Well… I was there.

I ain’t one for tall tales or temple stories, but I saw it with my own two eyes—right out past the rice terraces where the bamboo grows thick, where the mountain wind howls like it’s got a score to settle.

They said the Tiger was comin’ down from the hills. A real brute. Golden eyes, jaws like a vice. Called himself king of beasts. He was fast, proud, and mean. Meaner than a snake in a wheelbarrow.

And the Ox? He wasn’t fast. He wasn’t flashy. Just stood there in the field, hooves sunk in the mud, eyes like stone. Carried the world on his back every day and never asked for applause.

But that Tiger wanted something. Wanted the respect the Ox had… the kind you can’t steal — only earn.

The sun was high. The villagers scattered. The earth trembled with every step the Tiger took. He roared loud enough to make the birds fall outta the trees.

The Ox didn’t flinch.

Tiger circled him, lips curled back. He lunged. Claws out. Fast as lightning.

But the Ox… he didn’t even bother with speed. Just lowered his head, turned his body, and took the hit like a stone wall. Then he shifted… slow, steady… and drove his horns right into the Tiger’s ribs.

The Tiger shrieked. Blood in his teeth. He went again, three more times, each time faster, slashing, biting.

The Ox? Never blinked. He bled, sure. But he stood taller.

Then came the finish.

Ox planted one hoof square in the center of that striped chest and drove the Tiger to the dirt. Hard. Final.

He didn’t gloat. He didn’t roar. He just stood over the broken beast, steam rising off his back, breath calm as a monk’s prayer.

I lit a smoke, spat in the dust, and said:

“That… is why strength without pride always wins.”

You don’t mess with a creature that suffers every day and shows up anyway.

That Tiger never came back. And the Ox?

Still out there. Still plowin’.

This tiger never actually showed up. It sent others to suffer its inevitable fate. 

The OX always shows up.