The sun began its descent toward the western horizon, painting the sky in shades of deep orange that slowly bled into crimson and purple. The sounds of crows echoed from somewhere above, their harsh cries carrying across the emptiness like warnings no one would heed. A lone figure walked along an uncertain path, his destination unknown even to himself, moving forward simply because forward was the only direction left.
Weeks passes in a blink of a eye, nothing truly changed of this world for onc, but now only one did change, a lone traveler to the west. To achieve his interest of his ambitions and goal.
Zhung walked through the forest wrapped in the white fur of the Albino Mountain Wolf he'd skinned days ago. The pelt hung heavy across his shoulders, still carrying the faint musk of the beast, marking him as either hunter or madman depending on who might see him. The forest swayed with the evening breeze, branches creaking and leaves whispering secrets, but the road beneath his feet remained steady—though broken in places where roots had cracked through or rain had washed the earth away.
His face held no expression as his dark eyes gazed forward, seeing nothing but the endless continuation of life itself. Autumn leaves drifted down in lazy spirals, each one a small death that felt almost peaceful. The trees around him stood with varied character—some stern and rigid, their trunks straight as iron; others soft and bent with age, twisted into shapes that spoke of long survival. His steps didn't falter regardless of the road's condition.
Each footfall left an impression in the soft earth, marks that would fade with the next rain but remained for now—proof that he'd chosen this path, this direction, this particular form of brokenness. A path where companionship might exist briefly but loneliness waited inevitably at the end. He frowned slightly, the expression fleeting and disheartened, before his face settled back into neutral emptiness.
Then he continued walking, because what else was there to do?
*Was this all worth it?* The question drifted through his mind unbidden, as it had countless times since his Aperture had formed. *I achieved cultivation—an Aperture in the heart, which means I can slowly generate demonic blood from within my own body. But how do I actually use Will? How do I manifest it into something tangible?*
His thoughts turned analytical, weighing options with the cold precision of someone who'd learned that emotion clouded judgment and judgment determined survival.
*I'll need guidance eventually. That means choosing between the Empires or the Sects—the two major power structures that control cultivator advancement. But choosing either side would immediately paint a target on my back. Both options carry equal danger.*
He considered the mathematics of it as he walked, his feet finding purchase automatically while his mind worked through possibilities.
*The Hang family operates within the Gue Empire's military structure. If I join imperial forces, I'd have resources but also oversight, rules, restrictions. The Sects offer more freedom but demand loyalty and often involve themselves in politics worse than any empire. Both paths could lead to my demise if I'm not careful, and also the two are in a war.*
*But the benefits... the benefits are too significant to ignore. Access to techniques, proper training in Will manipulation, protection from random cultivators who might see a lone Tin rank as easy prey. The pros outweigh the cons, barely, if I play it correctly.*
The calculation was cold, pragmatic, devoid of idealism. He was sixteen years old in body but carried the accumulated cynicism of three lifetimes, and it showed in how he approached even basic decisions.
---
As dusk deepened into true night, the darkness engulfing the earth like a slow tide, Zhung found himself surrounded by trees in a small clearing. He'd stopped to make camp, gathering dry wood and striking flint to steel until a small fire caught and grew, illuminating a circle of ground in warm orange light.
At the fire's center, a rabbit roasted on a makeshift spit—an animal he'd trapped with wire snares he'd fashioned from his pack. The smell of cooking meat made his stomach clench with genuine hunger.
*Even after achieving Tin rank, I still need to eat.* The observation carried a note of irritation. *This world is fundamentally different from my second life, the cultivation world of my coma-dream. There, after reaching the first rank—what they called Foundation Establishment—hunger became optional. The body could sustain itself on ambient Chi alone if necessary.*
*Which was better, honestly. No wasted time hunting, no precious hours spent on the basic necessity of feeding the flesh. But this world... this world of Will and Blood requires physical sustenance regardless of rank. At least until higher levels, probably Steel or Silver, when the body transforms enough to transcend such mundane needs.*
*It's a tiresome reality, but one I must accept and plan around.*
After eating, he set about preparing his shelter with the efficiency of someone who'd done this before—or rather, who'd watched survival techniques in media during his first life and refined them through necessity in this one. He constructed a simple A-frame tent using fallen branches, then gathered large leaves to create a ground cover. He layered them carefully: leaf, dirt, leaf, dirt, creating insulation from the cold earth and whatever moisture might seep up through the soil.
The structure wasn't beautiful, but it was functional. Like him, it existed purely to serve a purpose—in this case, keeping him dry and slightly warmer than sleeping exposed would allow.
Satisfied with his work, Zhung crawled inside the makeshift shelter and lay down on the layered leaves. The moon had risen, casting weak light through gaps in his leaf-branch roof, painting everything in shades of silver and shadow.
He closed his eyes, expecting sleep.
Instead, he found nightmare.
---
The voices came as they always did—fragments of memory and trauma woven together by his sleeping mind into a chorus of condemnation.
"Why didn't you just die?!"
A woman's voice, shrill with rage and grief—his mother from the first life, screaming at him after his brother's funeral, blaming him for surviving when her favorite son had not.
"You... are disgusting to watch."
A man's stern voice, cold and measured—his father, speaking with the clinical detachment of someone observing a failed investment, a product that hadn't met specifications.
"Thanks for the ride to my goal."
A husky voice full of satisfied malice—his girlfriend Mei Ling from his first life who'd used Zhung's as a steppingstone to secure a wedding of her first love, then had him fired to eliminate the witness to his theft.
"Once, perhaps. But you were always just a substitute. Nothing more."
Xain Xe's voice, cold as winter stone, delivering the truth that had killed something fundamental inside him during his second life.
Many voices layered over each other in his nightmare, each one a wound reopened, each word a blade drawn slowly across scar tissue that had never properly healed. They came from different lives, different contexts, but carried the same essential message: *You were never enough. You were used. You were disposable.*
His sleeping face remained neutral despite the assault, his body unmoving. Only his eyes flickered rapidly beneath their lids, the physical sign of a mind under siege.
Then, with the same cold discipline he'd cultivated across three lifetimes, his eyes simply opened.
Dawn light was beginning to filter through the trees, weak and gray but growing stronger. The darkness was starting to conclude its nightly reign. Zhung lay there for a moment, staring at nothing, his gaze ice-cold despite the nightmare's assault.
His eyes still held ambition—that hadn't changed. The voices could scream all they wanted in his sleeping hours. They couldn't touch what he'd become in waking life.
He rose without ceremony, dismantled his shelter with quick efficiency, scattered the fire's ashes, and prepared himself for the road ahead. No breakfast—the rabbit from last night would sustain him through the morning. Water from his flask. Check his supplies. Adjust the wolf pelt across his shoulders.
Then he walked.
The forest gradually opened up as he traveled west, trees becoming sparser until finally he emerged into an open field where no trees grew at all—only endless green grass stretching to the horizon.
The path beneath his feet had become clearer, more defined, as if more people traveled this route. The sky above was a brilliant blue, calm and cloudless, the kind of perfect autumn day that made everything seem peaceful even when nothing was.
The grass swayed with the wind in rhythmic waves, almost hypnotic in its uniformity.
*So this is the Western Frontier,* Zhung thought, pausing to survey the landscape. *I expected desert—red rock and dust, based on the descriptions in the books I'd read. But I suppose I was wrong, or perhaps this is the eastern edge where the grasslands haven't yet given way to canyon country.*
*Geography matters. Knowing where you are means knowing what resources exist, what beasts hunt here, what kind of cultivators you're likely to encounter.*
He continued walking, his boots crushing grass with each step, when suddenly a sound cut through the peaceful quiet.
A shout—high-pitched, desperate, female.
Zhung's head turned immediately, eyes scanning his surroundings with predatory focus. There—running across the grassland about three hundred meters away—a girl in a pink hanfu, the expensive silk incongruous against the wild landscape. Her eyes were wide with panic, her hair streaming behind her as she ran with the desperate speed of someone who believed death followed close at her heels.
And it did.
Behind her, perhaps fifty meters back and closing the distance, ran five men—bandits by the look of them, rough clothing and weapons drawn, shouting to each other as they pursued their prey.
Zhung's mind worked with cold efficiency, calculating angles and probabilities as the girl's path brought her directly toward him.
*She's seen me. She's running toward me, toward the only other person visible in this grassland. Standard prey behavior—flee toward others when predators chase.*
*Do I help? Do I ignore her? Do I simply step aside and let the bandits have her?*
His hand moved to the axe tucked into his wolf-pelt robe, fingers wrapping around the worn handle as he considered his options with ruthless pragmatism.
*Her clothing is high quality—silk with embroidered patterns, the kind that costs more than a peasant earns in ten years. Either she's a merchant's daughter, or possibly connected to one of the noble families. If she's from a merchant clan, helping her could mean monetary reward. If she's noble-born, it could mean connections, favors, access to resources I'll need.*
*But if she's worthless—a runaway servant wearing stolen clothes, or a trap set by these bandits to lure in good Samaritans—then she's a liability. Helping her would waste time and energy with no return.*
The girl was closing the distance fast, her desperate run eating up ground. The bandits were spreading out slightly, trying to flank her, professional in their pursuit.
Zhung's expression remained neutral as he completed his calculation.
*High risk, potentially high reward. The kind of gamble that defines whether you climb or fall.*
As the girl came within thirty meters, close enough for him to see the tears streaming down her face, close enough to hear her labored breathing, she spotted him clearly for the first time—a figure in white fur standing motionless on the path, weapon in hand.
"Help me, mister!" she screamed desperately, her voice cracking with exhaustion and terror. "Please, help me!"
Zhung stood unmoving for one more heartbeat, his face expressionless, his dark eyes calculating. Then, with deliberate slowness that spoke of careful thought rather than hesitation, he pulled the axe fully free from his robe.
The bandits saw the weapon emerge and slowed their pursuit, their expressions shifting from predatory confidence to wary assessment. A stranger protecting a stranger, potentially fighting another group of strangers—the equation had changed, and they needed to recalculate just as Zhung had.
The girl reached him and immediately positioned herself behind him, small hands clutching at his wolf-pelt robe, using his body as a shield between herself and her pursuers. She was perhaps fourteen or fifteen, her face pretty beneath the panic and sweat, her breathing coming in desperate gasps.
Zhung looked at the bandits coldly, his grip on the axe relaxed but ready. The five men had stopped about fifteen meters away, spreading into a loose semicircle, clearly experienced fighters assessing a new threat.
The wind blew gently across the grassland, making the pink silk of the girl's hanfu flutter like a captured bird. The sun continued its slow arc across the perfect blue sky. Everything was suspended in a moment of decision.
One of the bandits—older than the others, with a scar across his jaw and the bearing of a leader—spoke first.
"That's our merchandise, stranger. We've been chasing her for three hours. You don't want to get involved in business that doesn't concern you."
Zhung's expression didn't change. His voice, when he spoke, was flat and cold. "Everything concerns me when it happens in front of me. That's the nature of choice—it forces involvement whether you want it or not."
The scarred leader's eyes narrowed. "Philosophical. How unusual for someone wearing a wolf pelt and carrying a beast-hunter's axe. But philosophy doesn't change reality, friend. That girl is worth good money to us. Walk away, and we'll pretend this conversation never happened."
Behind Zhung, the girl's grip on his robe tightened. She was trembling now, adrenaline fading into shock, her breathing still labored.
Zhung's mind continued its cold calculation: *Five bandits, likely Tin rank at best based on their equipment and the fact they're operating as common thugs. Against my Tin rank, that's dangerous but not insurmountable if I'm smart about it. The girl's value is still uncertain, but the fact these men want her badly enough to pursue for three hours suggests she's worth something to someone.*
*The real question: am I willing to kill for potential benefit? To spill blood based on probability rather than certainty?*
The answer came easily, coldly, shaped by three lifetimes of learning that hesitation was just another word for failure.
*Yes. I am.*
A thought crystallized in his mind, sharp and self-aware: *You can call me a hypocrite for choosing when to help and when to abandon, for claiming to walk a path between saint and demon but making decisions based purely on benefit. You'd be right to call me that.*
*But I don't care about your judgment. I care about survival. I care about climbing. I care about accumulating the resources and connections I'll need to eventually rewrite the rules that made me into this.*
*Everything else—morality, consistency, appearing virtuous—those are luxuries I can't afford. Not yet. Maybe not ever.*
His grip on the axe shifted slightly, his stance settling into something more balanced, more ready. His voice emerged cold and final:
"The girl stays with me. Turn around, walk away, and you get to live. Continue this conversation, and I'll make your deaths quick. That's more mercy than most people in my position would offer."
The scarred leader's face hardened. His hand moved to the sword at his hip. The other four bandits tensed, ready to move on his signal.
The wind continued to blow. The grass continued to sway. The sun continued its arc.
Everything hung on the edge of violence, waiting for someone to tip the balance.
Behind Zhung, the girl in pink silk clutched his wolf-pelt robe and tried not to cry, unaware that the man protecting her had just decided her value in the same cold calculation he'd use to price meat at a market.
The moment stretched, taut as a bowstring drawn to breaking point.
And then—
**To Be Continued**
---
**End of Chapter 11**