The northern sun rose weak and pale over the mountains, reflecting off the snow in fractured shards of light. Kaelen's breath came in rhythmic clouds, his spear gripped loosely now as he led the two orphans through the jagged paths of the mountains. The frostbitten landscape was unforgiving, every step a battle against snowdrifts, wind, and hidden patches of ice. Yet the boy who had bested a pack of wolves barely a day before moved with a fluid confidence, each footfall precise, deliberate, and impossible to follow by the inexperienced.
"You must always be aware of your surroundings," Kaelen said, his voice carrying over the wind. "The mountains are alive. They are not your friend. They will kill you if you hesitate."
The orphans, shivering in threadbare cloaks and staring with wide eyes, struggled to keep pace. Each of them was pale, thin, and broken by the hardships of the northern plains. But Kaelen saw potential in their fear, in the raw spark of survival that had kept them alive this long. Fear, when guided, could be a tool sharper than any blade.
Stopping beside a cliff that overlooked a frozen valley, Kaelen crouched and drew a rough circle in the snow. "This," he said, "is where you begin. Not with strength. Not with technique. Not with weapons. With yourself."
He gestured at the two boys. "Your body will betray you. Your mind will betray you. But if you survive that… then your hands, your spear, your qi will follow. Understand?"
They nodded hesitantly. The elder boy, barely fourteen, swallowed hard. "Yes… master," he whispered. Kaelen did not correct him—he had no official title yet. He was a boy among orphans, a teacher only by choice and necessity.
Kaelen began the first exercise of the Demon Manual: survival through suffering. He pushed them to run through snowdrifts, to climb jagged rocks, to leap from ice shelves into frozen streams. Every misstep, every fall, every slip was a lesson. The Manual taught him that pain sharpened the body; now he taught them the same.
By the third day, the boys were exhausted, muscles screaming, hands raw from gripping stones and rough bark. Kaelen did not relent. "Good," he said, voice calm, almost serene. "Pain is your teacher. Fear is your guide. Weakness is the path you must destroy. Every strike you take, every fall you endure… it is growth. It is power. If you cannot survive this, you will never survive the world."
The elder boy cried silently, but Kaelen did not look away. Instead, he demonstrated a series of spear movements, fluid and precise, every strike honed by instinct and reinforced by the Manual's adaptive growth principle. "Watch. Learn. Then fight. Not me—fight yourselves."
Hours passed. The wind bit through their cloaks, and snow fell in blinding sheets. Yet, by nightfall, the boys could move with far greater coordination, their qi flowing in untested ways through their young bodies. Kaelen could feel it—tiny surges of strength, sparks of comprehension, as the Manual worked its first magic on disciples other than himself.
The northern wind shifted, carrying a faint, distant sound: a jingling of bells, the clatter of hooves on frozen ground. Kaelen's sharp eyes caught a distant caravan approaching the mountains. Merchants, judging by the design of the wagons and the bundles they carried.
"Finally," Kaelen muttered. "Supplies, coins… the lifeblood of any sect or clan." He studied the orphans. "Stay hidden. Watch me. This is not training for survival alone. This is training for opportunity."
With a single, fluid motion, Kaelen descended from the cliff, spear ready. He approached the caravan with the calm confidence of one who knows the outcome before the first move is made. The bandits that patrolled the route were numerous but inexperienced, unprepared for the precision and power of a boy who had fought wolves and trained under the Demon Manual.
In a flurry of strikes, he disarmed, incapacitated, and terrified them into fleeing. The merchants, eyes wide with terror and awe, dropped coins, tools, and supplies at his feet. Kaelen gathered what he could, noting carefully the value of each item, already calculating the economic infrastructure needed for the northern sect he planned to build.
He returned to the boys, their eyes wide and bright. "Coins, weapons, food," he said, distributing the spoils. "If you survive, you will learn that power alone does not feed you. Opportunity and cunning feed you. A sect is not built on strength alone—it is built on wealth, knowledge, and loyalty. Remember this."
That night, around a small fire, Kaelen taught them the first formal lesson of the fledgling Demon Sect: survival, cultivation, and strategy are inseparable. Pain, fear, and adversity are tools; discipline, observation, and adaptability are weapons. And the world… the world will not wait for you. If you are not ready, it will consume you.
As the fire crackled and the snow fell silently around them, Kaelen's mind wandered to the future. A single child, a manual forged from forbidden knowledge, a handful of orphans—this was all that was needed to begin. One day, this small northern sect would grow into something the continent had never seen: a force that would defy orthodox and unorthodox alike, a sect that would topple patriarchs, crush alliances, and become a religion in its own right.
But for now… Kaelen stared into the fire, watching the shadows flicker across the snow. He did not speak of destiny, or Heavenly Master, or war. Those were distant fires, still smoldering beyond the horizon. Tonight, he was merely a teacher, and the boys were merely survivors. And in the cold, he knew that survival was the first step toward greatness.