The sun slipped behind the jagged mountain ridges, bleeding a bruised, sickly purple across the canopy before plunging the deep woods into a suffocating, pitch-black silence.
It had been an ordinary day of scavenging—until the stillness tore apart.
From the dense, lightless brush, a low-tier mountain beast lunged without a sound.
Its massive jaws clamped straight onto Airan’s right thigh, the sickening crunch of tearing muscle drowned out only by the wet rip of flesh.
Agony exploded through his nervous system, a white-hot shockwave that vacuumed the air from his lungs.
He crashed hard into the damp earth, every fiber of his body seizing in blinding, intolerable torment.
Airan squeezed his eyes shut, biting down so hard his gums bled, and forced his head around.
Through a tear-blurred haze, he saw the beast standing over him, rhythmically chewing on the bloody chunk of meat it had just ripped from his leg.
Panic clawed at his throat, but a colder, darker instinct of sheer survival overrode the terror.
Gritting his teeth against the shrieking agony in his leg, Airan channeled every scrap of his remaining focus and hurled a concentrated, volatile fireball straight into the creature’s face.
For the low-tier beast, it was a brutal, blinding flashbang.
Its hypersensitive eyes and raw snout melted into searing pain as the heat detonated right against its skull.
Pouring every ounce of his failing strength into the desperate counter, Airan pushed too hard—a sharp, sickening tear ripped through his Dantian, sending a wave of internal hemorrhage echoing through his core.
He didn’t scream.
He couldn’t.
Igniting what was left of his adrenaline, Airan scrambled backward and started running like a madman.
It was frantic, animalistic desperation.
Even with a mutilated thigh leaking dark blood onto the forest floor, he dragged himself forward, fleeing for his very life until the shadows swallowed the beast’s roars behind him.
Collapsing onto a massive, jagged rock, Airan’s vision swam at the edges.
With shaking, blood-slicked fingers, he clawed out the 10 good-quality herbs he had gathered earlier, crushing them into a frantic, pulpy mash and slapping them directly onto the gaping wound to slow the bleeding.
To stop the internal collapse, he swallowed all 15 low-grade healing pills he had hoarded away for his darkest hour.
The raw, searing pain dulled to a dull, throbbing ache just long enough for him to claw back a miserable thread of consciousness.
Limping like a broken puppet, he dragged himself to the city gates before nightfall, dumped his quota of 50 common herbs, and vanished into the labyrinth of dark, forgotten alleyways.
As he dragged his ruined leg past a rotting pile of refuse, a sound stopped him cold—a pathetic, high-pitched whimpering.
Airan froze.
He took a hesitant step.
The sound came again.
It dragged him violently backward across the stars, ripping him away from Blue Star and slamming him down onto Earth.
He was 6 years old again, hands outstretched as a small, clumsy puppy was dropped into his arms—a ball of pure warmth and unconditional loyalty that became his anchor through a lonely childhood.
Then the memory warped, bleeding into the suffocating guilt of his 20th year, watching that same dog wither away in agonizing silence, its cloudy eyes looking up at him while Airan failed to notice the sickness consuming it.
He had blamed himself every day since, vowing never to let another living thing depend on him—right up until he died alone at 35, only to wake up in this brutal, unforgiving cultivation hell.
Airan hobbled down the narrow lane, his heart hammering against his ribs.
He found the source: the puppy’s mother lay stiff and cold in a pool of dark blood, the casualty of a vicious territorial turf war between stray alley hounds.
Tucked against her lifeless belly was a newborn pup, barely 1 week old, shivering, blind, and utterly alone.
Airan dropped to his knees, his injured leg screaming in protest.
He reached out with trembling hands and lifted the tiny, fragile bundle against his chest.
I didn’t save the first one, Airan thought, his throat tightening as a fierce, heavy resolve locked into place behind his eyes.
I am not leaving this one.
For a few fragile heartbeats, the crushing agony of his flesh and the bleak darkness of the world vanished, replaced by the faint, steady heartbeat against his palm.
Carrying the pup close beneath his tattered robes, Airan limped toward the glowing lanterns of the apothecary district, spending 5 precious spirit stones on a single low-grade Dantian pill to stitch his torn core back together.
Stepping back out into the freezing night air, a harsh reality set in.
What happens when a beast finds me again?
He had no weapons.
He had survived tonight on sheer, ugly luck.
Next time, luck wouldn’t be enough.
Turning away from his quarters, he walked into the dim, cluttered storefront of a local equipment shop.
He emptied his entire remaining cache of 30 spirit stones—every copper and stone he had bled for over the last month—buying 4 low-grade spell scrolls at 5 spirit stones apiece:
* Fire Wall: A basic, rudimentary barrier.
* Fire Step: A modest mobility boost for his feet.
* Wind Burst: A sharp shove of air.
* Leaf Blade: A cheap, fragile cutting edge.
He didn’t buy heavy, expensive defensive tools or flashy, devastating offensive fire spells.
Those required resources he didn’t have, and casting times he couldn’t afford in an ambush.
As an engineer from a cold, mechanical world, Airan’s mind began to spin in the dark.
He didn’t need high-tier magic.
By weaving together the kinetic kick of a basic wind burst, the razor edge of a leaf blade, and the thermal push of his fire root, he would forge his own survival.
If this world wanted to tear him apart, it would have to get through every single scrap of him first.
Author’s Note: Thanks for reading Chapter 4!
Airan’s journey from a penniless herb collector to a spirit distiller starts here.