The last night in his old apartment was an echo of unspoken goodbyes. An intimate ritual that resonated in every corner of the house he had rebuilt with his own hands. During the day, Zhen had followed his usual routine: university classes, then the dojo, where his master, with his penetrating gaze and contained wisdom, barely nodded as he saw him leave early. No words were exchanged between them; none were needed. Their relationship was woven with threads of respect and mutual understanding that transcended language.

  As he crossed the city towards Chin Yueng Park, where his refuge stood, Zhen felt how the humid autumn air permeated his skin. He climbed up the steep path that crossed through the subtropical vegetation. The song of cicadas rose like an eternal chorus. Leaves crunched beneath his steps. Every stone along the way, every curve, were old acquaintances. This path had witnessed his efforts: carrying cement bags to repair the roof, discarded furniture he had given new life to, and provisions he carried up three times a week.

  That house had been a home in the most intimate sense of the word. Not just a place to dwell, but a space where he learned who he truly was. Upon arriving, Zhen stopped beside the rusted entrance door, a barrier that led to his small terrace. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. The scent of damp earth, mixed with the distant fragrance of night flowers, filled his lungs. The forest was his temple, and he its devotee.

  Among his carefully stacked books, the manga volumes held a special place: “Monster,” with its intricate plot about ethics and redemption; “Vagabond,” which explored the warrior’s path that resonated so deeply with his Tai Chi practice; and “Vinland Saga,” whose reflections on violence and peace had left a profound mark on his personal philosophy. Beside them rested the works that had shaped his literary sensibility: Victor Hugo’s tragic romanticism and Bécquer’s melancholic verses. But it was García Márquez’s magical pages that had revealed to him a world where the extraordinary was part of the ordinary, captivating him so much that he decided to learn Spanish.

  His teacher, a passionate Latin American woman who had arrived in the city following her own dreams, not only taught him the language but also introduced him to two distinct yet equally captivating musical worlds: Romantic ballads, with their slow and enveloping melodies, elaborate arrangements, sophisticated harmonies, and poetic lyrics, along with more sensual and upbeat rhythms that invited dancing, became the perfect soundtrack for his nights of reading and reflection, while the livelier rhythms, fusing tropical percussions and melodies, reminded him of Tai Chi’s fluid forms, where each movement naturally flows into the next.

  He packed his belongings meticulously: the five ancient kung fu tomes, each dedicated to a different animal form, and a valuable book of herbalism and traditional Chinese medicine. His master had entrusted him with these ancestral texts after recognizing him as his successor, along with the teaching of a special Tai Chi that had to be practiced in absolute solitude, far from civilization. It was an art that had been passed down in secret for generations, and that Zhen practiced in the depths of forests and mountains, where natural energy flowed without the interference of the modern world.

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  His martial arts uniforms were carefully folded. He prepared his mountain backpack, adding the essential equipment for his training retreats: a Swiss Army knife, his foldable solar panel, a camping knife, and climbing gear. The advanced lithium battery, the size of a brick, was secured at the bottom of the backpack along with his mobile phone. The chain saw for felling trees, the electric camping lamp, and additional iron stakes found their place among his belongings.

  With special care, he stored Idoha, the DT-X7 Prototype, a tactical reconnaissance drone his father had given him before his last journey. The sophisticated device, no larger than a pocket book, had been his most valuable companion during his solitary expeditions, providing eyes in the sky when exploring unknown territories.

  Finally, he secured his sleeping bag. Each object represented not only his connection with nature but the necessary tools to practice his ancestral art in the most remote and pure places, with Idoha symbolizing the perfect bridge between tradition and modern technology.

  While carefully arranging his belongings in the backpack, his mind wandered to a memory that, despite the years, remained intact, like a wound that never fully healed.

  It was during an interschool tournament, in his last year of high school, when he saw her for the first time. She, with her impeccable uniform and hair tied in a high ponytail, looked like a figure sculpted by the gods.

  There was a feline grace in her movements, a contained power that only unleashed on the tatami.

  Their eyes met for an instant. In them, Zhen saw reflected a strength that both intimidated and attracted him. He didn’t know what to say, but his body reacted instinctively: his back straightened, his hands sought a gesture of courtesy. She smiled, just a fleeting flash that left an unspoken promise in the air.

  During the months that followed, their encounters were filled with silences charged with meaning. Zhen talked about martial arts because it was all he knew, and she listened with a mixture of interest and tenderness. But they never crossed the threshold that separates camaraderie from something deeper. He, in his shyness and pride, said that true love didn’t need chocolates or elaborate dates; if she was the one, everything would happen naturally.

  Nothing happened. One day, she hugged him with a force that spoke of everything they had left unsaid. Her lips brushed Zhen’s in a brief but eternal kiss, and then, with tears in her eyes, she said:

  “I love you.” And she left.

  Zhen learned later that her family was moving abroad. That farewell, which should have been an ending, became an anchor, a memory that returned every time he looked at the moon or heard a Spanish ballad, like the one now resonating in his refuge: “Ciertas cosas” by Andrés Cepeda.

  As the song filled the space with its melancholic rhythm, Zhen allowed his voice to join it. The memory of that adolescent love blended with the melancholy of the present: his lonely heart, his empty nights, the yearning for a caress that went beyond a simple touch. When would he feel again that warmth that only another human being can provide? Would there exist someone capable of understanding his inner world, his silences, his particular way of loving?

  His master’s words echoed in his mind like an ancestral echo: “Life is like a river, always flowing towards its destiny.”

  At that precise moment, as if those words had been the key to a mystical portal, an overwhelming force pierced through his chest. The air around him began to vibrate, while the shadows in the room seemed to take on a life of their own. The moonlight intensified, bathing everything in a supernatural glow that penetrated through the treetops.

  He took off his jacket and carefully wrapped the backpack with it, as if trying to protect the treasures it contained. The song kept playing, each note resonating with an almost painful intensity in his chest. The cicadas’ song abruptly stopped, as if nature itself held its breath.

  The force within him grew until it became unbearable. He closed his eyes and hugged the backpack wrapped in his jacket against his chest.

  A flash of silver light flooded the room, and in that instant, his figure began to fade away, as if every particle of his being responded to the call of a distant voice.

  And so, on that October night of 2031 in Hong Kong, Zhen ceased to exist in his world to be reborn in another where, unknowingly, a young mage waited before a gothic window, under the same moon that now claimed him.