Alfred stood in the quiet, dusty chamber of the cave, his eyes fixed on the two unsettling elements before him: the silent human skeleton lying curled in the shadow, and the large, thick animal skin that lay folded nearby. The air in the cave was dry and perpetually cool, giving the space an air of deep preservation, as if time itself had slowed down inside the rock. He walked toward the skin cautiously, the instinct to avoid disturbing the remains of the dead man warring with his urgent need for warmth and comfort.
The animal skin was much larger and heavier than he initially thought, likely from a very big mountain deer or perhaps a low-country buffalo, though Alfred could not be certain of the exact species. The inner surface, which would rest against the body, was still soft despite its age, and the outer hide was durable, a heavy, protective covering. He grabbed one corner and pulled the skin open, spreading it out fully to examine its condition.
As the large hide unfolded, a smaller, tightly rolled piece of parchment, also made of dried and treated animal skin, dropped from the center onto the dusty floor. It landed with a soft, dry clatter and rolled a short distance.
Alfred froze, his eyes locked onto the small skin scroll. He walked over and picked it up. It felt ancient and delicate, the edges slightly frayed, but the material itself was incredibly resilient. He carefully unrolled the brittle material. The interior surface was covered in flowing, dark characters, written in a stark, efficient style. Alfred could read the strange script. It was the same language they used in Oakhaven, a language that his mind, having been forced into this new reality, simply understood now.
He began to read the title written boldly at the top of the scroll: BLOOD DEVOURING ART.
Alfred's breath hitched in his throat. He felt an immediate, strong sense of cold dread that was far more intense than the coldness of the cave air. The words themselves, when read in his mind, carried a weight of inherent wickedness and danger. Blood Devouring. It was a name that spoke of dark cultivation, of consuming the life force of others, of methods explicitly forbidden and feared in the simple, righteous teachings of Master David's village. It felt immediately, deeply wrong—demonic, an evil thing passed down by the dead man who now lay as a skeleton nearby.
His moral instinct, the ingrained principles from his life as a professor and the survival code of Oakhaven, reacted instantly with profound rejection. This was not a weapon or a simple martial art; this was a path toward dark power, a path that twisted the soul. He did not need to read the content to understand the fundamental evil suggested by the title alone.
With a sudden, decisive movement, Alfred carefully rerolled the demonic cultivation art. He located the small, hidden fold in the large sleeping skin from which the scroll had fallen, and he pushed the dreadful parchment back into the deep crevice. He then folded the thick animal skin back over, completely hiding and burying the demonic art under the durable hide. He refused to look at it, refused to acknowledge its presence. It was dangerous and tainted, and he wanted no part of the darkness it represented. He would use the skin for warmth, but the secret it contained would remain buried.
That night, Alfred used the heavy, large animal skin for his bedding. He placed it over the dry grass and pine needle mattress he had constructed earlier. The thickness of the hide was an immediate, immense improvement over the bare earth, providing effective insulation against the cold, damp cave floor. He curled up inside the fold of the skin, pulling the protective material high over his shoulders. The warmth was immediate and profound, sinking into his exhausted, aching muscles, finally allowing them to relax. He slept deeply and safely, protected from the elements and the wild, running shadows of the night.
Days passed in a monotonous, slow procession. The cave became Alfred's silent fortress, and the river and its fish were his only constant companions. His life settled into a stark, relentless routine centered entirely on basic survival. He would wake early, check the dressing on his wound, and then head to the river, slipping into the cold water to catch fish. He spent hours working the friction fire to cook his small meals, and then retreated to the back of the cave, sitting in a dull, working exhaustion, staring at the cave walls.
The leaves he had used to bind his wound were remarkably effective. The gash on his side was slowly, visibly healing. The violent red color had faded, replaced by a deep pink scab, and the intense throbbing had dulled to a low, consistent ache. But the healing process was slow. He calculated that, based on the rate of improvement he saw each morning, it would take another full month, perhaps even two, before the wound was completely healed and he could fully use his left arm for the strenuous work of sword training or intense climbing.
Boredom became a heavy burden, a mental weight that was almost as difficult to carry as his physical fatigue. There was no one to talk to, no books to read, no lectures to prepare, only the quiet, constant sound of the river running outside the cave mouth.
His thoughts constantly circled back to the village. Alfred knew the people of Oakhaven were not cruel or forgetful. They were disciplined and loyal. But he also knew their logic. They would certainly have launched a search party, following the upper trail. They would have found the tracks of the two bears, the overturned earth where Master David had likely made his last, desperate stand, and then the path leading to the cliff. There, they would have found the evidence of the struggle, the tree bark scarred by Ethan's impact, and the sheer, open drop. They would have found Ethan's body far below, or perhaps only the clear, final sign of his fall. When they saw the sheer height and the river below, they would inevitably, logically, assume that Alfred had also perished in the fall and been carried away by the powerful current. They would search for a few more days, perhaps, but ultimately, they would abandon the search, marking both boys as dead, swallowed by the mountain wilderness. He was, to the world he now inhabited, officially gone.
This realization, that he was utterly alone and cut off, was what chipped away at his resolve.
Then came the tenth day. The hunger, though satisfied by the daily fish, was not a healthy one. Alfred craved the nutrient-rich meat of land animals, the heavy, grounding meals that built strength, not just maintained life. He was surviving, but he was not recovering strength. He was a boat anchored in place, not moving forward. His spirit felt dull, the vibrant energy of his former teaching life and his strenuous martial training draining away with the monotony.
On the afternoon of the tenth day, staring at the silent, curled skeleton in the corner of the cave, Alfred made a decision rooted in cold, desperate calculation. Survival demanded power. He could not wait one or two more months for his body to heal naturally before attempting the perilous journey back to the village, if he even chose to return. He was vulnerable, weak, and alone.
He walked to his bedding and reached beneath the heavy animal skin, his fingers finding the familiar, brittle roll of the smaller skin parchment. He pulled out the BLOOD DEVOURING ART.
He did not want to cultivate this technique. The fear and moral repugnance were still strong, a deep, persistent ache in his conscience. But the cultivation technique, in the brief introductory text he had scanned, clearly stated its benefits: it would heal wounds at a rapid rate, bestow power that surpassed simple martial arts, and dramatically increase the user's physical and blood energy. If he was to return to Oakhaven and confront whatever challenges the future held—or simply survive the next winter—he needed that power and that speed of recovery. His body was his only tool, and it was currently broken.
He decided he would attempt to study the technique, not with the intention of using it against people, but to master its internal workings, to gain the strength and healing it promised. He convinced himself it was a matter of survival, a temporary alliance with a terrible necessity.
The first step, according to the cryptic instructions, involved drawing energy from a fresh source of life force. Since the only available source was the river and its inhabitants, Alfred used the blood of a freshly caught fish.
He carried the still-thrashing fish to a flat stone, quickly killing it with a precise, clean strike of his knife. He watched the dark, rich blood run out onto the stone, collecting the liquid in a small, cupped section of rock. The instructions were vague but required a fierce concentration and a specific internal visualization—a process of using his spiritual will to draw the life energy from the blood and circulate it through his own body.
Alfred sat down, cross-legged, the bowl of fish blood before him. He tried to follow the mental pathways described in the ancient script, visualizing a dark, running river of energy inside his torso. He concentrated until his head ached, his eyes fixed on the fluid before him. He attempted the process the first time. Nothing happened. The blood remained inert, and his body felt empty.
He did not stop. He tried a second time, a third, a fourth. The process was physically exhausting and mentally draining. Each failure amplified his sense of desperation and the shame of engaging with this demonic art. He could feel the time passing, the sun moving across the opening of the cave, the fish blood slowly congealing.
He tried eight times, then nine. With the ninth attempt, the sheer frustration and the desperate willpower he anchored himself with at the river, the same will that saved him from drowning, coalesced into a sharp, singular focus.
On the tenth time, he achieved a small, definite success.
As he followed the internal visualization for the tenth time, focusing all his mental strength on the physical presence of the dark blood, he felt a minute change. It was a slight, cold pressure on the surface of his skin, followed by a faint, tingling sensation, like a single thread of raw, cold energy entering his index finger.
The energy was tiny, no bigger than a sewing needle, but it was real. It moved with a quick, running speed up his arm and vanished into his core. It was a physical confirmation that the process worked, that the art was accessible.
The shock of the success was immediate, overriding the physical weariness. Alfred stared at his hand, then at the blood. The moral line he had drawn had been crossed, but the reward—the promise of power and healing—had been confirmed. The initial, small success gave him the terrible, cold confidence he needed to proceed. He recognized that this was now his path; there was no other. He was no longer a professor or a simple martial arts student. He was a survivor who had chosen the demonic way out.
so he studied that and start off demonic Teacher.