Third POV
Snow still clung to the corners of the camp, but the overseers had decided that was no excuse for idleness.
"Clear the rubble," one barked, waving toward a half-collapsed storage shed near the outer fence. The building looked like it had been abandoned long before Elias had even arrived in the camp.
The work was pointless. A few other slaves grumbled as they hauled broken beams and shoveled dirt into piles.
Elias worked in silence, his hands numb from the cold, his mind half elsewhere — until his shovel struck something solid beneath the frozen soil.
First POV
At first, I thought it was a rock. But the sound was wrong — hollow. I knelt, scraping away dirt until my fingers brushed against wood.
It was a box, no bigger than my forearm, the surface cracked and blackened with age. The lock was little more than rust, and a firm twist snapped it open.
Inside, wrapped in brittle cloth, was a single book.
The cover was plain, the title written in faded ink:
Ironhide Frame.
Third POV
The pages smelled of dust and old sweat. The handwriting was rough but clear, written by someone who valued function over beauty.
It was a Tier One body cultivation manual — a method of strengthening flesh, bone, and muscle until they could endure blows that would shatter ordinary men.
From the margins and short notes, Elias began to piece together something more.
There were tiers.
A Tier One at their peak could wield strength twenty times that of a normal man — breaking stone with bare hands, lifting weights that would crush an ox. They had no external abilities, no flashy techniques — only raw, physical dominance.
But strength alone wasn't everything.
Cultivators aligned themselves with their nature. Ruthless men grew sharper in cruelty. Patient ones deepened in endurance. The sect's disciples, shaped by the Iron Fang's teachings, walked the path of Ruthless Fang, a cultivation alignment that rewarded those willing to crush everything in their way.
Elias read of something rarer — those who walked unique paths, never taken before. If a person's will was strong enough, they could be acknowledged by the World Spirit itself. At every stage of growth, such people would be rewarded with gifts no ordinary cultivation could provide.
The Ironhide Frame was not for such people. It was simple, brutal, meant for those who only cared about brute strength above all else.
First POV – Decision
It wasn't my path. I knew that the moment I finished the last page.
But power was power, and in this place, even the smallest edge could be the difference between life and death.
That night, I slipped away to the quiet corner behind the old blacksmith's shed. The moon was high, cold light spilling over the snow.
I sat cross-legged, steadying my breath the way the manual described. The first step was simple — pull air deep into the lungs, let it fill every muscle, then force it downward, compressing it into the core of the body.
It sounded simple.
It felt like trying to push a mountain with my bare hands.
My chest ached. My vision swam. My limbs trembled with the effort. After half an hour, I managed to complete a single cycle.
The manual said a true practitioner could do fifty in a day without strain.
I wasn't discouraged. For the first time in years, I'd found something new — something that didn't belong to the sect. Something that was mine.
Third POV
As Elias stood, his breath steaming in the winter air, he didn't notice the faint warmth in his muscles.
It wasn't much — the barest flicker of change. But it was the beginning.
The first step on a road he couldn't yet see.