In the West, people still speak of Icarus—the boy who rose on wings of wax and flew too close to the sun. His fall became a warning against pride.
But far away, in the time before recorded memory, there lived another being who also ran toward the sun—not from arrogance, but from awe. His name was Kua Fu.
He was a giant born of the Great Wilderness, taller than mountains, his shadow stretching across plains that had no end. His people feared the burning heat of the sun; they hid when it rose and thanked the dusk when it left. But Kua Fu was not like the others. He looked at the sun and felt not fear, but longing—an urge to reach it, to understand the fire that ruled the sky.
One dawn, as the horizon glowed red, Kua Fu lifted his staff and began to run. Each stride carried him across valleys and rivers; each heartbeat echoed through forests that had never known a wind so strong. The earth shook beneath his feet, and even the birds stopped their songs to watch.
At first, the chase was exhilarating. The sunlight danced across his shoulders, and he laughed, believing that if he only ran fast enough, he might touch it. But as the day deepened, the heat grew fierce. The ground cracked open under his feet, and the air shimmered. His skin dried, his throat burned. Still, he refused to stop.
He found the Yellow River, and bent down to drink. The water vanished in an instant. Then he sought the Wei River, but even that vast current could not quench his thirst. The more he drank, the thirstier he became—until he understood that his desire was greater than what the world could offer.
Yet he kept running. The sun sank toward the horizon, glowing like a distant ember, and Kua Fu's body began to fail. His legs trembled; his breath turned to ash. Still he followed the light, dragging himself forward even when the land blurred and the sky swayed above him.
At last, he fell. The sun slipped beyond the mountains, and darkness rose to meet him. As he lay dying, Kuafu did not curse the sun. Instead, he smiled. His hand found the earth, and he whispered a final wish—that a forest of peach trees might grow where he had fallen, so that travelers who came after him would have fruit to eat and shade to rest beneath.
When the next morning came, the first rays of light touched a valley filled with young peach trees. Their blossoms glowed faintly pink, like a reflection of the dawn that Kua Fu had once chased. The wind through their branches sounded almost like footsteps—a giant still running, somewhere beyond the edge of the world.
They say the sun was never caught. But perhaps that was never the point. Some pursuits are not meant to end in victory,but in the beauty of the striving itself.