The river hit him like a wall. The water felt less like liquid and more like an icy blanket that closed instantly over his head. The depth was terrifying, and the current was moving with silent, astonishing power, pulling his body downstream and beneath the surface. His lungs, already starved for air from the fall and the blow from the tree, immediately began to scream.
He thrashed wildly for a moment, panic sharp and cold in his chest. Then the training kicked in. Master David's voice echoed somewhere in his mind, and Alfred used the anchor of his will—the memory of the Mountain Root stance—to force his limbs into disciplined, working motions. He had to swim. The cliff face that had just tried to kill him was still close, offering nothing but sheer, vertical rock. The opposite bank was his only chance.
Alfred kicked out powerfully, fighting the river's relentless pull. The water was intensely cold, numbing his exposed skin while making the deep, radiating pain in his side and shoulder feel even worse. Every stroke with his left arm sent jarring spikes of agony through his torso. His jaw clenched with each movement. The water-soaked leather of his clothes dragged him down like heavy anchors.
He forced his head up, gasping for air between strokes. The air felt thick compared to the icy water clinging to his face. The river was wide, dark, and indifferent to his struggle. He knew the current would pull him far downstream, but he focused entirely on the bank ahead. In the faint, shadow-filled light, he could see a bend where the shore looked slightly shallower.
He swam for an unimaginable length of time, his energy burning away with terrifying speed. His muscles screamed with exhaustion. Moving heavy, water-logged limbs against the current demanded every calorie he possessed. He swam with frantic, desperate energy, his focus narrowed to one thing: the next stroke, the next gasp of air. He didn't let himself think of Ethan, or Master David, or the bears. There was only the present task—move toward solid earth.
Finally, after what felt like hours, his outstretched hand scraped against something solid and rough. It was the muddy, rocky edge of the riverbank. With a tremendous, final surge of effort that felt like tearing his own muscles, Alfred clawed his way out of the water's grip. He scrambled onto the bank and collapsed, the air leaving his lungs in ragged, tearing gasps.
He lay there for several minutes, completely still, unable to move anything but his lungs. The simple act of breathing was painful, a working effort. He was alive. That was all that mattered. That was everything.
When some control returned, his first action was to roll carefully onto his back and assess the damage. The left side of his body throbbed intensely where he had struck the tree. He carefully lifted the hem of his soaked shirt.
In the low light, he could see a long, jagged tear in his skin—deep enough to be alarming. The wound was bleeding freely, a steady, warm flow soaking into the mud beneath him. The cold river water had slowed the bleeding, but now that he was out, the warmth of his body was restarting the process. He immediately understood the danger. Blood loss was a common cause of death in the wilderness. He needed to stop it now.
With painful, slow movements, Alfred pushed himself upright, his head swimming with dizziness. He began searching the ground desperately, his eyes scanning the surrounding plants. He was looking for something specific—a plant Master David had taught them about during those long, boring evenings in the village.
The bank here was marshy, filled with tall, dense grasses and damp soil. He crawled along it, ignoring the throbbing pain, pushing aside wet leaves and soil. He worked methodically, remembering Master David's faint descriptions: "If you bleed, find the plant that grows low. The one with the rough, velvety texture and wide, rounded leaves. They grow everywhere near water. Crush them. Press them hard."
He located a cluster of the desired plant, recognizing the wide, slightly fuzzy leaves even in the deep shadow. Using his remaining energy, Alfred quickly tore off a handful. He mashed them between his palms, crushing the plant fibers until a thick, moist paste formed, releasing a sharp, green, earthy scent. He pressed this natural compress firmly against the long wound on his side, gritting his teeth against the sudden sting. He used a long strip of leather from his tattered belt to bind the compress in place, securing it with a tight knot. The bleeding slowed almost immediately.
It was only then, with the physical crisis momentarily addressed, that the full weight of the entire day crashed down on him. Alfred sank back onto the wet bank. He had escaped the massive bears, survived the fatal height of the cliff, and fought his way out of the merciless current. He had watched Ethan die with terrifying, absolute finality. He had lost Master David, whose fate was unknown but certainly perilous.
The escape from the city, the near-death experience of the bullet wound—it all seemed like distant dreams compared to the raw reality of the last few hours.
The exhaustion made his muscles tremble uncontrollably. He felt cold to the very core, yet sweat dripped from his forehead. His body was a wreck, battered and bruised. But his spirit, though heavily burdened by grief and shock, remained stubbornly intact. He had survived. He had to hold onto that.
He needed shelter. The sun would not rise for several hours, and the night was only going to grow colder.
Using a fallen, dry log slightly inland from the river, Alfred leaned back against the solid wood, his senses still alert. He gathered a large pile of dry grasses and dead pine needles from under a large cedar tree, creating a small, makeshift bed. It was minimal, offering little warmth, but it was dry and provided a barrier against the damp ground. He collapsed onto it and immediately fell into a deep, heavy sleep—a sleep filled with shadow-filled, frantic dreams that offered no rest.
The next morning, Alfred woke abruptly. The sun was up, though not high, casting a bright, cool glow over the river valley. The air was misty and damp, carrying the strong scent of water and pine. His entire body ached with dull, steady intensity. The bound wound on his side felt stiff and tender.
The moment he woke, his body sent an urgent message: food. The intense physical effort of the last day had completely depleted his reserves. He was ravenously hungry, the emptiness in his stomach a distracting, insistent ache.
He spent the first hour searching the immediate area. He moved slowly and cautiously, constantly listening, his eyes darting into every shadow. He looked for edible berries, nuts, or wild roots that Master David had shown them. But the environment was harsh—dense coniferous forest and rocky soil. He found nothing. Not a single cluster of berries. Not a hidden nut store. The forest was giving up nothing easily.
The realization hit him hard: he was near the river, and the river was his only viable food source. He had to catch fish.
He moved to a shallow section where the water flowed clear and strong over smooth, pale stones. He watched for several minutes, his eyes straining to penetrate the surface glare. He saw small schools of fish—quick silver flashes moving rapidly in the current.
He knew he couldn't build a net. He had no fishing line or hook. He was left with only one method: catching a fish with his bare hands.
He reluctantly stepped back into the cold river. The water hit his wound, making him wince. The cold was instantly shocking, penetrating deep into his core. He moved slowly, deliberately, easing his body down until the water reached his waist. He stood still, blending into the surrounding environment like a human statue, waiting.
His posture was everything. He had to move with absolute stillness that wouldn't alarm the fish, but with readiness that allowed for instantaneous speed when the opportunity came. He stood, unmoving, for what felt like an unimaginable time. The sun rose higher, its light glittering sharply off the moving water, making his eyes water from the intensity. His feet went numb on the slick stones. The cold had fully penetrated his skin, sinking deep into his bones. His patience was tested to its breaking point.
He focused on the movement of the fish, waiting for one to move into the slow, shallow backwash created by a large boulder. This was the vulnerable spot, where the fish weren't using the maximum power of the current.
Finally, a medium-sized fish, silver-scaled and quick, moved slowly into the target area. Alfred held his breath. He calculated the distance, the speed of the fish, the resistance of the water. He drew on the coiled energy in his lower body—the same physical training used for the downward sword strike.
With a sudden, explosive burst, he lunged forward. His hands scooped through the water. He felt the rapid, slippery movement of the fish against his palm and fingers. He missed. The fish darted away with a panicked flick of its tail, a silver flash escaping his grasp.
Frustration was a physical, bitter taste in his mouth. He forced himself back into stillness. He repeated this grueling process five times, missing each time. His movements were either too slow or too forceful. The time continued to stretch, his body shivering violently from the persistent cold.
On the seventh attempt, fueled by desperate determination not to starve on this riverbank, he changed his technique. Instead of scooping, he used his hands like a quick, closing vice. When the fish moved into the backwash, Alfred moved with sudden, final precision. His hands clamped down hard. The slick body escaped momentarily, but his fingers, driven by necessity, found a grip just behind the gills. The fish struggled violently, thrashing and bending, splashing water into his face. But Alfred held on with ferocious, working strength. He pulled the fish—its silver scales shining brightly in the sun—out of the river and threw it onto the muddy bank. He sank back into the water, utterly spent, but triumphant. The single fish, though small, felt like a feast.
The immediate priority was to cook it. Eating raw fish was a last resort, a danger to his weakened system. Making fire was the only way. It was a skill he'd practiced only briefly in Oakhaven.
In the village, the focus was always the sword, mastery of movement, and ancient texts. Survival, though understood to be critical, was always treated as minor priority. They'd been taught the friction-fire method—a difficult and physically demanding process of rubbing wood together to generate enough heat for a spark. At the time, it had felt abstract, far less exciting than the clash of wooden swords.
Now, that abstract skill was the barrier between sustenance and sickness.
Alfred found a flat, dry piece of cedar bark and began collecting tinder—dry grass, pulverized dead leaves, fine shredded tree fibers. Then he found two pieces of soft, dry wood—a spindle and a fireboard—and began the exhausting, repetitive motion of rubbing the spindle against the fireboard with tremendous force. His uninjured arm began to ache within minutes. The friction created a thin, smoky line of powder, but no heat. He worked with grim, fierce concentration, pushing his body past the pain. His meal, and perhaps his life, depended on the success of this fundamental action.
After a painful, lengthy struggle, a small, vibrant orange glow finally appeared in the black powder. He gently transferred the ember to the waiting tinder and blew on it softly. He watched with profound relief as a small, clean flame erupted. He had fire.
Three more days passed near the river. Alfred stayed close to the flame, catching fish slowly but consistently, using the fire to cook his food and dry his wet clothes. He rested, trying to let his body heal, changing the leaf compress on his wound twice a day. His energy slowly began to return, replacing the heavy exhaustion with steady, enduring fatigue.
But the riverbank offered no permanent security or true comfort. The constant threat of larger predators was a persistent shadow. On the evening of the third day, Alfred decided he had to find more secure shelter—a place protected by solid rock and high walls.
He started walking upstream, moving along the slightly elevated bank away from the marshy edge. After about an hour of careful walking, he came around a massive cluster of moss-covered boulders that had fallen from the cliff long ago. Tucked behind them, obscured by hanging ivy and thick, protective vines, was a dark, square opening.
It was a cave.
Alfred approached the entrance slowly, his hunting knife held ready, his senses on high alert. He listened carefully. The air issuing from the opening was still and cool, carrying no scent of active animal occupation. He pushed aside the thick vines, revealing an opening just tall enough for him to walk into if he crouched slightly.
He stepped inside. The change was immediate. The sounds of the forest vanished, replaced by profound, deep silence. The air inside was dry and cool, carrying the faint, metallic scent of rock and dust. He moved deeper, his eyes slowly adjusting to the perpetual shadow.
The cave opened into a large, dry chamber. In the center of the floor, lit by the weak light filtering in from the entrance, he saw two things that made him stop cold: a complete, silent skeleton and a large, folded animal skin