The next morning, Zaric woke before sunrise to begin another day of ore mining.
As he passed the training grounds, he caught the scent of something rich and savory. The warriors of the Flintclaw preparation camp had gathered around a massive iron pot simmering over a fire, and from it wafted the unmistakable smell of meat.
Zaric's stomach twisted. He hadn't tasted meat in days, and after his Vein Cleansing, his appetite had become monstrous.
He'd discovered that the stronger his body grew, the more energy it demanded. Since he hadn't yet reached the level where he could absorb the world's natural essence — the Heaven-Earth Vital Qi — food remained his only source of fuel.
But how could watery porridge and dried grain sustain him? He was burning through energy faster than he could replace it.
Meanwhile, the tribal elites feasted on desolate beast meat every day — dense with life force and raw Qi. It was no wonder they grew stronger while the poor wasted away.
If Zaric starved now, right after the Vein Cleansing, it would cripple his progress. His body was like bamboo in its early growth — if it lacked nourishment, it would never reach its true height.
He knew he could easily pass the trials to join the warrior camp now. His strength and speed already surpassed their weakest members. But joining meant exposure — scrutiny. The secret of the Yellow Amethyst could never be risked.
Besides, he had no interest in serving under Ren Flintclaw.
"It must be wild beast meat," said Lyra, her tone tinged with envy.
According to the tribe's customs, ordinary folk ate twice a day — no breakfast, just a late morning meal and an early dinner. Only warriors ate three times daily; their training justified the privilege.
Members of the warrior preparation camp didn't need to labor. They hunted the surrounding wilds, and whatever prey they caught became their own meal.
Even if their hunts were small, the little they brought back was theirs alone. The poor could only watch and starve.
As Zaric and Lyra walked by, Brant Ironjaw spotted them. He grinned, tore a chunk of roasted venison off a bone, and waved it mockingly.
"This deer's damn good today," he said, chewing noisily. "Hahaha!"
The meat was flame-roasted, seasoned with salt and wild herbs. The fat hissed as it dripped onto the fire, sending out waves of intoxicating scent.
Brant licked his greasy fingers and took a slow swig from a goat-hide flask.
Zaric caught the smell immediately. Alcohol.
In the tribe, that was rarer than silver. Grains were too precious to waste on brewing — yet the warriors, flush with rations, could spare some. Even their sour brewing leftovers were recycled into slop for the poor.
"Hahaha! Meat and wine — the true joys of life!" Brant boasted, smacking his lips.
Zaric could tell this was the only time such men ever felt powerful — moments like these, lording scraps over those who had none.
"These two beggars look hungry," Brant sneered. "Maybe we'll toss them some of the leftover broth."
There was no broth — the deer had been roasted whole. He was only mocking them.
Lyra's jaw tightened. She grabbed Zaric's hand to leave, but just then, her stomach growled softly.
The sound was faint, but Zaric heard it. Her face flushed red, mortified.
He couldn't help smiling. Even hungry and embarrassed, she was still the same proud sister trying to hold herself tall.
"Sis Lyra," he said, looking up at her seriously, "one day, I'll make sure you can eat the best food in the world — no more scraps, no more hunger."
Lyra blinked, startled by the conviction in his voice. Then she laughed softly and brushed a strand of hair from his face. "Sis will be waiting."
Zaric blushed faintly. Being patted on the head by a girl barely older than him felt humiliating — but somehow warm.
As they walked away, he asked, "Sis Lyra, do you know much about the Ironheart Dominion?"
Ren Flintclaw had mentioned the Dominion's upcoming warrior selection in three months — an event that could elevate anyone who passed it to a position of power. That was why he'd sacrificed so much for the desolate bones, desperate to break through before the test.
Lyra's gaze turned thoughtful. "The Ironheart Dominion… yes, I know of it. It's an ancient human empire. Its rule stretches over one hundred and eight provinces and twenty-four frontier wilds."
"Our tribe," she continued, "sits within one of those wilds — the Cloudveil Frontier. The Dominion's capital lies far to the east, surrounded by walls so high they touch the clouds."
"The Dominion is mighty beyond imagination. Its warriors come mostly from the central provinces. The wild lands like ours are too sparse and dangerous to host large tests, so the Dominion rarely sends assessors here. It costs too much, and most small tribes can't even survive the journey."
She paused. "For them to hold a selection here in the Cloudveil Frontier is… unusual. Still, it's a rare chance for small tribes like ours. Ren Flintclaw sees it as his one way out — his chance to rise and escape this place."
Zaric nodded slowly. "Sis, how do you know all this?"
Lyra smiled faintly. "I heard stories from my birth mother. She came from a learned family, and she taught me how to read before the tribe took us in. I read whatever scraps of parchment I could find. You've forgotten much, Zac — I even taught you your letters once."
"Oh…" Zaric rubbed the back of his neck. In truth, the "old" Zaric probably couldn't read at all. If not for Lyra, even basic script would've been a mystery to him.
She truly wasn't ordinary.
"Sis," he asked, "Ren said that if he becomes a Dominion warrior, he'll bring the whole tribe into the city. Is that really possible?"
Lyra shook her head. "Extremely unlikely. The Ironheart Dominion's warrior selection has many rounds — preliminaries, semi-finals, then the finals in the capital. Only the best among the best become Dominion Scholars, and only they are taught the Dominion's sacred martial art — the Ironheart Codex."
"To bring an entire tribe into the city, one would have to achieve an exceptional ranking. Ren Flintclaw… even if he reached that level, I doubt he'd care about us afterward."
Her tone turned firm. "Zac, don't tell me you're hoping he'll succeed for our sake."
"I was just curious," Zaric said quickly, touching his nose. "I'd sooner believe pigs could fly than believe Ren Flintclaw would save anyone but himself."
If Ren ever saw him alive again, he'd kill him without hesitation.
But by then, Zaric intended to be ready — strong enough to stand on his own.
Maybe, he thought, I should enter the Ironheart Dominion's warrior selection myself.
It was a direct path out of the tribe — a chance to win real freedom for both him and Lyra.
"And that Ironheart Codex," he murmured, "it must be a cultivation manual."
Without a manual, even the greatest potential went to waste. The Yellow Amethyst could heal and empower him, but it didn't teach him how to shape that power.
The Dominion's academy might.
He clenched his fists, resolve hardening.
Until then, he'd stay hidden in the Flintclaw Tribe, train quietly, grow stronger — and when the Dominion's exam came, he'd seize his chance.
The road to freedom had appeared before him. All that remained was to walk it.