The Beast Appears
The growl deepened, vibrating through the ground like a drum struck beneath the soil. Birds fled from the canopy, a storm of black wings blotting out the sickly gray sky.
Bartholomew tightened his grip on his silver-tipped cane, though Twig noticed his hand trembled slightly.
"Stand firm," Bartholomew hissed. "It's only a beast. Probably a Rank One."
A shadow leapt from the underbrush — not small, not weak, and definitely not a mere Rank One. The creature stood twice as tall as a man, its body a twisted mix of wolf and boar. Jagged tusks jutted from its mouth, each one cracked but deadly sharp. Its fur looked as though it had been burned in patches, leaving its skin raw and steaming with beast-qi.
Twig had only heard of such creatures in the whispered tales of traveling hunters. A Blightfang Boarhound. Rank Two. Strong enough to crush stone with its skull.
Gregor's bravado wilted instantly. "Rank… Rank Two? We're not ready for this!"
Isabella tripped over a fallen branch in her panic and barely rolled aside as the beast's paw smashed where she had been. Mud sprayed, leaving her hair decorated with soggy leaves. "Why does it always come after me first?!" she wailed.
Bartholomew attempted to spin his cane with flourish, but it slipped from his oily hands and nearly clocked Gregor in the knee. "Compose yourself!" he barked, snatching it back. "We are disciples of the Iron Fang Sect. Fear is unbecoming."
Twig, meanwhile, crouched low, clutching his bitterweed root like it was a sacred relic. His mind screamed at him to run. His legs, however, were frozen.
The boarhound's eyes settled on him.
"No, no, no…" Twig whispered. "I'm not even seasoned enough to make a good meal."
The beast charged.
Desperation
Time slowed. The ground shook beneath the weight of the charging beast, mud flying in all directions. Twig's body moved before his mind caught up — he threw himself sideways, crashing into the dirt. The tusks missed him by inches, but the sheer force of wind knocked him rolling through brambles.
Bartholomew lunged forward, striking with his cane. Qi flared faintly at the tip, releasing a burst of crimson light. It hit the boarhound's flank with a loud crack… and left little more than a scorch mark.
Gregor panicked and swung his sword wildly, missing entirely and nearly hitting Isabella instead. She shrieked, shoved him aside, and accidentally smacked herself in the forehead with her own staff.
Twig staggered to his feet, blood dripping from a cut on his brow. He wasn't a fighter. He wasn't even a cultivator. But survival had been hammered into his bones since childhood. Starvation taught men to move when food appeared. Fear taught men to move when death came calling.
His eyes darted around the clearing. Bitterweed root in his hand. A jagged rock at his feet. And — there, growing along a crooked stump — a cluster of mushrooms glowing faintly green.
His old grandmother's words echoed in his head: "Greenlight Mushrooms burn like fire in the belly of a beast, but only fools try to eat them."
Twig wasn't planning to eat them.
He snatched a handful, ignoring the sting on his fingers, and hurled them at the boarhound's face. The mushrooms burst in a puff of acrid smoke, searing the beast's nostrils. It howled, staggering back and clawing at its snout.
Bartholomew blinked. "What—how did—?"
"Run, you idiots!" Twig shouted.
The Chase
They didn't need convincing.
Isabella bolted first, tripping twice in the first ten steps but somehow regaining her balance each time. Gregor lumbered after her, boots squelching so loudly they sounded like mating frogs. Bartholomew, face twisted between pride and terror, fled with as much dignity as his flapping robes allowed.
Twig ran last, clutching the bitterweed root like it was his last tie to life. His lungs burned, his thin legs screaming with each step. Behind them, the boarhound recovered with a furious bellow and gave chase.
Trees blurred past. Branches whipped at Twig's face. He dodged roots, ducked under fallen logs, and kept running. His ribs ached with each gasp of air, but he couldn't stop.
"Left!" Isabella shouted.
"Right!" Gregor shouted at the same time.
They crashed into each other, tumbling into the mud in a heap of limbs and curses. Bartholomew tripped over their mess and landed face-first in a puddle.
Twig was too desperate to laugh — though the image of Bartholomew sputtering with a mud mustache nearly broke him.
The beast thundered closer.
The Cliff
The forest path ended abruptly. The group skidded to a halt at the edge of a cliff, the ground dropping into a chasm where a river roared below.
"We're trapped!" Gregor wailed.
Bartholomew puffed out his chest, trying to regain his composure despite the mud dripping from his nose. "A true cultivator fears no cliff. We shall—"
The boarhound burst from the trees.
Bartholomew shrieked like a dying goose.
Twig's mind raced. No weapons. No strength. No qi. Just mud, roots, and rocks. He glanced at the river below. The current was violent, but it was life. Staying here was death.
He clenched the bitterweed root between his teeth, turned, and ran straight off the cliff.
For a moment, he was weightless. Wind roared past his ears, and the world blurred into sky and water. Then the river swallowed him whole, dragging him into its icy chaos.
Awakening
The current slammed him against rocks, tore at his limbs, spun him like a rag doll. Darkness pressed at the edges of his vision. His lungs begged for air.
Just when he thought his body would break, his hand closed around something sharp and smooth — a shard of crystal embedded in the riverbed.
It pulsed.
A surge of energy jolted through his veins, burning hotter than fire, colder than ice. His chest convulsed, expelling water, then dragging in air even beneath the surface.
His vision cleared.
And for the first time in his life, Twig felt qi.