Morning in the Scorched Expanse did not bring comfort.
It did not arrive gently, nor did it carry hope the way Aren had once imagined dawn should. Instead, the sun rose like a wound reopening—slow, merciless, and burning. Its light spilled across the cracked wasteland, igniting the red-black earth until heat shimmered visibly in the air. Shadows retreated reluctantly, as though even darkness feared what the day would reveal.
Aren stood alone atop the rocky ridge, the wind tugging at his tattered clothes, carrying the lingering stench of blood and scorched fur from the beasts he had killed the night before. The corpses of the Ashfang Hounds lay below him, already stiffening, their twisted forms casting long, unnatural shadows across the ground.
He stared at them for a long time.
Not in pride.
Not in triumph.
But in disbelief.
He was alive.
A human slave—untrained, uncultivated, nameless beyond a single given word—had survived a night in the Scorched Expanse and killed demonic hunting beasts bare-handed. The reality of it felt unreal, like a dream that would dissolve the moment he blinked.
Yet the pain in his body was real.
The scars were real.
And the faint, steady warmth pulsing deep within him—no longer fleeting, no longer shy—was undeniably real.
Aren inhaled slowly, forcing his racing thoughts to settle. The air burned his lungs, but he welcomed the sensation. Each breath anchored him to the present, reminding him that this was no illusion.
He knelt beside one of the beast corpses and placed his palm against its chest.
The cracked remains of the beast core lay embedded within, its glow almost completely extinguished. When Aren touched it, there was no violent reaction this time—no tearing pain, no overwhelming surge. Only a faint tug, as though something inside him acknowledged what had already been taken.
"So it wasn't luck," Aren murmured.
He withdrew his hand and sat back on his heels, staring at his palms. They looked the same—scarred, calloused, human. And yet, beneath the surface, he could feel it: a subtle density, a weight that had not been there before, like a foundation laid deep underground.
He did not know the words for it.
But instinct told him the truth.
He had taken his first step on a path humans were never meant to walk.
__________________________
Aren did not linger.
The Scorched Expanse rewarded hesitation with death, and something deep inside him urged movement—forward, always forward. He scavenged what little he could from the beasts: fragments of hardened bone, strips of scorched hide that might serve as crude protection, and the dull shard of crystal from a partially formed beast core that resisted complete absorption.
He wrapped the materials around himself as best he could, fashioning rough bindings for his wounds. It was crude, painful work, but necessary. Every small advantage mattered now.
Before leaving, he looked once more toward the distant horizon.
Far away, heat distortions marked territories claimed by powerful beasts—zones where the land itself seemed warped by their presence. Above some regions, clouds swirled unnaturally, dark and heavy, as though storms were permanently anchored there by unseen forces.
Aren understood instinctively: those were places he could not yet enter.
Not if he wished to live.
"I'm not strong enough," he admitted quietly.
The words did not taste bitter.
They tasted honest.
Turning away from the ridge, Aren began to walk.
__________________________
The Expanse changed subtly as he traveled.
The cracked earth gave way to jagged stone fields, where sharp black rocks rose like blades from the ground, forcing him to pick his path carefully. In some places, the land dipped into shallow ravines filled with pale, powdery dust that clung to skin and burned like acid if inhaled too deeply.
Time lost meaning.
The sun climbed, scorched, and descended again, marking the passage of a day—or perhaps more. Aren walked until his legs shook, rested briefly, then forced himself onward. Hunger gnawed at him relentlessly, but he ignored it. He had known hunger all his life; this was nothing new.
What was new was the way his body responded.
Each time exhaustion threatened to overwhelm him, the warmth inside stirred gently, reinforcing his muscles, steadying his breath. It did not erase fatigue, but it softened its edge, allowing him to push just a little further than before.
By the second night, Aren realized something that made his heart pound.
He was changing.
Slowly.
Subtly.
But undeniably.
___________________________
He found shelter beneath a massive overhanging slab of rock, its underside blackened by ancient fire. The space was narrow but defensible, with only one approach.
Aren collapsed inside and leaned against the stone, chest heaving.
Darkness settled quickly.
This time, he allowed himself to rest.
Closing his eyes, Aren turned his awareness inward, mimicking the instinctive focus he had felt during the battle with the Ashfang Hounds. At first, there was nothing—only pain, hunger, and exhaustion.
Then, faintly, he sensed it.
A presence.
Not a voice. Not a shape.
A core.
It was deep, buried beneath layers of something cold and restrictive, like chains forged from silence itself. Cracks ran through those chains now, thin and jagged, leaking faint threads of warmth.
Aren frowned.
"So this is why humans can't cultivate," he whispered.
He did not know how he knew—only that the understanding surfaced naturally, as though his blood remembered what his mind never learned.
Humans were sealed.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
Their physiques were shackled from birth, their bloodlines suppressed, their ability to resonate with the world's energies forcibly muted. While demons inherited power through dominant bloodlines and beasts awakened through ancestral instinct, humans were born incomplete.
Broken by design...
Aren's hands clenched.
Rage stirred—but he did not let it consume him.
"Then breaking it is the first step," he said softly.
He focused on the cracks.
The moment he did, pain flared.
It was not external pain, but internal—a deep, grinding pressure, as though invisible forces pushed back against his will. His heartbeat quickened, sweat beading on his brow as his body resisted the intrusion.
Aren grit his teeth.
He pushed.
The warmth surged, pressing against the cracks in the chains.
Something shifted.
A sharp, internal snap echoed through his awareness.
Aren gasped, eyes flying open as agony tore through him. He doubled over, coughing, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. His muscles seized, convulsing violently as though rejecting the very act of defiance.
For a terrifying moment, he thought he had gone too far.
Then—
The pain eased.
Not vanished—but receded.
Aren lay there trembling, breath ragged, heart pounding like it might tear itself from his chest. Slowly, sensation returned to his limbs. He flexed his fingers.
They felt… heavier.
Denser.
Stronger.
Aren laughed weakly, the sound echoing softly within the stone shelter.
"So this is cultivation," he whispered. "For humans."
No guidance.
No manuals.
No elders.
Only pain, resistance, and the refusal to stop.
___________________________
He did not know how long he remained there, drifting in and out of shallow rest. When he finally stirred again, something felt different.
The world felt… clearer.
Not brighter—but sharper.
He could hear the wind scraping across stone far beyond his shelter. He could sense faint vibrations through the ground, distant movements of creatures too far to see. Even the oppressive heat felt more defined, as though his body understood it better now.
Aren slowly pushed himself upright.
His hunger was still there, but it no longer felt crippling. His wounds had tightened further, scars dark and solid, no longer bleeding. His breathing was steady.
A dangerous thought crept into his mind.
I'm stronger than yesterday.
The realization sent a shiver through him—not of fear, but of awe.
This was what demons feared.
Not human strength.
Human growth.
__________________________
A sudden tremor rippled through the ground.
Aren froze.
The vibrations were heavy, rhythmic—footsteps. Large ones.
He crept toward the edge of the shelter and peered out.
In the distance, the earth split as something massive emerged.
A beast.
Towering, armored in jagged stone plates fused into its flesh, with glowing fissures of molten light running along its limbs. Each step it took cracked the ground beneath it, heat billowing outward in visible waves.
Aren's breath caught.
This was no Ashfang Hound.
This was a territorial beast—one that ruled a section of the Expanse.
The beast let out a thunderous roar, sound rolling across the wasteland like an avalanche.
Aren instinctively retreated deeper into the shelter, heart hammering.
He understood immediately.
If the Ashfang Hounds were hunters, this thing was a sovereign.
And he was prey.
But as fear surged, another emotion followed close behind.
Resolve.
Aren pressed his back against the stone, fists clenched.
"Not today," he whispered. "Not yet."
The beast eventually moved on, its presence fading slowly, the ground's vibrations easing until silence returned.
Only then did Aren exhale.
He was alive again.
Barely.
_________________________
As dawn approached once more, Aren stepped out from his shelter and faced the horizon.
He was still weak.
Still hunted.
Still a human in a world designed to erase him.
But he had survived.
He had cultivated—however crudely.
And most importantly, he had learned something no human slave was ever meant to learn.
The path forward was not given.
It had to be taken.
Aren raised his head, eyes burning with quiet intensity.
"I don't need permission," he said to the empty wasteland. "I don't need recognition."
The wind carried his words away, scattering them across the Scorched Expanse.
"I will carve my place into this world," Aren continued. "Even if heaven itself stands in my way."
Deep within him, the fractured chains trembled.
And somewhere far beyond the wasteland—beyond demon cities and beast domains—the unseen forces that governed the world shifted, ever so slightly.
For the first time in countless generations…
A human had begun to walk a path that led upward.