Redwood Forest, Outer Reach.
The forest pressed in today.
Mist hung in heavy drapes between the trees, thick enough to soften outlines and blur shadows. Everything sounded distant—muffled. A cracked branch, a birdcall, the drip of water from pine needles—all stretched out, suspended, like the world was waiting for something to happen.
Ramon crouched low beside a sunken hoofprint. The mud was dark and wet around the edges, churned by weight. Too wide for a wild pig. The forest floor around it was shredded with grooves—torn roots, crushed moss, a trail broken through low shrubs.
Whatever made this, it was big. Heavy.
He exhaled through his nose and stood, brushing dirt from his fingers. His crude spear rested against his shoulder. It had seen too many days. The shaft had warped from damp air. The iron tip—pounded flat from broken tools—was dulled at the edges, not quite straight.
It wasn't much. But it was his.
He moved quietly through the underbrush, boots soft against old mulch. The Redwood Forest wasn't loud to begin with, but now it was hushed. As if even the trees were listening.
The Earth-born part of him had imagined moments like this: a lone hunter in a vast wilderness, tracking something dangerous. Back then it was thrilling.
Now, he could feel the sweat at the base of his neck. Cold. It clung to him like a second skin.
He wasn't afraid. Not exactly. But his body hadn't gotten the message.
A low, wet grunt snapped him out of his thoughts.
He stilled.
Just ahead, past a veil of mist—movement. Branches shifted, moss dragged, bark scraped. Then it came into view.
A boar, but monstrous. Its shoulders rose nearly to his chest. Thick, uneven plates of stone grew from its back like scales, cracked and jagged. Its tusks curved high and wide, chipped at the ends and stained dark. One eye was crusted over with old scarring. The other glowed faintly—clouded, milky, unnatural.
It scraped its tusks along the bark of a half-fallen tree, grinding it into pulp with lazy, powerful bites.
A low-tier spirit beast.
Weak, by sect standards. Comparable to early-stage cultivators.
But this one wasn't fresh. It had scars. Its breath came deep and slow. It had lived.
Ramon adjusted his grip on the spear. The wood felt slick. Unbalanced.
He took one slow step forward—then another.
Then he stopped.
"What's the point," he muttered, "if I never push?"
He shifted his foot deliberately. A stick snapped.
The sound split the forest clean.
The boar lifted its head. Its good eye locked on him. The breath stopped in Ramon's chest.
Then—
It charged.
The ground shuddered under its weight.
Ramon braced and sidestepped, driving the spear forward. The tip struck the boar's shoulder—and bounced off. The impact rattled his arms. A burst of splinters stabbed into his palm.
The beast roared past, its tusks digging a trench into the dirt.
Pain bloomed across his ribs—a graze, nothing more, but it stole the air from his lungs.
He staggered back, jaw clenched. He couldn't take a full hit. Not even one.
The boar turned again, snorting steam.
Second charge.
He waited.
Closer.
Closer—
Now.
He twisted to the side, slammed his shoulder into the beast's flank, and shoved with everything he had. It stumbled—off-balance.
He drove the spear into the muscle above its front leg.
This time, the tip sank.
Halfway.
The boar shrieked—a jagged, guttural scream. It reared and thrashed. Ramon lost his grip.
Then—
Impact.
His body hit the tree hard. He bounced off and crumpled into the dirt.
Everything rang.
He rolled onto his side, breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Blood trickled into his eye from a cut near his temple. His shoulder throbbed. His ribs pulled tight with every breath.
He lay there for a moment. Listening.
The beast was stomping, snorting—wounded. But not dead.
Ramon crawled toward a broken branch. Jagged edge. Thick enough to hold.
He stood slowly, eyes locked on the clearing.
The boar was dazed, lumbering in circles. The spear still jutted from its side like a snapped arrow.
Ramon moved through the mist, circling.
Not rushing.
A breath. A step. Another.
Then he lunged.
He landed hard, one arm hooked around the beast's neck, the other driving the broken branch down. The point sank into soft tissue.
The boar flailed.
Ramon held on.
Another strike—deeper.
The beast bucked. Slammed into a tree.
Ramon felt something shift in his ribs—but he didn't let go.
Third strike.
The boar crashed to its knees.
Then—stillness.
Its body twitched once. Then nothing.
Ramon fell sideways into the brush, chest heaving.
His shoulder was nearly useless. His knuckles were split. One leg had gone numb.
But the boar was dead.
And he was alive.
No triumph. No celebration. Just the quiet sound of wind through trees.
Just pain.
And breath.
He didn't go back to the city that night.
Instead, he followed an old trail—barely visible—deeper into the outskirts. Past a dry creekbed, up a slope slick with pine needles.
There, tucked into a ridge, was an old shelter.
A hollowed stump. Stones stacked around the base. A leather tarp stretched over a frame of bent branches.
Ramon crawled inside and collapsed on the furs.
The pain made his vision blur.
But he moved anyway.
He lit a fire, just small enough to warm. Roasted a strip of meat cut from the beast's flank—thin, bland, stringy. He chewed slowly, hand pressed to his ribs.
Later, he sat cross-legged in the dirt.
Closed his eyes.
Drew a breath.
The Cloud Refinement Technique stirred—faintly.
Qi moved like smoke through his limbs. Fractured. Slow. But real. It gathered at his center, then spread again—cooling, repairing, reinforcing.
He let the cycle carry him.
Each breath grounded him. Each pulse reminded him:
He had survived.
But barely.
He thought of the old Ramon. Of death in the dark. Unseen. Forgotten.
Not this time.
He would get better. Not just stronger—sharper. Smarter. More precise.
His body was raw clay.
He would shape it.
Out here, in the forest's silence, there were no sect rules. No instructors. No praise.
Only what he could earn.
So he made a vow.
Not to be the best.
Not yet.
But to never stop.
Every step forward would be his own. Every technique, every lesson—etched into flesh, not written in scrolls.
He would refine his footwork. His breath. His mind.
Until his body no longer flinched. Until his grip no longer shook. Until the spear felt like an extension of his will.
Only then would he return to the castle.
Only then—to the sect.
There was still a long way to go.
But now, it was his way.
And that made all the difference.