A bloodied crescent-shaped sword emerged from the trees, cleanly severing the head of a rabbit. The body fell to the ground, lifeless, as fresh blood stained the forest earth. Bai Xuebing stepped out from the shadows, coldly observing the small corpse.
—Twelve —he murmured, assessing the result.
Without wasting time, he crouched and extended his hand. The still-warm blood flowed toward him, leaving the rabbit dry and empty. With precision, he skinned the animal, separating the skin from the flesh, storing them in his spatial ring.
—Nothing should be wasted —he told himself as he worked meticulously.
He used every part. The skin could be sold, the meat preserved, and the bones would return to the ecosystem.
It was a lesson from his father: respect every life taken, using it entirely.
The memories of those days with Long Qiang, his father, accompanied him as he worked. Back then, hunting was a teaching, a patient and meaningful act.
Now, however, hunting was a necessity for his cultivation. Bai Xuebing relied on the blood of other living beings to advance on his path, and small prey were no longer sufficient.
With an improvised spear in hand, he ventured deeper into the forest, searching for something larger. Soon, he spotted a silver-backed boar, its fur gleaming under the sunlight filtering through the leaves.
Bai Xuebing watched carefully; he knew this prey would be a challenge.
He approached slowly, adjusting his spear, but a crack under his feet alerted the boar. In an instant, the animal turned and fled through the trees. Bai Xuebing gritted his teeth, frustrated.
—What did I do wrong...? —he murmured, reviewing his movements.
Then, the memory of an old lesson came to his mind. He was walking alongside his father through a forest clearing.
—Remember, Xuebing, the secret is not in strength, but in patience —Long Qiang said while pointing to a deer on the other side of the clearing —It's not enough to have a weapon; you must wait for the right moment.
Young Bai Xuebing listened attentively.
—And how do I know when the right moment is?
—Listen, observe, and feel. Nature has its rhythm. When you perceive it, you'll know when to move.
Back in the present, Bai Xuebing took a deep breath, calming his frustration. The key was patience.
He hid in the underbrush and waited.
Minutes passed slowly, but finally, the boar returned. Bai Xuebing observed every movement, every breath of the animal, waiting for the perfect opening. When the boar turned to sniff the ground, he threw the spear with precision.
The improvised weapon cut through the air and embedded itself in the boar's neck, right at a vulnerable point. The animal grunted and staggered before collapsing. Bai Xuebing approached slowly, confirming that the prey was motionless.
For a moment, his father's face appeared in his mind, smiling with pride. Bai Xuebing raised the spear, feeling the weight of that lesson that had brought him to this moment.
He approached the boar, still carrying that memory in his mind.
Long Qiang took a deep breath, his eyes fixed on the prey with unwavering calm. Bai Xuebing watched in fascination, noticing how his father's muscles remained relaxed, while every fiber of his being seemed focused on a single goal.
—Look, Xuebing —Long Qiang whispered—. A true hunter finds the exact moment. If you attack without haste and in the right place, even the strongest beast will fall.
With a fluid movement, his father threw the spear. The deer didn't even react; the weapon sank with precision into its side, cutting off any chance of escape.
—Do you see, son? —Long Qiang looked at Bai Xuebing firmly and affectionately—. Patience and timing are the tools of a hunter. Respecting the life you take is part of it as well.
Back in the present, Bai Xuebing gazed at the boar's body. His father's words echoed in his mind, guiding him even on his dark path as a blood cultivator.
He approached the animal with a serene, almost reverent expression. He knew what he had to do. He extended his hand toward the open wound, letting the warm blood flow between his fingers as he absorbed its vital essence. The energy of the blood strengthened him, nourishing his earth core with power that he now understood better.
—Thank you for your sacrifice —he murmured, remembering his father's teachings—. I must waste nothing.
He skinned the boar with firm, clean cuts, separating the flesh from the bones with precision. As he worked, determination shone in his eyes.
—No matter how strong I become, father— he whispered—. I'll never forget what you taught me.
For thirty days, Bai Xuebing hunted tirelessly. Each prey, each drop of blood absorbed, was another step toward strengthening his earth core. However, the progress was slow, frustratingly slow.
Soon, he understood why: the quality of the blood mattered more than the quantity. Ordinary animals provided weak, scattered energy. It was a star-tailed rat, a lesser spiritual beast, that showed him the difference. Its blood was dense, potent, and absorbing it led to more significant progress than any other prey.
—The key is in the quality... —he murmured, recalling the concentrated energy of the rat.
Spiritual beasts, like cultivators, possessed refined energy. Bai Xuebing understood that, if he wanted to progress faster, he needed to seek stronger prey. Then, a dark thought crossed his mind: the blood of a human cultivator.
The idea hit him with cold, irrefutable logic. The vital energy of cultivators must be incomparably more powerful. How much power could he gain? How much faster could he strengthen his core?
Bai Xuebing closed his eyes, fighting the temptation. He knew that path would lead him to lose what was left of his humanity. While killing beasts to survive was necessary, taking a human life without justification was a line he was not yet willing to cross.
But he remembered those who destroyed his home, the murderers who massacred his family. In his eyes, they were no longer human, but monsters.
—Not yet —he murmured, his voice carrying a resolute coldness—. The moment will come... but not now.
He clenched his fists, containing the ruthless ambition that was beginning to arise within him. Though his path was dark, Bai Xuebing clung to a fragment of humanity, that distant echo that set him apart from those he despised so much.
"Killing innocents for power... that is not my path... but them..."
The images of the murderers surfaced in his mind: their cruel faces, the merciless laughter still echoing in his memory. His eyes glowed with a red flash of contained hatred.
—They are an exception —he whispered, with a voice laced with venom.
The coldness of his resolve washed over him. For those monsters, there would be no mercy. Their blood would be the perfect fuel to power his rise.
Though he already had a basic understanding of his cultivation, Bai Xuebing was still weak. What use was collecting energy if he didn't know how to use or control it? He needed to learn how to fight, to move his body with skill. That was when he remembered the books his mother had left behind.
One of them was a manual on cultivation, detailing how to breathe correctly, how to circulate energy, and other fundamental principles. But it wasn't just an instructional text; it also contained valuable information about the vast and dangerous world of cultivation.
Besides that book, there were two others. When he examined them closely, he felt that all his doubts vanished. His mother had anticipated his needs with almost supernatural precision. These texts contained not only a complete guide to cultivation but also key teachings, and most importantly, a combat style accompanied by detailed techniques.
Those two books were manuals describing a complete martial art, designed for a cultivator. Any expert who had seen them would have thought that Bai Xuebing had received an inheritance from a powerful cultivator. And they wouldn't have been wrong: these texts were a cultivation inheritance, a legacy carefully prepared for him.
In this vast world, inheritances were invaluable treasures, fragments of the legacy of ancient cultivators. Normally, these inheritances were found in secret domains, hidden areas, or sealed relics, and often contained technique manuals, combat styles, pills, recipes, and, in extremely rare cases, a star that once belonged to the cultivator.
However, obtaining a star was nearly impossible. When a cultivator dies, their stars abandon them, returning to the sky to await a new fate. Although there are methods to keep them in this world, they are extremely difficult to execute.
Despite not having received a star, Bai Xuebing held in his hands something priceless: two ancient manuals his mother had passed down before her departure. Though many would consider it a lesser gift compared to heavenly treasures, for Bai Xuebing, they represented a starting point, a spark on his path to greatness. In this world, where resources were scarce and strength was everything, even a fragment of knowledge could be worth more than gold or life.
With care and reverence, he opened the manuscripts, reading aloud the titles that seemed to resonate with a power of their own:
–Art of the Ascending Dragon... and Black Fangs.
Both names stirred something inside him: an echo of hidden promises, relentless challenges, and latent power waiting to be claimed.
Bai Xuebing took a deep breath as his eyes devoured the first lines. These books contained more than just techniques: they were a path, a silent pact to survive in a merciless world. He remembered the merchant caravans that arrived in his village, always protected by hardened warriors.
He listened to the stories they told around the fire, tales of attacks by demonic cultivators and ambushes by spiritual beasts. Those warriors lived on the edge of death, but they also proved that strength was the only currency of value in this world.
If he wanted to survive, if he wanted to protect himself, if he wanted revenge, he had no other choice. He had to become strong, strong enough that no threat could break him. It didn't matter how long it took or how difficult the path would be.
He took refuge in the solitude of the mountain, where the silence was broken only by the whisper of the wind and the murmur of his own breathing. Day after day, night after night, he trained with a ferocity almost wild.
His body endured the weight of the movements described in the manuals, while his mind absorbed every technique and strategy. The mountain became his home, his temple, and his personal battlefield.
Thus, three years passed.