The victory over the Iron-Quilled Stone Boar was not an end, but a new beginning. The boar's meat was rich with Earth Qi, more than Zhuo had ever tasted. As he ate it, slowly and with gratitude, the energy not only sated his hunger but also strengthened his new connection with the Stone-Heart Pulse. The crystal pulsed with contentment, radiating a deep warmth that aided the assimilation of the energy.
That night, after eating, Zhuo did not sleep immediately. He sat on the large boulder where he had hunted, watching the moon's reflection on the river water. His mind, clearer than ever before, contemplated the day's lessons. He had used water, earth, and illusion. He had hunted not with strength, but with understanding. A vague concept began to form in his mind: Harmony. Not dominating the elements, but understanding their nature and using them according to their will.
With this thought, he entered meditation. Yet, this was no ordinary meditation. Instead of just drawing energy, he attempted something more ambitious. He placed his claw holding the Stone-Heart Pulse on the rock, and his now longer, stronger tail into the slowly flowing river water. He then focused on the moonlight falling on his back.
He tried to feel all three at once: the steadfastness of earth, the fluidity of water, and the tranquility of the moon. At first, it was like trying to hear three different songs at once—resulting only in chaos. The earth energy felt heavy and demanding, the water energy flowing and hard to hold, while the moon energy was cold and aloof.
But Zhuo persisted. He remembered how the Moon-Wash Dew could calm the Stone-Heart Pulse. Perhaps, instead of forcing a union, he could create a cycle.
He imagined the moon energy cooling and purifying the hot earth energy within the Stone-Heart Pulse. Then, this purified earth energy flowed out, strengthening his body, and the excess was released into the water through his tail, not as waste, but as an offering, a return. In return, the water brought him clarity and fluidity, helping him understand the flow of energy.
Slowly, ever so gradually, something began to happen. The Stone-Heart Pulse pulsed with a calmer rhythm. The flow of energy through his body became smoother, less painful, more like a tranquil river than a flash flood. For the first time since leaving the cave, he felt truly balanced.
In this state of balance, his meditation deepened beyond any before. He was no longer only aware of his own body or the energy around him. His consciousness began to expand.
He dreamed. But this was no ordinary dream.
He was the mountain. He felt the weight of millennia, infinite patience. He felt his roots stretching deep into the earth's belly, absorbing its core's warmth. He felt the rivers flowing like veins on his surface, the rain kissing him like a blessing, and the life—small and large—crawling on his skin. Then, he felt a pain, sharp and piercing. A part of him, a small center of his power, was pried out. It was a profound pain, a loss. But then, he felt something else. A foreign presence, small but persistent, which carried the missing piece. This presence was no longer just taking; it was giving back. It absorbed his warmth but also gave him the moon's coolness and the water's fluidity. The pain changed into an ancient curiosity, then into... acceptance. An acknowledgment.
Zhuo awoke with a start, gasping for air. The moon was still high. It wasn't a dream. It was a memory. A memory from the earth. From Dry Bone Mountain itself.
The Stone-Heart Pulse in his claw pulsed softly, warm, and—was it possible?—content.
The terror he had felt after prying out the Core faded, replaced by a deep understanding. He was no longer a thief. He was a student. A symbiont. And through the Stone-Heart Pulse, the mountain accepted him.
With this realization, a subtle change occurred in his body. The pattern on his copper-silver scales began to shift, resembling the veins of stone and the flow of water. His horn buds grew a little more, and now bore faint spirals that emitted a weak golden gleam under the moonlight. He was not just recovered; he had evolved another step towards his true Yao Jing form.
The next day, his world felt different. He didn't just sense energy; he understood its context. As he walked along the river, he could feel where the earth was fertile and where it was barren. He could feel where the water was deep and full of life, and where it was shallow and weak. He began to see the forest not as a collection of trees and animals, but as a living, interconnected web of energy, with himself and the Stone-Heart Pulse as one of its nodes.
This new understanding brought new responsibility. He no longer hunted just to eat. He chose his prey carefully, taking the old or the sick, those whose energy was already fading, so as not to disturb the balance of the area. After hunting, he would give a small portion of his energy back to the earth, a ritual of thanks.
One afternoon, as he was studying a strange rock formation emitting metallic energy, his new senses warned him. Not immediate danger, but a disturbance in the energy web. A pain.
He followed the feeling, moving silently through the undergrowth. He found the source: a young Ironchain Stag, like the one he had seen killed by the Shadow Wolf. Its hind leg was broken, trapped in a man-made snare—two logs with sharp metal edges, bound with rope made of twisted plant fibers. It was not a natural trap. It was man-made.
The stag was terrified, its eyes wide with pain and panic. Its energy was dying, wasting away.
A cold anger flowed through Zhuo. This was not hunting. This was waste. This was a pollution of the balance.
He approached. The stag tried to struggle, but it was too weak. Zhuo placed his claw holding the Stone-Heart Pulse near the stag's wound. He couldn't heal it, but he could feel its suffering, the imbalance created by the man-made object.
Carefully, using his sickle-like claw, he cut the rope and opened the trap. The stag stared, then, seeing Zhuo meant no harm, scrambled away, limping but free.
Zhuo examined the trap. The wood was cut sharply, the metal shaped, the rope skillfully woven. This was deliberate and cruel workmanship. Humans had come to his forest.
He raised his head, sniffing the air. He caught it—a faint trace of the same scent as Master Chen and his disciples, but weaker, fresher. Perhaps hunters from the same sect, or maybe another.
This was a warning. The threat had not ended. They might be searching for him, or they might just be plundering his forest's resources. Whatever the reason, their presence was a violation.
He needed to know more. He needed to understand his enemy.
With new resolve, Zhuo began to plan. He couldn't fight them directly, but he could observe. He could learn.
He spent the following days not only hunting and meditating, but also carefully mapping his territory, looking for other signs of human activity. He found more traps, some empty, some containing half-dead prey which he released. He found footprints and abandoned campsites.
He also began observing the other forest creatures in a new way. He saw how they reacted to the human presence. Birds grew quiet, game changed their routes, and even stronger Yao Jing like the Silver Ape seemed to avoid areas humans frequented.
He was learning a new language: the language of danger.
One night, as he meditated near a small waterfall he had made his new base, an idea emerged. If humans could set traps, why couldn't he? But not traps to capture or kill. Traps to warn.
He remembered how the vibrations he created had distracted the Stone Boar. He remembered how the illusion of a small landslide changed its direction.
Using his knowledge of earth vibrations and energy flow, he began to experiment. He carefully arranged small stones around paths the humans often used, creating loose formations that would amplify the footsteps of anyone crossing, sending warning vibrations he could feel from afar.
He dug small pits in strategic places and filled them with water and purified moon energy, creating "warning pools" that would disturb the energy balance of any low-level cultivator stepping in them, making them uneasy and alert for no apparent reason.
It wasn't perfect defense, but it was a start. It was a way to use his new understanding of the world not just to survive, but to protect.
As he finished his first warning trap, he stood and looked towards the mountain, towards his distant old home. The Stone-Heart Pulse throbbed steadily, as if in approval.
He was no longer a frightened lizard, or even a Yao Jing concerned only with his own survival. He was learning to become a guardian, a student of the earth beginning to understand his obligations.
The Dragon's first step was not a step of mountain-shattering power, but a mindful step that understood the earth's pulse. And Zhuo had taken that step. The journey to fully understand his new role—and the dangers that came with it—had begun.