If the temperamental nature of monsters has one upside, it's that they produce a lot of noise—not only that, but they also react rather violently towards sudden unexpected sounds. Slipping through side alleys and back streets, Ren makes ready use of those two facts as he creeps ever closer to safety.

  In the tradition of the monastic sects, the Heavenly Star Sect is built just above a mountain's tree line. On Mount Silentspring, to be specific. Where the Heavenly Star Sect differs from their peers is that the Disciples of the Guide Star do not believe in having an outer wall separating them from the mortal realm, as that would serve no purpose other than hindering those seeking aid. Thus, all Ren has to do is clear the sect's compound and make it to the pine forest.

  Easier said than done.

  Flames belch black smoke as Ren steps past a burning building, the crackle of fire the only sound now that the screams have stopped. A face down corpse nourishes a once cozy garden, the blooming colors feeding well of the nutrients.

  Ren swallows as his hand twitches, a small trail of blood following his footsteps. Qi senses reveal no observers as Ren firms his shoulders and furrows his brows. A deep breath granting him mental strength, he hefts the corpse—thankful the face is too ruined for him to recognize—and throws it atop the makeshift pyre.

  Sparks fly as flames eagerly feast upon fresh fuel, Ren lingering just long enough to make certain the flames catch. Once sure, he nods to himself as he maneuvers over collapsed garden fences and delves once more into alley-shadows. The sun sets in the distance, casting the world in reds, pinks, and yellows, and lends aid to his escape.

  Ren does what he can, where he can. He will spare as many of his brothers and sisters the fate of monster-feed as he is able, but... There are too many corpses, too much spilled blood, for one man to save.

  Hundreds, thousands, of bodies still litter the sect's streets as monsters prowl every corner of their new kingdom. The Heavenly Star was—no, still is—on the larger side of a medium-sized sect. It has a population of a couple thousand Outer Disciples alongside roughly one hundred Inner Disciples.

  No corpse wears the golden coat of the Inner Disciples. No four-pointed stars reveal rank or status. Only the reds and whites of the Outer Disciples fill the streets. So, where are the Inner Disciples? They should have been out here, fighting and dying to defend their Outer brothers and sisters.

  The Guiding Light teaches that those with strength should use their might to the benefit of all. Just as the house shelters from the storm, the strength of immortality should be used to shield the mortal. The strong should bear the weights the weak cannot. So either the Inner Disciples are all already dead...

  Or they have abandoned their oaths.

  Ren sucks down a sharp breath as he slumps against an alley's bricks, a painful throb lancing from his fist nearly sending him tumbling to the ground. Forcing his qi from his body like that, against that pig, it can't have been good for him.

  Clenching his jaw, blood spurts as Ren balls his hand into a fist. Ignoring the pain, he pushes himself to his feet as he staggers to the end of the alleyway. Avoiding tripping over a discarded crate, he peers around the corner only to quickly wrench his head back and out of sight.

  Heart hammering and hand shaking, Ren presses himself flat against the bricks as he slowly creeps a single eye past the corner. Is it...? No, no it can't be.

  Out in the street, facing Ren's way but not yet spotting him, is a flaming fox monster. I-it isn't the same fox from the dormitory. That fox had eyes like death and fur tipped with flame, a myriad of tails filling the space of its wake. This fox merely has a wreath of flames wrapped about its neck like the mane of a lion, its single tail lit like a candle's wick.

  It slowly pads its way towards Ren's hiding spot, but it doesn't seem to have seen him just yet—else he'd already be dead. No matter how much he'd rather things be different, the facts of the matter are simple. Ren unlocked his cultivation a mere ten, twenty, maybe thirty minutes ago. He beat the pig, sure, but surprise was his only real weapon in that fight. If he fought a more clever monster, such as a fox, then he would be dead, even with the element of surprise.

  Peering across the street, Ren's lips twist into a firm grimace. Treetops, visible through the next alleyway over, peak out over the distance. He's almost there, he just needs to get past this fox!

  Backing away from the alley's edge, Ren scoops the crate off the ground as he squints at the sky. Drawing his arm back, his off hand serves to steady his aim as, in one smooth motion, he steps in and throws with all his might. Qi floods his muscles, warmth surging in his arm, as the crate leaves his fingers and carries well into the air.

  Clearing the wall with ease and carrying on into the street, the crate lands with a heavy clatter. Moments later, the scratchy sound of claws on stone rings out as the fox twists about.

  Ever quick on the draw, Ren darts across the street and into the alleyway, his motions a blur as he quickly cloaks himself in the sunset-cast shadows.

  Staggering towards the trees, a trail of blood shadowing his every step, Ren doesn't notice the creeping presence of the one-tailed fox trailing behind.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  Light mists swirl along the pine forest floor, the namesake of the Miststep Valley, as the setting sun casts gold, red, and pink through the clouds. Trees groan, their branches just beginning to bear leaves, as Ren places one end of the bandage in his mouth and pulls the fabric tight with a sharp yank.

  Releasing his bite with a sigh, Ren reclines his head against pine bark, his legs dangling off either side of the limb upon which he sits. The bandage—which he had fashioned from the ends of his white under-robe—gains a small muddy red stain across the knuckles of his bloodied hand. He'll need to find some ginseng or herbs lest infection take hold and he loses the hand.

  Ren's eye twitches as a snort slips free of his nose. A small smile curls the corners of his lips, which smoothly breaks apart as Ren curls over. Laughter shakes his body as his arms wrap about his stomach. Great, heaving howls of humor rattle free as he coughs and wheezes through it all, sucking down what breath he can between the lung-bruising levity.

  By the end of his laughing fit, Ren's vision swims with the haze of asphyxiation. Shaking his head, he picks himself up with a chuckle.

  Heavens, whoever heard of a cultivator fearing the loss of a limb? It's like something a hack fraud troubadour would come up with after doing absolutely zero research on the subject. Medicines, pills, and miracles make such matters nothing more than mortal fears.

  Of course, as Ren rides out the last few waves of his stress-breaking laughter, he has neither medicine nor pills and certainly no miracles on hand to, well, save his...hand.

  Guide Star preserve him, he's reduced to making puns!

  A sigh and a head-shake follow a punctuating snort. Either way, he is right about one thing. Ren is a cultivator now; his qi is his to control, to wield as he sees fit! He has entered the realm of Qi Sensing, taken the first step towards immortality; and he's worried about a hand!

  The sudden gurgle of his stomach wrenches Ren from his thoughts, his rebellious gut reminding him of the rather light lunch he'd only barely touched—his excitement for cultivation too much for his appetite to resist.

  Ren takes a deep breath as he climbs to his feet. Balancing on the tree limb, Ren closes his mortal vision and opens his third eye. A tapestry unfurls across the world as motes of qi ignite before his gaze. The wood qi of the tree, the earth qi of the forest floor, the water qi in the swirling mists, and the fire qi of the setting sun; with every inhale, the excess qi in the air enters his lungs and, through the five spirit roots, is filtered to the rest of his body.

  In order to not die of qi starvation, one must make sure to get enough sunlight, eat enough food, and drink enough water. Furthermore, they must vary their food as, otherwise, they will not get the necessary amounts of earth, wood, and metal qi in their diet and will suffer from a myriad variety of ailments.

  As a cultivator, Ren is capable of drawing the necessary qi from his surroundings without having to eat food or drink water. That by itself is not quite enough to quiet the complaints of the stomach, rebellious organ that it is, but it will stave off starvation.

  Unfortunately, as affects mortals in most locations, there is a lack of easily accessible metal qi in the area. While the ailments of lacking metal qi are not quite as dreadful as lacking water qi, they certainly aren't pleasant. Eventually, Ren will need to secure a source of metal qi. For now, however, he can push that issue aside in favor of a more pressing matter.

  Ren freezes as a qi signature bounces at the edge of his senses. A rabbit monster, if Ren had to guess, but it doesn't seem like it's all that interested in him—if it even notices his presence at all—as it keeps hopping along the limits of his qi sensing range until it disappears beyond his radius.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, Ren forces his qi senses to return to their dormant state; the upper danitan's eye offering scant resistance to Ren's desires. Chen had said that fresh cultivators could burn out their qi senses and, while Ren isn't sure if that's true or not, it's probably wiser to stay on the cautious side rather than risk losing an entire sense.

  Regardless, there are a number of guidelines that one should usually follow when confronted with a survival situation. Step one in such a scenario is to find or build some sort of shelter, as nature will kill you just as dead as hunger or thirst. As Ren casts a glance about his surroundings, a potential option comes to mind.

  There, nestled in the clutches of a nearby birch, is the tell-tale shape of a squirrel's drey. Sticks, moss, mud, and other coverings piled in a rounded shape while leaving a narrow opening for entering and exiting. Beady eyes, glistening in the setting sun's light, peer out from the opening's darkness; the drey's owner watches Ren with cautious curiosity.

  Building a sort of man-sized drey could well be the play here. Suspended off the ground—Ren could weave the limbs of several trees together to provide stable foundations, in much the same way as a gorilla makes its nest—Ren would be well protected from most threats that would come his way. Sheltered from the rainy season's nom de guerre—as Ren's foreign mother had called it—Ren would be able to get a good night's rest, and maybe even do a bit of cultivation!

  While weaving the limbs is all well and good, Ren won't get far just relying on his weaving skills to keep it secure. He'd need some kind of tie to keep it safe and steady. While tearing more strips from his clothing would certainly achieve that, he might as well utilize that education of his and save the cloth for future bandages. Even if the exam proctors preferred education in balancing finances and planning feats of architectural engineering over ones of more practical usage, it is that knowledge that serves him now.

  With a copse of nearby birch saplings in his sights—coincidentally near the squirrel's tree—Ren breaks a good stick off his tree before clambering down and maneuvering on over to the closest of the lot. About three or so feet tall, Ren braces a foot against the sapling's base while tying the top around the stick.

  Ignoring the protesting throb of pain in his bandaged hand, Ren grabs the stick with both hands and twists. Around and around does Ren turn the stick, forcing the sapling into an ever-tighter spiral. Each rotation leaves the stick that much harder to twist, but continue he does even with the mounting resistance.

  Finally, the wood separates into fibers all twisted up like rope. Ren smiles as he scoops up a rock and takes it against the sapling's base. After a number of hits, the sapling gives up the ghost and leaves him with about three feet or so of withe. A few more of those and he'll have quite the structure on his hands!

  All the while, as Ren works down below, the squirrel carefully observes from its drey, its nimble little fingers twitching in silent imitation.