My Ball z

Snow lashes the mountain pass as Micky arrives, the narrow trail vanishing beneath white gusts. Along its center, a row of flat stones bears painted training stances.

An elderly man kneels beside the markers, lean and weather-bent beneath layered gray robes. His long white beard streams in the wind, and one cloudy eye studies Micky sharply.

He presses two fingers against the nearest marker, revealing a hair-thin balance that the storm could ruin. Beyond him, the trail climbs toward a closing wall of snow.

The old master rises slowly, staff planted in the ice. Wind moans between the cliffs, carrying loose powder across the first stone and swallowing the distant road.

Micky lowers his center and advances with practiced precision, placing each foot between the painted stones as the storm veils the trail in white.

A sudden gust twists across the pass. Micky shifts expertly, but his heel skims powder from one marker, exposing its icy edge without moving the stone.

The disturbed powder slides downhill, revealing a narrow shelf beside the markers. It climbs around the next bend, sheltered beneath the cliff, but ends at a dark ice seam.

Micky stands just beyond the first marker, the pass still ahead and his chosen line compromised. The sheltered shelf offers a different route, its footing hidden beneath frost.

Micky turns onto the sheltered shelf, placing each step where frost appears thinnest. The cliff muffles the storm, leaving only his breath and the scrape of careful soles.

Halfway around the bend, the hidden ice seam gives a sharp crack beneath him. His foot slips toward the drop, and he catches himself against the cliff before the shelf breaks away.

A strip of the route collapses into the whiteness below, cutting off the shelf behind him. Ahead, the dark seam spreads across the remaining ledge like a frozen ripple.

Micky's halted position reveals a shallow groove beside the cliff, concealed beneath frost. It leads upward to a narrow handhold route above the broken shelf.

Micky turns sideways, compressing his stance as he enters the frost-hidden groove. He keeps his weight close to the cliff and reaches for the first narrow handhold.

His fingers settle around the ice-cold edge. Rather than forcing himself upward, Micky lets each hold receive only the weight it can bear, moving in a quiet rhythm.

The groove carries him above the broken shelf. He draws one knee across, then slides his other foot onto solid rock beyond the dark seam, leaving the frost undisturbed.

Micky emerges onto the sheltered upper path. The route continues toward the mountain crest, while behind him the cracked shelf hangs silent over the white drop.