Pain was the first thing to welcome him back. No longer the reforming wave of energy, but a dull, stabbing ache in every joint, in every scratch on his copper scales, and especially in his right foreclaw where the blazing Earth Core remained firmly embedded, as if fused to the bone. Zhuo lay among the roots of a giant tree at the cliff's base, hidden behind a curtain of vines. The sun was high, illuminating a strange and frightening new world.
He tried to move, and a pained hiss escaped his mouth. His body felt alien—heavy, broken, and unfamiliar. Memories of the cave flashed: blinding light, human shouts, the rumble of rock, and the feeling of power so vast it nearly destroyed him. And that feeling… the feeling of his connection to the earth being severed. That hurt the most. Like losing a sense. The world felt flatter, more muted. He was stranded, cut off from the pulse that had been his guide and sustenance.
His eyes, now sharper and full of awareness, scanned his surroundings. This was a primordial forest, far older and wilder than the slopes of Dry Bone Mountain. The trees here soared like pillars to the sky, their canopy so thick only shafts of golden light pierced the floor. The air smelled heavy of decay, blooming toxic flowers, and something else… the scent of stagnant water and rotting meat. The smell of danger.
But the most piercing feeling was his loneliness. He was no longer just a solitary lizard; he was a soul aware of its solitude. The loss of his rocky crevice, the familiar crystals, even the deadly song of the Spiritual Root—all left a void deeper than any he had felt before.
He focused on his claw, on the Earth Core still pulsating softly. It was his only link to his past, to his power. Its energy was different now. No longer wild and destructive, but deeper, more contained, like a seed waiting to grow. Yet, there was a pain within it, a contained anger. Zhuo could feel it—the earth's wrath at being wounded, at being pried out.
He tried to draw energy from it, as he had from the crystals. A thin stream of power flowed, warming his cold body, slightly easing his worst pains. But it wasn't enough. It was like dripping water on a blaze. He needed more.
Trembling, he raised his claw and licked the Core's hard surface. An explosion of taste! Not just earth energy, but memory—quick flashes of crystal formation, unimaginable pressure, eternal patience. And beneath it all, a presence. Faint, slumbering, but real. The Core wasn't just an object; it held a remnant consciousness of the earth vein itself.
His new lesson began. Instead of absorbing energy blindly, Zhuo learned to give first. With the dregs of his strength, he focused his body's warmth, the residual Qi stored in his blood, toward the Core. He offered it, a primitive apology for what he had done.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, ever so slowly, the Core pulsed warmer. In return, it released a purer, more easily absorbed burst of energy that immediately healed some of the smaller wounds around his claw. An exchange. A symbiosis.
It was a monumental discovery. Cultivation wasn't just about taking; it was about giving and receiving. A profound Dao concept learned by a lizard demon through instinct and need.
His healing was slow. Days passed. Zhuo lay in his hiding place, learning to communicate with the Core. He gave it warmth, comfort, and his residual energy; the Core gave him the power to heal and grow. His damaged scales molted, replaced by a new layer harder, darker, with a deeper metallic sheen. The bumps on his head grew slightly, now clearly visible as small horn buds. His sight grew even sharper, able to see the faint energy auras of the plants and insects around him.
He also learned about his new forest. He heard the howls of deep nocturnal creatures, heard the roar of large wings shaking the leaves, and smelled large predators prowling at night. One afternoon, he witnessed a brief battle between a Shadow Wolf that moved like smoke and an Ironchain Stag with skin like armor. The fight was brutal, efficient, and ended with the stag's death. Zhuo froze, realizing a whole new level of danger. He was no longer the apex predator in his territory; he was in the middle of the food chain, and his position was unclear.
Hunger finally forced him from his hiding place. His growing body needed energy—not just from Qi, but from meat. Hunting in this forest was a terrifying challenge. Normal prey like Jingkings were absent; here there were Spiked Squirrels his own size that could throw poisoned quills, or Hunter Hares that moved with blinding speed and had bone-shearing teeth.
His first hunt was a total failure. He tried to pounce on a hare, but it darted away with speed that stunned him. He tried using his weakened Earth Qi breath on a Spiked Squirrel, but the poisonous quills nearly pierced his eye. He returned to his hideout, hungry and frustrated.
The failure forced him to think, to adapt. He observed. He saw how a Constrictor Python ambushed its prey with a patience almost like stone, waiting for hours without moving. He saw how a Ghost-faced Eagle dove from the sky with deadly speed and precision.
He realized his power was different now. He no longer had an unlimited supply of Earth Qi. He had the Core, but it was a finite source he had to nurture and refill with his own cultivation. He could no longer afford to waste energy.
So, he adopted a new strategy: patience. He would choose a spot near a small water source frequented by animals, camouflage himself perfectly among dead leaves and rocks, and wait. He would wait for hours, barely moving, merging with his environment, only his eyes watching.
And he would use not just physical strength, but the very basic Earth Vibration technique he'd learned from the Core. By placing his claw on the ground and focusing a trickle of energy, he could feel the vibration of footsteps from a distance, knowing the size and speed of an approaching creature.
Finally, his chance came. A young Stone Boar, a muscular creature with pebble-like hide, came to drink. It was careless, separated from its sounder. Zhuo waited until it fully submerged its snout in the water.
Then, he struck. Not with a lunge, but with a short, accurate leap powered by his reinforced hind leg muscles. His sickle-like claw—which could now easily shred rock—sank perfectly into the boar's neck, severing a major artery.
It was quick. It was efficient. It was silent.
Warm blood flooded his mouth, sating his deep hunger. But more than that, there was a deep satisfaction, an acknowledgment that he had learned. He had adapted. He could survive here.
He hid the carcass and returned to his lair, eating the meat slowly as the Core in his claw pulsed calmly, as if in approval.
That night, as he lay full, listening to the sounds of the forest, a clear thought formed in his mind for the first time, not as an impulse or a feeling, but as a structure of primitive words within his consciousness:
"Home gone. Humans are enemy. Forest is teacher. I must grow. I must become strong. Stronger than humans. Stronger than forest. I must... evolve."
He looked at the Core in his claw. It was no longer just a resource or a curse. It was a promise. A promise of power. A promise of an evolution unlike any other.
He closed his eyes, not to sleep, but to meditate, to commune with the Core again, to plan his next move. His long journey as a Yao Jing had only just begun, and the first lesson of the primordial forest had been learned in blood and patience.