A boy with uneven black hair streaked in blue and green stood at the mouth of a cave, lantern in one hand, no right arm to speak of.
Not that he needed two arms to die horribly.
He looked maybe ten. Maybe a bit older.
Hard to tell — his face was far too calm for what he was about to try. Not blank, just... still. Watchful. Like he'd seen worse and got over it early.
He didn't look scared. Just tired.
Which was fair, considering he lived in a place where kids were trained to kill monsters or get eaten trying. That's what the Venomthread Sect — his new 'home,' supposedly — called "cultivation."
Right now, cultivation looked a lot like suicide.
Still, he didn't flinch. Just exhaled slowly, adjusted his grip on the lantern, and stepped into the dark.
This is a stupid idea.
The air got colder with every step. Not cave-cold — spiteful cold. The kind that crawled into your bones like it had something to prove.
Mist drifted from his mouth with every breath.
His grip tightened aounrd the lantern.
The deeper he went, the more his body screamed "bad idea," but his legs didn't stop. The Frostdew Flower was in there. And he needed it. It was his chance at power.
Soon he spotted it.
Crystalline petals. Soft blue glow. Looked stupidly delicate. Like one sneeze would break it.
Too bad the flower had a massive, half-hibernating bear cuddling it like a favorite pillow.
An Icefang Bear.
Great.
But not unexpected.
He crouched and picked up a rock. Simple plan: wake the beast, lure it out, don't die. Easy.
He threw the rock.
CRACK.
It smacked into the wall — a full meter off target.
He blinked.
Hitting a sleeping bear would've been rude anyway.
The bear stirred. A grunt. Then a snort. Then glowing eyes snapped open, locking onto the very loud, very dumb intruder standing ten paces away.
Well...
The beast moved faster than anything that big should. He didn't wait — just bolted.
Behind him: thunder. No — paws. Massive, pissed-off, murder-flavored paws.
He sprinted, lungs already burning. Cold air bit at his skin as the cave narrowed behind him.
They burst out into the open. The boy skidded to a stop, turned, and dropped the lantern.
Time to face it.
He dropped low — hand to his boot, where a knife was hidden. Fingers wrapped around the hilt. Got it.
But the bear didn't wait. It surged forward.
Too fast.
He dove to the side. Dirt flew. The ground split where he'd been standing.
Sweat traced down his cheek.
That would've turned him into a smear.
It lunged again.
No time to dodge.
He dropped the knife — because sure, ditching your only weapon mid-fight was great strategy — and lunged for the bear's foreleg with his only arm.
Instant regret.
Who tries to wrestle a bear? With one arm?
It was like grappling a mountain with fur. His feet slid, his shoulder screamed, but he didn't let go.
For a second, they held. The bear looked mildly offended — for all of two seconds.
Then it growled and swiped with its other paw.
His eyes widened. He ducked.
Barely.
Rolled. Grabbed the fallen knife. Came up gasping.
Okay. Plan B.
There was no Plan B.
He ducked. Another swipe.
It was relentless.
Dirt exploded beside him as the bear's paw slammed into the earth.
It was time to counterattack.
He lunged forward. Slashed low. The blade tore a line into its leg — shallow, not enough to slow it.
The bear didn't even flinch.
Of course it didn't. That would be too easy.
He kept moving — tight steps, short breaths, trying to stay inside its reach, where it couldn't get a clean swing. But the beast was big, and angry, and smarter than it looked. It turned with him, cutting off his angles, forcing him to keep retreating.
His chest heaved. Legs aching. Vision narrowing.
He wasn't going to last.
Another paw came — wide arc, full force.
He ducked. Too slow. It clipped his side, sent him flying into a tree. Pain burst through his ribs. The knife skittered out of his grip.
Of course it slipped. Of course.
For a second, he couldn't breathe.
Everything hurt.
His ribs screamed.
His vision swam.
But he couldn't stay still.
He crawled. He had to get his knife back.
With one arm he dragged his body through the mud. Every movement hurt. His fingers scraped the ground until eventually they found the hilt.
He gripped it.
Footsteps.
Slow. Heavy. Confident.
The bear wasn't charging anymore.
It was walking.
Taking its time.
It didn't pounce.
It didn't need to.
It had already won.
And it knew it.
The boy pushed himself up — barely. A crouch. Knees bent, his one hand on the ground for balance while clutching the knife. His breath came in short bursts, misting in the cold air.
Perfect. Just the way I imagined this: kneeling in the mud with a cracked rib.
The bear stood over him.
Blood streamed off its fur.
It leaned down.
Roared in his face.
Hot air blasted over him, thick with the sharp bite of frozen breath.
The sound rattled his skull.
The scent clung to the back of his throat.
But he didn't flinch.
Because he saw it.
The opening.
Neck stretched. Jaw wide. Chest forward. Everything unguarded.
There.
A single, stupid, perfect second.
He thought of the face he swore to see again.
Not today.
He reached for it. That thing in his blood. That burning, perfect thread of speed.
[Extreme Speed].
The world snapped into focus.
Pain disappeared. Time thinned. The bear's movement slowed to a crawl.
Now.
He surged up from the crouch like a coiled spring. Closed the gap in half a heartbeat. Drove the knife upward with everything he had.
SHUNK.
The blade punched into soft flesh beneath the bear's jaw. Straight through. Deep.
Its roar turned to a choking gasp.
Blood sprayed.
He twisted the knife.
Hard.
Then yanked it free.
The bear reeled backward, stumbling. Its paws scraped at the ground like it didn't understand how it was dying.
And then it collapsed.
A mountain falling.
The boy dropped to one knee, panting. The knife still slick in his hand.
Still breathing.
Barely.
"Finally."he muttered, voice hoarse.
He stared at the fallen bear for a long moment, chest heaving. Blood dripped from the tip of the blade, thick and steaming in the cold air. His arm trembled.
Then time snapped back. So did the pain.
It hit like a hammer to the ribs. His breath hitched.
His balance wavered. Vision blurred.
But he didn't fall. Somehow.
It always felt like the world slowed down when he used Extreme Speed — like everything around him got lazy, sluggish. But it wasn't them moving slower.
It was him.
Faster. Sharper. Like his body forgot how broken it was for just a few seconds and decided to overachieve.
It was an ability tied to his bloodline. He didn't know what it was actually called, and he didn't care either.
So he called it Extreme Speed, because he wasn't creative and it did exactly what it said.
The only downside? He'd probably bleed out if he used it more than once a week. Which meant…
He looked at the corpse.
"Seriously. Please stay dead."
He slowly got to his feet. Every part of him protested. His ribs felt like broken glass, and his legs weren't doing much better. But he had to move.
He slid the knife back into his boot, limped over to where the lantern had fallen and picked it up. The flickering light seemed smaller now, dimmer, or maybe that was just his vision giving out.
Either way, he had to keep moving.
Lantern in hand, he limped back toward the cave.
The Frostdew Flower still sat there, glowing all innocent and important — like it hadn't just caused a bloodbath.
He knelt — pain flaring — and carefully tucked it into the padded case on his belt.
With the flower secured, he trudged out into the forest.
Each step felt longer than the last. Every rustle made his grip tighten on the lantern. He wasn't up for round two. Not tonight.
Fifteen minutes later, the trees thinned, and stone rose up ahead.
The Venomthread Sect.
Cold. Sharp. Familiar in the worst way.
Home, apparently. Not that he had a say in the matter.
He stared at it for a second. Took a breath. Then limped forward, patting the case on his belt to make sure his prize was still there.
Now he had a chance.