. The strokes and arcs, the ones and zeros of this primeval script, spelled out a chilling phrase: “Are you the fly or the fish?” John stood before the mountain, his voice ringing out with newfound conviction and power. “NEITHER—I AM THE FISHERMAN!” As his declaration echoed through the clearing, a blinding radiance erupted from the symbol, a wave of pure energy that engulfed him completely. The air crackled with power, the ground trembled beneath his feet, and then, as suddenly as it had begun, the light vanished. Where John had stood only moments before, there remained nothing but a single, black crow feather, resting gently on the earth.