Somewhere far away, a beam of light descended from the heavens, brightening the forest for a moment. When the light faded, a boy of about seven years old could be seen sleeping on the ground.
He looked innocent and peaceful in his slumber. Suddenly, three bald men appeared beside him. One of them held a Seraphi Rod, another wore large, woven beads around his neck, and the last carried only a cane.
The monk with the beads examined the boy closely. “Where is he from?” he asked, looking puzzled.
“I don’t know,” replied the monk with the Seraphi Rod. “But we can’t leave him here. We have to take him back to the monastery. The Grandmaster will know what to do.”
They carefully lifted the boy, making sure not to wake him. The one with the beads wrapped a warm cloak around the child for protection.
As they began their journey back to the monastery, the forest seemed to hold its breath. The trees whispered softly, and the air was filled with an otherworldly calm.
The monks moved swiftly but gently, navigating through the dense forest. They were careful to avoid any obstacles that might disturb the boy’s rest.
The journey was long, but the monks remained calm.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, the ancient monastery came into view. Its tall spires and sprawling grounds were bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun.
They reached the Grandmaster’s chambers and gently placed the boy on a soft mat. The Grandmaster, an elderly man with wise eyes, looked at the boy with a mixture of curiosity and concern.
“We found him in the forest,” the monk with the Seraphi Rod explained. “He was surrounded by a beam of light. We thought it best to bring him here for your guidance.”
The Grandmaster nodded, his gaze never leaving the sleeping boy. “We shall see what fate has in store for him. For now, we will watch over him and learn more about his origins.”
The monks left the chamber quietly, leaving the Grandmaster alone with the boy. The ancient man sat in contemplation, the weight of responsibility heavy on his shoulders.
“Finally, he has arrived. Our peaceful days are over,” the monk said, his eyes fixed on the boy sleeping on the mat.
After a moment of silence, he stood up and left the room. He made his way to a different section of the monastery. There, in a room adorned with ancient scrolls and dimly lit by lanterns, five monks, each more aged than the last, were seated, sipping tea.
“The renegade has appeared, huh?” one of the monks asked, his voice laced with curiosity.
“Yes, Master,” the Grandmaster Monk replied with a nod.
“Ha, so the prophecy was right. The heavens are in for a wild one,” said one of the ancient-looking monks, a hint of amusement in his voice.
“Master, what are your instructions?” the Grandmaster Monk asked, his tone respectful and attentive.
“Nothing for now,” the Master said with a thoughtful expression. “He has experienced a traumatic event, but it has been addressed. He will awaken as a new person, at least temporarily. Prepare your fellow monks for what is to come. Their calm and patience will soon be tested like never before.”
The Grandmaster Monk bowed respectfully. “I will make sure they are ready.”
He left the room and returned to the large hall where all the monks of the monastery were gathered. He looked at their faces—well, the shiny bald heads might be a more accurate description. After scanning the room, he said only one thing:
“Let your inner heart guide you.”
With that, he dispersed everyone.
Two days later, the boy’s eyes fluttered open. He was greeted by a sharp, splitting headache. Before he could scream, a voice echoed in his mind:
“Tea?”
He turned to see a bald monk smiling at him, holding a cup of tea.
The boy, still disoriented, stared at the monk and asked, “Senior, what happened to your hair?”
The monk’s smile falted for a moment, but he simply replied, “You’ll find out soon enough. For now, have some tea. It will help you regain your strength.”
The boy hesitated but accepted the tea, sipping it cautiously. His head still throbbed, but the warmth of the tea was soothing. As he drank, he glanced around the room, trying to make sense of his surroundings.
As the boy tasted the tea, he said, “It tastes fruity.” He smiled up at the monk, clearly asking for more. The monk poured another cup, and the boy eagerly drank the entire teapot full of tea in less than ten minutes.
Once he had finished, he was dressed in a white robe and led to a different part of the monastery. The new area was a serene garden, filled with vibrant flowers and gentle butterflies. The moment the boy saw it, he couldn’t contain his excitement. He darted around the garden, trying to catch the butterflies with gleeful abandon.
“At least he looks happy,” said one of the monks who had found him in the forest, appearing beside the monk who had served the tea.
“I think so,” the other monk replied, watching the boy’s joyful antics.
“Do you know his name?” the first monk asked.
“No,” the second monk said with a shrug. “But he seems to like the word ‘fruity.’ Why don’t we call him that until he remembers his real name?”
The first monk nodded in agreement. “It’s a good idea. ‘Fruity’ it is, then.”
The boy continued to chase the butterflies, his laughter echoing through the garden. The monks watched him, feeling a mixture of relief and hope. Despite the boy’s mysterious arrival and the challenges ahead, his happiness at this moment was a small but welcome sign.
The name “Fruity” quickly spread throughout the monastery. Everyone found the boy intriguing and enjoyed playing with him. Over time, his presence became a beloved part of the monastery. Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. Years went by, and Fruity grew into a handsome young man with striking violet hair.
“Fruity, you are now sixteen. It’s time to start practicing the scriptures,” one of the monks said, using his rod to lift the now-grown Fruity up into the air.
“Nope. I don’t want to shave my beautiful hair like you guys,” Fruity protested, trying to wiggle away from the monk.
“You are a monk now. You must shave your hair,” the monk insisted.
“Tell me, Uncle, why do monks shave their hair?” Fruity asked.
“Well… I… You…” The monk stammered, unable to find the right words.
“You see, Uncle, you shaved your hair without really knowing why. I prefer to look my best when I meet the Ice Princess,” Fruity said with a playful grin.
“You brat…” The monk exclaimed in frustration.
“Uncle, language,” Fruity said with a teasing smile.
Meanwhile, on top of a nearby mountain, six monks stood overlooking the scene.
“This kid is a menace,” one of the ancient monks said, shaking his head.
“Master, do you think he’ll ever let anyone touch his hair? He seems to have a strong attachment to it,” the Grandmaster Monk observed.
The Master sighed. “He has his own way of doing things. Perhaps it’s better to let him be for now. The scriptures and training can wait until he’s ready.”
The Grandmaster Monk nodded in agreement. “Very well. Let’s hope he’ll come around in his own time.”
“What are you two thinking? He will never shave his hair. It’s better if we allow him to carve his own path,” one of the ancient monks said, watching Fruity hang off the rod of the monk.
“I think so too,” another ancient monk agreed, his face breaking into an amused smile. “At least he is wearing the monk’s robes. That’s a bonus, I guess.”
Just like that, Fruity was made into an official monk and will soon start practicing the teachings of the monk.