Damian carefully lifted the broken wooden door, his newly amplified strength a dangerous, unwieldy burden. He grimaced as fresh splinters groaned and cracked, despite his deliberate effort to be gentle.
"Stop breaking it, you moron!" he chastised himself, his internal voice sharper than any physical pain. He gingerly placed the ruined door beside the cottage, a gaping maw now where his entrance used to be.
"What should I do? Just leave it?" He looked at the exposed interior. "Not like there's anything valuable to steal, anyway," he muttered, thinking of his meager belongings. He decided against trying to fix it and simply walked away, leaving the cottage open and vulnerable.
His walk towards the Beast Mountain was excruciatingly slow, a torturous exercise in controlled restraint.
Every step was a conscious effort, his foot pressing a few millimeters deeper into the earth, leaving a faint, telling imprint. He felt like an elephant trying to tiptoe, his body humming with a power that refused to be truly contained.
It took him over an hour, an hour filled with exasperated sighs and near-trips, before he reached the towering, ancient trees that marked the entrance to the Beast Mountain.
He knew the reputation of this place. The beasts here were not mere animals; they were creatures infused with spiritual energy, their ferocity amplified by the mountain's unique environment.
But his target was the outermost area of the outer zone, the weakest tier, where only the lowest-stage beasts lurked. It was meant for beginners, though for a Stage 1 disciple, even these creatures were formidable.
There were no guards, no gatekeepers at the entrance, only an invisible barrier. The entire mountain was shrouded by a complex array, a mystical barrier that repelled intruders.
Only those bearing the sect token could pass. Damian retrieved his sect token from his spatial pouch. As he held it aloft, a shimmer passed over the air, and he stepped through the array as easily as walking through mist.
Now, the real challenge began. He consulted the fragments of the old Damian's memories. In this specific outer-outer zone, there were only two common targets for disciples: the Stage 1 Wild Boar and the Stage 2 Shadow Cat.
"Fighting the wild cat is too risky," he muttered to himself, the night's gloom deepening the shadows around him. "They're even more ferocious in the dark. Better stick to the boar." He felt a gratitude for the old host's obscure knowledge. Knowing his prey was half the battle
He moved with painstaking caution towards the boar's known territory. His control over his strength had improved marginally during his slow walk, but it was still a tightrope walk over an abyss.
He needed to learn to use his hands, his grip, his delicate movements. If he didn't master it, his bed might suffer the same fate as his door.
He scanned the dense undergrowth, the air growing colder, heavier. A rustle in the bushes. He edged closer, pressing his hand against a thick tree trunk for support, trying to peer through the gloom.
CRACK!
His palm sank into the bark, sending a web of cracks radiating across the trunk. The noise, though not as dramatic as the door's demise, was still loud enough to shatter the forest's silence.
A deep, guttural "Grunt! Grunt!" ripped through the air. The bush directly ahead exploded outwards.
A beast of pure, primal rage charged out. Its fur was jet black, almost blending with the night, and its small, feral eyes glowed with a faint, malevolent red.
"Why always me!" Damian cried, genuinely exasperated. There was no time to run. In a desperate, instinctive lunge, he climbed the tree. This time, his uncontrollable strength was a blessing.
His hands found support, digging into the cracked bark, creating footholds where none should exist.
He scrambled upwards, clinging to the trunk like a desperate monkey, until he was just out of reach of the infuriated beast below.
The boar raged at the base of the tree, its grunts echoing through the quiet night. Its red eyes burned with frustration as it tried, repeatedly, to ram the solid trunk.
Damian watched it, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He knew what he had to do. This was his chance. He needed to fight. To learn. To truly control this power, he needed to engage with it, like an ancient primate learning to wield a stick.
After several minutes of futile attempts, the wild boar's anger began to wane. It snorted, pawed at the ground, and then, to Damian's surprise, began to slowly turn away, its interest already shifting. It was going to leave.
'Oh no you don't!' Damian thought, a burst of adrenaline overriding his fear. He wouldn't get a better chance. With a shout, he launched himself from the tree, aiming directly for the boar's back.
The boar, sensing the sudden shift in the air, reacted with surprising speed. It sidestepped, a blur of black fur, narrowly evading Damian's clumsy attack.
Damian crashed to the ground, hitting hard, the wind knocked out of him.
He scrambled to his feet, barely avoiding a furious headbutt from the now thoroughly enraged beast.
The boar charged again, its tusks glinting ominously. Damian met it head-on, not with finesse, but with raw, uncontrolled power. He threw a punch, a wild, untamed swing that connected squarely with the boar's head.
The force was immense; the boar staggered, its red eyes widening in pain. It shook its head, letting out a pained squeal, but it quickly recovered, snapping at Damian's arm. Damian barely pulled back in time, feeling the wind of its jaws.
He needed a strategy. The memories told him boars were relentless but predictable. He feigned a retreat, drawing the beast further from the trees, into a small clearing.
Then, as it lunged, he ducked low, grabbing one of its powerful legs. With a grunt of effort, he twisted, using his unnatural strength to upend the heavy creature. It crashed to the ground, stunned.
Before it could recover, Damian pounced, raining down a barrage of frantic, uncontrolled punches to its head and neck.
The ground vibrated with the impact of his blows. The boar thrashed, squealed, but couldn't withstand the sheer, brute force.
Finally, with a last, shuddering grunt, the wild boar went limp.
Damian stood over it, panting, his body aching despite his breakthrough. His hands were scraped raw, his clothes torn, and he had fought with the grace of a collapsing building. But it was dead. He had won.
He retrieved a small kitchen knife from his spatial pouch, its sharp edge glinting in the faint moonlight filtering through the canopy. He tore open the boar's tough hide, searching for the core.
His fingers closed around something hard and smooth, pulling it out into the open. It was small, no bigger than his thumb, and pulsed with a faint, crimson light—a beast core.
"A beast core," Damian whispered, a surge of pure triumph washing over him. It was his first. His first genuine, hard-won prize earned through his own efforts in this brutal world.
"Clap! Clap! Clap!"
The slow, deliberate sound echoed from behind him, cutting through the silence like a knife. Damian's blood ran cold. He hadn't sensed a thing. Not a sound, not a flicker of Qi.
He spun around, the kitchen knife still clutched in his hand, a primal fear seizing him.
"Who goes..." Damian began, but the words died in his throat. His eyes widened, and he flinched back in sheer terror.
Standing in the deep shadows, leaning casually against a moss-covered boulder, was the very last person he wanted to see.
It was Raven Hazelwood.