The night had passed amidst the cold stones of the ruin, with Bu He shivering like a naked animal. The triumph of his first victory had faded with the moonlight, replaced by a deep, throbbing ache in his bones and a chilling exhaustion that clung to his soul. The bullies were gone, but a new, more intimate enemy had taken their place: a gnawing emptiness in the pit of his stomach. It wasn't the simple hunger for food; it was a profound, hollow craving, as if the burst of power had consumed a piece of him, and his body was now screaming to have it back.
He pushed himself up, his back protesting with a sharp sting where the stick had landed. The sealed stone the old man had given him was once again just a cold, inert rock in his palm. The book, "The Broken Law," lay open beside him. Its archaic symbols seemed to mock him in the dim morning light.
"Leyna... the blood of the earth," he whispered, tracing a character with a trembling finger. He tried to recall the sensation from the fight—that raw, crimson heat. He closed his eyes, focused on the pain in his body, and tried to draw upon it as the book instructed.
Nothing happened.
He tried again, focusing on the humiliation from the ceremony, the Abbot's dismissive words, the sting of the stones.
Still nothing. The energy, the power, remained silent. It was a well that would not yield its water willingly.
"So, it only answers to the threat of death?" he muttered, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. "What a wonderful companion. It only holds my hand when a knife is at my throat." This dark, absurd humor was a flimsy shield, but it was the only one he had.
The other hunger, the mundane one, was now impossible to ignore. His stomach twisted into a painful knot. He hadn't eaten since the morning of the ceremony. With a sigh, he pushed himself to his feet. If he was to walk this path of pain, he couldn't very well do it on an empty stomach.
He ventured out of the ruin and into the deeper woods. The world seemed different now. His senses felt sharper, honed by the previous night's ordeal. He could hear the rustle of a lizard under a pile of leaves from ten paces away. He saw the faint shimmer of a spider's web glistening with dew. It wasn't a magical enhancement, not like the Qi-sensitives who could perceive the flow of the heavens. This was something more primal, the senses of a cornered animal that knows it must hunt or be hunted.
After a frustrating hour, he managed to corner a plump field rabbit. His movements were clumsy, but there was a new speed in his limbs, a desperate strength that allowed him to lunge and catch it before it could dart away. As he prepared a small, smokeless fire with skills learned from a childhood spent exploring these same woods, he felt a profound sense of isolation. The other disciples were likely in the dining hall now, eating steamed buns and nourishing soups, discussing the wonders of Qi. He was here, a ghost in the forest, roasting a rabbit, his only teacher a book of heresy and a silent, hungry stone.
After eating, he examined his body. Where he had clutched the stone to his chest, there was now a faint, reddish mark on his skin, like a nascent bruise. But it didn't hurt. When he pressed it, he felt that same, deep, internal heat, like a sleeping ember. This was the source. The wellspring of his new, treacherous power.
He returned to the ruin and to "The Broken Law." He wouldn't give up. He spent hours trying to decipher the text, matching the feeling of his "Spirit Null" body to the descriptions of the "Primal Core." The book spoke of forging the body like a smith forges a blade: with fire, with pressure, with repeated, agonizing strikes until the base metal transforms.
"This path isn't about begging for grace from the heavens," he realized, staring at his hands. "It's about stealing the pain of the earth and making it your own."
As dusk fell, his frustration grew. The hunger in his core was returning, a dull ache that made him restless. He paced the ruin, kicking at loose stones. It was then that his eye caught something. In a crack in the floor, where no sunlight reached, a single, dark-leafed herb was growing. It looked unremarkable, but it was identical to an illustration in a chapter of "The Broken Law," a chapter on "Soothing the Hungry Marrow."
Was it a coincidence? Or a sign? He felt a chill, a sudden feeling of being watched, but a scan of the ruins revealed nothing but shadows. Hesitantly, he plucked the herb, crushed it as the book instructed, and placed the bitter paste on his tongue.
The effect was instantaneous. A cool, soothing energy spread through his body, quieting the gnawing hunger in his core. It wasn't a burst of power like before, but a gentle, steady trickle of Leyna. It was enough.
He immediately sat, crossed his legs, and assumed the first stance shown in "The Broken Law"—a painful, twisted posture called the "Root of Agony Stance." As he held it, the gentle trickle of Leyna began to circulate, flowing through his aching muscles and bones. For the first time, he was not reacting to power; he was guiding it. It was a small, fragile stream, but it was his.
He held the stance until his muscles screamed and his vision swam. When he finally collapsed, drenched in sweat, the sun was setting. The hunger had returned, but it was manageable now. And with it, a sliver of understanding.
This path was not meant to be easy. It would not grant him power freely. Every single drop of strength had to be earned, paid for with pain, sweat, and perhaps, blood.
He stood up and looked out from the broken doorway of the ruin, towards the vast, unknown lands beyond the valley. He couldn't stay here forever. This ruin had been his cradle, but to be forged, a blade needed a hotter fire. He needed a place that would truly test him, a place that would seek to break him, so that he could be reforged stronger.
"If pain is the price," he whispered to the falling night, a grim smile touching his lips, "then I will go find the most expensive teacher there is."