On the border of Qingqiu Nation, there lay a forgotten mountain forest.
Unlike the graceful, spiritual hills of Qingqiu's heartland, the trees here were stunted and twisted, and even the wind carried a putrid, decaying scent. The hunters called this place "Soul-Breaking Ridge", because further south lay lawless lands overrun with ferocious beasts.
Chen Yuan trudged down the mountain path, dragging a horned deer he had trapped just the day before.
The deer was not large, but with the crude wooden sled, it weighed at least a hundred jin. Barefoot on the gravel road, the soles of his feet were blistered and bloody, yet he did not so much as frown. The twelve-year-old boy was small and thin; years of sun had baked his skin dark and rough. Only his eyes were startlingly bright—like a deep pool in a mountain stream, lit clear through by sunlight.
"Chen Yuan! Off south again?"
At the village entrance, several middle-aged hunters skinning animal hides looked up. The speaker was a burly man with a thick beard, Zhao Tieshan, deputy leader of the village hunting team.
Chen Yuan grunted in acknowledgment and did not stop.
"If your father knew you were going south alone, he'd break your legs," Zhao Tieshan said, setting down his knife and standing. "Things have been restless out there lately. The patrols have seen tracks of something big—"
"Uncle Zhao," Chen Yuan interrupted flatly, "my father's been dead for three years."
His tone was as ordinary as if he were commenting on the fine weather. He pulled the sled onward, and behind him came the sighs of a few hunters.
"Poor kid."
"What's so poor about him? The fact that he can't even awaken his bloodline? In Qingqiu, without bloodline power, you're worse than a dog."
"Don't say that. His father back in the day was—"
"Was what? No matter how great his father was, the son is a waste. They kicked him out of Qingqiu City, didn't they?"
Chen Yuan heard the words. His steps faltered for a moment, then quickened.
Of course he knew why they were gossiping.
Qingqiu Nation was founded upon the bloodline of the nine-tailed fox. Every citizen was born to coexist with beast blood. To awaken one's bloodline and gain supernatural powers was the rite of passage for every child of Qingqiu. Those with high talent could awaken one tail, two tails, or even three, setting foot on the path of cultivation and rising above the masses.
And he, Chen Yuan, direct descendant of the Chen clan of Qingqiu City, had yet to awaken any bloodline at all.
It wasn't low talent. It was none.
As if cursed by heaven, his body was completely empty—not a trace of any beast bloodline. In this nation where bloodline determined rank, he was a complete anomaly, a waste incapable of cultivation.
Three years ago, his father died in battle, his mother remarried, and his own clan expelled him from Qingqiu City to this border village on the grounds of "impure bloodline." In name, it was "tempering"; in reality, it was exile.
Chen Yuan dragged the horned deer to his home and began the familiar work of skinning, deboning, and cutting the meat.
He lived in a run-down wooden hut at the easternmost edge of the village. The roof leaked, the walls let in the wind, but at least it was quiet. In the yard, several dried animal hides were stretched out; by the wall stood jars of preserved meat—all from his solitary hunting trips over the past few months.
No bloodline power? Then he would rely on physical strength, skill, and patience.
From age six, he had learned hunting from his father. Though his father had taught him for only two years, those lessons were carved into his bones. What kind of footprints meant a beast had passed, what kind of droppings meant prey had moved through recently, what wind direction would alert the quarry—he remembered every bit of it.
The meat was portioned out. The best haunch meat he kept for himself; offal and bones could be traded for salt and cloth; the dried deer hide would fetch a few copper coins.
As he was tidying up, the yard gate was kicked open.
"Chen Yuan! This month's tribute!"
Three youths stood at the entrance. The leader was the village head's son, Zhao Hu, fifteen years old. He had awakened the bloodline of the Ironback Wolf and was considered the village's "genius." Behind him were his two hangers-on, Wang Shi and Liu San—both had awakened low-grade bloodlines, but that still put them above Chen Yuan, the "pulseless one."
Chen Yuan didn't even look up. "I paid double last month. I owe nothing for this month."
"Owe nothing?" Zhao Hu walked over and stepped on the freshly cut venison. "I say you owe. A waste like you living in our village—what, you think you don't need to pay protection?"
The venison was crushed into the mud.
Chen Yuan's hand tightened on his knife, knuckles white.
"Oh, you want to fight?" Zhao Hu looked down at the crouching boy and sneered. "That little blade of yours can't even cut my skin. Believe me, I could crush you with one hand."
"Hu-ge, don't waste words," Wang Shi chimed in. "He bagged so many animals last month—he must have hidden plenty of good stuff. Let's search the place!"
The three youths began ransacking the yard.
Chen Yuan stood up.
He didn't reach for his knife—Zhao Hu was right. That ordinary hunting knife truly couldn't cut the skin of someone who had awakened the Ironback Wolf bloodline. But he didn't just stand there either.
He walked to the corner of the yard, picked up a bucket of water he had drawn yesterday, turned, and threw it.
Whoosh—
Zhao Hu was drenched to the bone. He froze for a moment, then exploded in rage. "You're asking for it!"
His eyes turned bloodshot. A phantom image of gray-black fur emerged on the surface of his body—the half-awakened state of the Ironback Wolf bloodline. Even at this lowest level, it was more than enough to handle an ordinary boy.
A fist came flying, cutting through the air.
Chen Yuan dodged aside, but Zhao Hu was faster than he had expected. The second punch followed immediately, landing solidly on his shoulder.
Crack.
The sound of breaking bone was unmistakable.
Chen Yuan flew backward, slammed into the yard wall, and a mouthful of bloody spittle rose in his throat.
"Trash is trash." Zhao Hu shook the blood from his hand and looked down at him. "Three days. Have the tribute ready. Next time, I'll break your legs."
The three left cursing, not forgetting to take the dried hides and a jar of preserved meat on their way out.
Chen Yuan leaned against the wall, cold sweat beading on his forehead from the searing pain in his left shoulder. Gritting his teeth, he used his right hand to reset the dislocated bone, then fetched a strip of cloth from inside the hut and bound the shoulder tight.
Through it all, he did not utter a sound.
When he was six years old, on the last day his father taught him to hunt, the man had said: "Remember this, boy. Only the living have the right to cry out in pain."
He was eight when he watched his father's figure vanish into the dense forest south of Qingqiu City, never to return.
Three days later, word reached Qingqiu City: Chen Xiaotian, the eldest son of the Chen clan, had encountered a high-rank beast while carrying out a mission and had fallen in battle.
They never even recovered his body.
After tending to his wound, Chen Yuan picked up the trampled venison. Meat mixed with mud wouldn't keep long, but it was still fine to eat today. He washed it clean and roasted it over the fire; the savory smell soon filled the air.
He was eating when a sharp cry came from the northern forest.
The sound was like a bird's call, yet also like an infant's wail—piercing, with an indescribable mournfulness. Chen Yuan put down his meat and frowned.
He had roamed these mountains for years and had never heard such a sound.
After a moment's hesitation, he picked up his hunting knife and a torch and headed toward the northern woods.
The night wind was cool. Clouds covered the moon, and the forest was pitch black. Chen Yuan raised his torch and walked along a barely visible path. The cry grew nearer, but also weaker, as if whatever was making it was in its death throes.
Pushing through a low thicket, he found the source.
A small bird with fiery red feathers, pinned under a huge beast trap.
The trap was no ordinary iron device. Its surface was densely carved with runes, faintly radiating spiritual energy fluctuations. This was a spirit tool designed specifically to capture beasts—ordinary people could not open it; only by channeling spiritual energy could one release the mechanism.
And the little bird—Chen Yuan recognized it.
Bi Fang.
According to the Classic of Mountains and Seas: "There is a bird there, shaped like a crane, with one foot, red markings on a green base and a white beak. Its name is Bi Fang, and its call sounds like its own name. Where it appears, fires break out."
It was a descendant of ancient divine beasts. Though this one was still a fledgling, even a fledgling was enough to drive all of Qingqiu Nation into a frenzy.
The Bi Fang fledgling's left leg was crushed, blood trickling down the iron teeth of the trap. Its fiery red feathers were matted with blood. When it saw someone approaching, it struggled to flee, but it had no strength left and could only emit a faint, pitiful cry.
Chen Yuan crouched and examined the trap carefully.
Whoever had set such a spirit tool had to be at least a Blood-Merging Realm expert. Such a hunter wouldn't appear on the border of Qingqiu for no reason, and even less would he abandon a captured Bi Fang fledgling—unless something had gone wrong.
He looked up and followed the iron chain attached to the trap.
The other end of the chain was tied to a large tree. At the base of the tree lay a person.
No, not a person.
Chen Yuan walked over, and the torchlight illuminated the body.
It was an old man in a black robe. A hole the size of a fist had been punched straight through his chest—the blood had long since dried. But his face still bore the expression it had worn in life: pale skin, sinister features, and a strange smile curling at the corners of his mouth.
On the old man's forehead was a cyan mark, like a curled fox.
The mark of the National Advisor's Office of Qingqiu.
Chen Yuan's heart sank.
Qingqiu's National Advisor, Xuan Ming, held power second only to the nation's ruler. Beneath him were seven disciples, known as the "Seven Sons of Xuan Ming," each a Blood-Merging Realm expert or above.
The old man lying dead before him must have been one of them.
Whoever could kill a Blood-Merging Realm expert was at least a Demigod Realm monster. And that monster might still be nearby.
Chen Yuan made his decision in an instant.
He turned and walked back to the Bi Fang fledgling, drew his hunting knife, and aimed at the trap's mechanism.
"Don't move."
He had no spiritual energy to activate the spirit tool, but he had another way.
The hunting knife slid into the gap of the mechanism. He pried with all his strength.
Crack—the knife snapped.
But the mechanism loosened by a hair. Chen Yuan gritted his teeth, jammed the broken blade deeper into the gap, gripped it with both hands, and pushed down with everything he had.
The broken shoulder screamed in agony. Blood seeped through the cloth, staining half his shirt red.
"Open… dammit!"
The mechanism finally sprang free.
Chen Yuan scooped up the Bi Fang fledgling and ran down the mountain without looking back.
What he did not know was that less than a quarter-hour after he left, the old man's corpse suddenly opened its eyes.
"How interesting…"
An ancient, cold voice sounded out of empty air.
"A mere mortal without a bloodline dares to touch my quarry."
"What surprises me even more… is what hides inside your body."
"Chaos Bloodline… I've searched for three hundred years. I never thought I'd find it here."
In the darkness, a pair of gleaming eyes slowly opened, watching the direction the boy had disappeared.
"Wait for me. I will come for you soon."