In the three days that followed, Harry kept training without rest. He managed to form a small flame the size of a finger, then improvised a target and threw the mini fireball — on the first attempt, he nearly set a tree at his uncle's house on fire. Harry was shocked by the power, even though he knew he still had much to learn — Harry didn't have much Qi, so he was exhausted after three attempts. He realized that his body still didn't have enough Qi to use techniques frequently.
He became determined to improve.
He began training with improvised weights tied to his arms and legs, using whatever he had at home. He grabbed the machete and practiced strikes he found in online videos, trying at least not to be completely clueless in his next fight. He created a rudimentary vest using tough materials, but when he saw himself in the mirror, he couldn't hold back the laugh:
— I look like a post-apocalyptic scarecrow.
He refined the protection by sewing reinforced leather inside his clothes — something primitive, but functional. He also improvised discreet gauntlets and greaves, without drawing much attention.
Despite the muscle pain, he felt more alive than ever.
Halfway through the fifth day, he called Vinícius:
— Hey, did you find anything else?
— Yeah, I did... I'm sending it now. But seriously, man, you're acting weird. What's this all about?
— I'll explain when we meet again. I promise.
He received the message with new information about the disappearances — this time, even more recent and disturbingly close.
He put the phone away, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath.
— Now... I'm more prepared.
The war might not have officially begun — but he was already in it.
Later that afternoon, Harry started to reflect on what that dog really was. The mutated appearance, the glow of the medallion... everything indicated that something was wrong. But at the same time, it didn't seem like the same demon that had defeated the immortal Long Hai. He remembered the transmitted memories clearly — that being was far more powerful.
— Maybe... the demon's blood fell on the dog and transformed it... like a corrupted mutation.
With that theory hammering in his mind, Harry grabbed the machete he had sharpened earlier. There was still rust on the metal, but the edge was sharp enough to defend himself.
Before he could leave, his uncle approached, worried.
— Harry, I'm worried about you — he said, his voice calm but serious. — You're pushing yourself too hard. If you need anything, I'm here, okay?
Harry felt a lump in his throat. He nodded, looking his uncle in the eyes.
— Uncle... I'm heading to town again. Take care of yourself. It's dangerous out there.
His uncle stared at him for a few seconds. Then, he slowly nodded and placed a firm hand on the boy's shoulder.
— Stay safe, kid.
Harry took a deep breath, adjusted the machete on his waist, and set out in search of the dog.
He walked through trails and woods for hours, returning to the place where he had faced the creature days before. Time seemed to drag on, and even after three hours of searching, the medallion remained dim.
Frustrated and uneasy, he decided to return home.
But when he arrived, his heart nearly stopped.
The front door had been broken down. Deep claw marks in the wood told the story.
Panic took over his senses. He ran inside.
— Uncle!? — he shouted, several times, but only silence answered.
On the floor, there were signs of a struggle and evident marks — as if something had been dragged out of the house.
He followed the tracks through the yard to the edge of the forest.
That's when the medallion glowed. Strong. Intense.
Following the glow, Harry moved through the trees until he found the demonic dog.
The creature was dragging something.
His uncle.
He was unconscious, caught by the leg, being dragged like a rag doll.
For a second, Harry's heart froze. Then, it exploded in fury.
The dog raised its snout, sniffed the air... and slowly turned, staring at Harry.
Its red eyes glowed with a dark hunger.
With rage and desperation burning in his chest, Harry planted his feet and gripped the machete tightly.
There was no turning back.