Gióng pokes his bare toes in the cold paddy mud. The water seeps slow between his fingers. The bamboo grove sways soft. Everything is quiet before the noise comes.
Thump. Thump. Thump. The ground shakes hard under his ankles. Black shields crest the mountain pass, rolling down the slope like a slow dark tide. The mud ripples around his bare feet.
His small mouth cracks open wide. 'I'll go,' he says, and the words are already moving down the path. The bamboo grove shivers all at once.
Gióng stands tall. He stretches — arms up, spine long, toes curling in the wet earth. Again. And again. Three stretches, and his head pokes clean through the low clouds.
An iron stallion gallops out of the mist, steam curling thick white from its nostrils. The saddle tick-ticks against Gióng's legs. He pats its broad neck. 'Let's ride.'
Iron hooves clang down the stone path. The bamboo grove parts under the stallion's stride. Gióng's iron lance swings forward. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. The shields scatter like spilled rice.
The stallion stamps hard. Fire spits from its iron hooves. Gióng grins wide, showing a gap where a tooth should be. The last black shield topples over.
Gióng settles deep in the saddle. The stallion's hooves lift from the earth. Up. Up. Up. The whole village shrinks to a small smudge of green below.
He tips his small hat once. The wind tugs his long sash. Far below, his mother bends and picks up the bamboo basket she dropped.
The iron glow hovers above the mountain pass. It stays. Gióng pokes his toes through the clouds and watches the rice paddies shimmer, safe. The bamboo sways. Creak. Creak.
