Chapter 11 – The Road Back
Hao Tian emerged from the mountain's shadow with measured steps, the forest wind brushing against his dust-stained clothes. The pickaxe hung at his side, the rusted spear rested across his back, and the dagger pressed reassuringly against his waist. His satchel was heavy—not just with herbs and crystals, but with the weight of everything he had survived.
The mountain behind him no longer felt like a grave. It felt like a trial he had endured.
Now, as he stood beneath open sky once more, the pale blue expanse stretching endlessly above him, he felt an almost unreal sense of distance and freedom.
He did not linger.
Instead, he narrowed his eyes slightly and lifted his head, judging the position of the sun.
It hung a little past its peak, leaning toward the west. The light filtered down at an angle, warm but not yet red with dusk. He turned slowly, letting the sunlight strike the side of his face, then compared that with his memory of the land.
The mining mountain lay to the northeast of town.
If he kept the sun to his right and advanced at a slight diagonal, he would eventually intersect with the outer edges of the forest belt that wrapped around the region—and from there, follow the familiar terrain back.
He was born here, after all.
Even if he had spent the past few years buried in mines and tunnels, this land was still etched into his memory.
"Good," he murmured quietly.
His voice came out steadier than he expected.
He adjusted the worn cloth wrapped around his forearm, checked the simple weapons he had gathered through blood and fire and began moving.
The ground here was uneven, strewn with gravel and cracked stone that gradually gave way to darker soil and creeping vegetation. Sparse shrubs clung stubbornly to the rocky slopes, their leaves small and tough, adapted to the thin, dry earth near the mountain. But as he descended further, the green thickened, and the air grew cooler and heavier with moisture.
Before long, trees began to appear.
At first, they were scattered—crooked trunks, bark dark and veined like old scars. Then, gradually, they grew denser, their canopies knitting together overhead until sunlight broke into mottled patterns across the forest floor.
He had entered the outer forest.
This forest had no official name among the townsfolk. They simply called it the outer belt. It wasn't considered truly dangerous compared to the deeper wild regions farther away, but it was still far from safe—especially for ordinary people.
Once, he had been one of those ordinary people.
He slowed his steps, not out of fear, but out of habit.
The forest smelled of damp soil, old leaves, and faint resin. Strange vines crept along the trunks of trees, some studded with small thorns that curved like fishhooks. Patches of broad, dark-green ferns grew in clusters, their leaves faintly glossy, while thick mats of moss clung to rocks and fallen logs.
Here and there, he noticed trees with reddish veins running through their bark, as if something beneath the surface pulsed slowly with warmth.
He did not touch them.
Instead, he moved carefully, eyes constantly scanning his surroundings.
Not long after, he heard it.
A low, wet snorting sound.
He froze.
His body reacted before his mind did—breath lightening, muscles tightening, weight shifting subtly to the balls of his feet.
To his left, behind a cluster of thick shrubs, something moved.
Leaves rustled.
A heavy shape pushed through the undergrowth.
Then it emerged.
A boar.
But not an ordinary one.
Its body was thick and low to the ground, muscles bulging beneath a hide that looked almost like packed earth. Two short, curved tusks jutted from its mouth, and its small eyes were dull and aggressive.
Stone-tooth boar.
A low-level beast, usually around the 1st stage of body refining.
Once, even something like this would have meant danger. Serious danger.
Now, he simply watched it calmly.
The boar snorted again, scraping a hoof against the ground. It had noticed him.
For a brief moment, memories surfaced—of running, of hiding, of praying not to be seen.
Then he stepped forward instead.
The boar burst from the undergrowth with a shrill cry.
Hao Tian reacted instantly.
The spear was already in his hands before the creature had fully cleared the bushes. He stepped forward instead of back, using his weight and momentum together. The first thrust forced the creature to twist aside, but the second came immediately after—short, direct, and aimed at the shoulder joint.
The beast shrieked and stumbled.
Hao Tian didn't give it time to recover. He dropped the spear, surged forward, and brought the pickaxe down in a brutal arc.
Crack.
The skull split. The body collapsed.
He stood there for a moment, breathing steadily, then frowned slightly.
"…That's it?"
Not long ago, this would have been a desperate, life-or-death struggle.
"…So this is how it feels."
His heart wasn't even racing.
If anything, he felt almost… calm.
He looked down at his hands.
They were steady.
Before, he would have needed luck, traps, or help to deal with something like this. Now, he had ended it in a few breaths.
He cleaned his blade on a patch of grass and moved on.
Deeper into the forest, the terrain became more varied.
He crossed shallow dips where water collected into small, muddy pools. He passed clusters of tall, thin trees whose leaves were narrow and sharp-edged, rustling constantly even without wind. Once, he spotted a group of small, squirrel-like creatures with needle-like feathers along their backs, but they fled the moment they sensed him.
He also began to notice herbs.
Near a fallen log, he found a patch of thick-leaf ground plants with faint white veins—common bone-strengthening grass. Low-grade, but usable. He harvested a few carefully and wrapped them in cloth.
Later, at the base of a moss-covered rock, he discovered a cluster of dark-red mushrooms with faint warmth lingering in their caps. Fire-nourishing shrooms. Even lower quality than what he had found underground, but still something.
He took them too.
They weren't treasures.
But they were value.
As he moved, he kept thinking about how different everything felt.
Not the forest.
Himself.
His steps were lighter, his breathing deeper, his senses sharper. When something moved, he noticed it. When something watched him, he felt it.
And when danger appeared—
He was no longer helpless.
Near a stretch of denser brush, a gray blur lunged from the side.
He twisted, barely catching sight of a wolf-like beast with dull fur and heavy shoulders.
Grayback wolf. Probably 2nd stage.
It snapped at him, teeth grazing his sleeve.
He kicked off the ground, creating distance, then lowered his stance.
The wolf growled at him.
This one was smarter.
It circled.
Hao Tian let it.
He adjusted his breathing, shifted his footing, and waited.
When it lunged, he met it head-on.
The spear struck first, forcing it to veer off. The pickaxe followed immediately, smashing into its ribs with enough force to lift it off the ground.
The beast hit the dirt and didn't get back up.
Hao Tian exhaled slowly.
Clean. Efficient. No wasted movement.
It tried to flank him, to bait him, to wait for an opening.
He stayed patient.
When it finally leaped, he met it head-on.
He looked around, half-expecting something else to come charging out.
Nothing did.
"…Before, I wouldn't have survived ten breaths here."
Hao Tian adjusted the worn strap of his satchel, feeling the reassuring weight of his gains inside. The rusted spear rested diagonally across his back, its balance still slightly awkward but serviceable. The pickaxe hung at his side, familiar as his own arm, while the dagger remained sheathed at his waist for emergencies. These three had become his lifelines—tools, weapons, and companions all at once.
He continued forward.
The forest gradually began to thin.
And somewhere far ahead—
Though he could not see it yet—
He knew he was walking back toward home.
The forest did not grow quieter as he advanced.
If anything, it felt more alive.
Sunlight filtered through the overlapping canopies in long, broken shafts, illuminating drifting dust and tiny floating spores released by unseen plants. The air carried layers of scent—damp earth, old wood, faint sweetness from unknown flowers, and occasionally the sharp, metallic tang that always accompanied the presence of beasts.
He moved at a steady pace, neither rushing nor lingering.
After the fight with the grayback wolf, he became even more alert. Not because he feared being overwhelmed, but because he had learned—both underground and in the forest—that carelessness was what killed people, not lack of strength alone.
The terrain sloped gently downward, and the trees slowly changed.
The thick, dark-barked trunks gave way to lighter wood with pale, almost silver patterns running through them. Their leaves were broader, catching more light, and the undergrowth thinned in places, replaced by low, creeping plants that spread like green carpets over the soil.
He recognized this region.
The outer-middle forest.
Still not truly dangerous—but more active than the edges.
Here, beasts of the 2nd and even 3rd stage body refining were not rare.
Once, he would have skirted around such areas entirely.
Now, he simply kept walking.
Not long after, he heard a series of clicking sounds—dry, rapid, like stones being tapped together.
He stopped behind a tree and peered ahead.
Three creatures were gathered around a shallow pit in the ground.
They looked like oversized lizards, each about the length of a large dog, their bodies covered in dull brown scales. Their heads were flat, and their eyes sat slightly to the sides, giving them a wide field of vision.
Rock-scale skitterers.
Usually weak individually, but troublesome in groups.
Judging by their auras and movements, these were around the 1st to 2nd stage.
In the past, even one of these would have made him turn around.
Now…
He observed them quietly.
They were digging at something—perhaps insects, or roots, or a nest of smaller creatures. Their attention was focused downward.
He considered going around them.
Then he shook his head.
He needed to test himself.
Not recklessly—but honestly.
He stepped out from behind the tree.
The nearest skitterer noticed him immediately and let out a sharp hiss.
All three turned.
Their bodies tensed.
Then they rushed him together.
He did not charge.
He waited.
One lunged low, another circled. Hao Tian ripped the pickaxe free from his belt and forced the first back with a heavy swing, then let it drop and drew the dagger in one smooth motion as the second beast closed in.
He kicked it in the jaw, feeling bone shift under his foot, and used the momentum to plunge his knife into the first beast. Spinning his body to face the beast he just kicked before it could regain its bearings, his blade flashed. A hot spray of blood followed.
When the third tried to flee, he tore the spear from his back and hurled it. The rusted weapon struck true, pinning the creature to a tree root.
It was over.
He stood there, chest rising and falling a little faster than before, sweat beginning to form at his temples.
Three beasts.
Not at once in a reckless brawl—but one after another, under control.
"…I really did change."
He cleaned his blade again and moved on.
Further along, he found more signs of life—tracks, broken branches, patches of disturbed earth. He avoided anything that looked too large or too recent.
His goal was not to hunt.
It was to return.
Along the way, he continued to gather herbs.
In a damp hollow shaded by thick roots, he found a cluster of pale blue moss that grew in soft, velvety layers over stone. It was called cold-damp moss—not particularly valuable, but useful in some low-grade medicines.
He scraped some into a cloth pouch.
Later, near a small stream, he discovered a creeping vine with thumb-sized yellow fruits that gave off a faint, sour-sweet scent. Iron-skin berries. Mild effect, but better than nothing.
He took what he could carry without slowing himself.
The forest began to thin again.
Not abruptly—but gradually, as if the land itself were easing him back toward civilization.
The ground became less wild, the trees more spaced out. He even spotted old, half-erased footpaths—routes used by woodcutters and hunters from the town.
Seeing them stirred something strange in his chest.
Familiarity.
Distance.
He followed one such path for a time, then left it when it veered too far south.
And then—
He saw it.
Through a break in the trees, far away, beyond rolling greenery and low hills—
A faint, gray shape on the horizon.
Walls.
Low, sturdy walls.
Towers that were not really towers, but still stood taller than the surrounding roofs.
Smoke rising in thin lines into the sky.
The town.
He stopped.
For a long moment, he simply stood there and looked.
So much had happened.
So much had changed.
Yet from here, it looked the same as it always had.
"…I'm back."
Not quite yet.
But soon.
He adjusted the bundle on his back, tightened his grip on his knife, and started walking again—toward the place where his life had once been small, weak, and narrow.
And where it would never be the same again.