A full moon hung high above the trees.
Felix leaned against the trunk of the massive tree—one of the two giants that marked his camp—and wiped sweat from his brow. His hands were calloused now. His arms were thicker. His chest no longer hurt when he carried heavy things. His breath stayed steady even after long hours of labor.
It had been a month, and He hadn't seen another soul.
"No beasts attacked. Nothing changed. He hadn't even seen a single creature at the Soul Awakening Realm—the beast equivalent of a human at the Awakening Stage."
During the first week, Felix focused on strengthening his shelter. The lean-to of branches he'd used on the first night wasn't enough anymore. Rain came twice that week, and water soaked his clothes. He didn't get sick—but it reminded him how fragile this body still was.
So, he built a better one.
Using the gap between the two massive trees, he tied thick vines into rope and bound them tightly to the trunks. He stacked flat stones to make a low wall around the base, then layered dried bark and large leaves over a wood frame for a roof.
The house was small—just enough for him to sleep inside without curling up—but it was dry. Safe. Warm.
The firepit stayed outside. He set stones around it to make a cooking space and dug a small drainage ditch so rainwater wouldn't flood it again.
In the second week, Felix turned his focus to the pool.
That small clay spring—the one where the Dilgak fish lived—had started to change. The water wasn't clear anymore. A faint orange tint floated on the surface, cloudy but soft, like ink dropped into still water. It wasn't much, just a thin layer, but it was enough for him to begin his first tests.
He crouched by the edge with a flat rock in hand. Carefully, he scraped the surface, scooping up the slow-settling orange layer and spreading it onto strips of dry bark. The liquid clung thickly, and after a few hours in the sun, it hardened into a thin film. It smelled sharp and earthy. He didn't know if it was useful yet—but it looked promising.
After a few days, he noticed something odd.
The more at ease the fish seemed, the more ink the pool produced. When the water was still, when the area was quiet, the orange layer grew thicker. But if he disturbed the pool too much or the fish swam in tight, stressed movements, the color faded.
He thought for a while, then made a decision: they needed more room.
So, he expanded the pool.
He started digging at dawn. The clay was heavy, and his wooden digging tools weren't perfect. Sometimes he used his hands, scraping through mud until his nails were packed with dirt. He dug outward first, widening the edges of the spring. Then, when the surface was larger, he began carving it deeper.
The deeper part would help the fish rest. He remembered that deep water stayed cooler, more stable. It would make them feel safe.
He gathered flat stones from the nearby ridge and packed the walls of the new basin with a mix of clay and small rocks. He pressed the layers tight with his palms, smoothing them out to keep the pool from leaking. Some parts caved in while he worked, and he had to start over again and again. But each time, it got easier.
His arms ached on the first day. His shoulders burned the second. But by the third day, the pain started to fade. He didn't even realize when the soreness stopped. He just kept digging, lifting, and stacking.
It wasn't perfect work, but it held.
By the end of the week, the spring had doubled in size. The water looked deeper now, clearer too. He watched the fish glide through the new space, slower and more relaxed. Their fins moved gently, their mouths brushing the soft floor.
A few hours later, the orange ink returned—thicker than before.
Felix crouched at the edge, a small smile forming on his lips.
Week three was the farm.
Felix began to plant.
It started with a simple idea—If I'm going to stay here, I need more than just fish and luck. He needed something steady. Something that would last.
The forest had plenty of herbs, if you knew what to look for. And Felix did.
He spent his mornings walking the nearby slopes, searching the base of trees and shaded clearings. He crouched low, brushing aside fallen leaves with care, eyes scanning for shapes he recognized.
There—Burnroot, with its red-veined stems and bitter smell. Not good for eating, but great for fever and swelling.
Over there—Clearvine, thin and curling, clinging to rocks. It helped clear the mind when burned. Some talisman recipes called for its dried leaves mixed with ash.
And Softleaf. Bright, pale green. Gentle to the touch. It could soothe cuts and calm the skin. His mother had used it in salves back home.
He plucked only what he needed—carefully digging up the sprouts with a flat stick, keeping the roots whole. He wrapped them in damp moss and carried them back in a large leaf bundle.
"Slow," he told himself as he walked. "Don't rush. They die if the roots dry out."
Back at camp, he chose a flat patch of earth near his shelter—close enough to check often, but far enough not to get trampled. The soil was rough, full of roots and stones. Not good for planting.
So he cleared it.
He gripped his stone axe and started chopping through the thick roots. It wasn't sharp, but it worked. Swing. Pull. Rip. Dig. His hands blistered again. Dirt clung under his nails. His back ached, and sweat rolled into his eyes.
"Just a bit more," he muttered, swinging again. "Make it soft. Make it deep."
He broke up the hard soil with a sharpened stick, working it loose until the ground felt crumbly and dark between his fingers. That was when he started shaping the beds—narrow rows, each a few steps long, separated by shallow grooves.
Water.
He needed water.
He followed the spring, studying its path. Then he began digging small channels from the edge of the pool to his garden. The first few tries failed. The water rushed too fast, flooding the dirt. So he dug slower paths, shallower and longer, using stones to block and guide the flow.
It wasn't perfect, but it worked.
Water trickled through the channels now. Just enough to keep the soil damp.
Kneeling by the garden, he pressed the herb sprouts gently into the earth, covering their roots with care.
"Grow strong," he whispered to them, brushing loose dirt from his palms. "You're part of this now, too."
Each morning, he checked on them. Some leaned sideways. Others wilted from too much sun. He moved leaves to shade them. Packed wet moss at their bases. Adjusted the flow of water one handful of dirt at a time.
By the end of the week, tiny green shoots stood up in neat rows.
And during the fourth week, he built the wall.
A perimeter. A boundary. A line between the wild and what was slowly becoming his space.
It wasn't a proper wall, not like those that protected cities or sect grounds. No bricks. No steel. Just trees, vines, and stone. But that didn't matter. It was enough.
Felix spent the first day walking the edge of his camp, measuring the space with footsteps, planning where the wall should start and end. He marked the corners with small stone piles. Not too wide—he couldn't protect what he couldn't maintain. Just enough to hold his shelter, the pool, the herb garden, and his firepit.
Then he got to work.
He picked out trees with thick, winding roots and solid trunks. Ones that had grown close together over years, their branches tangled like old friends. He cut the smaller limbs and bent the bigger ones inward, twisting them toward each other until they curved and crossed. He lashed them together with rough vine rope—tight knots, pulled with all his strength.
Some branches snapped. Others refused to bend. He started over more times than he could count.
"Too stiff," he muttered one afternoon, wiping sweat from his face as he stared at a crooked gap between two trees. "Maybe a stone brace instead…"
So he dragged flat rocks from the ridge, wedging them between branches like natural wedges. He layered stones at the base, packing mud into the cracks. It was slow. Backbreaking.
But each day, the wall grew higher. Stronger.
By the fifth night, it circled his camp like a quiet guardian.
It wasn't impenetrable. A big enough beast could break through if it wanted to. But that wasn't the point.
It was a message—to the forest, to himself.
This space is mine.
That night, under the flickering light of his fire, Felix stood near the western post. His hand rested on the bark, rough and warm beneath his palm. The wind rustled the leaves above, but inside the wall, it was calm.
He let out a slow breath.
Everything—his shelter, his farm, the fish pool, the wall—was possible because of one thing:
His growing strength.
Felix noticed it more each day. Not just in how he felt, but in how his body responded.
When he swung his stone axe now, his arms didn't burn after a few minutes. He could chop for an hour without stopping. The tool felt lighter somehow, though it hadn't changed.
He carried stones the size of his chest with steady steps. Once, he even crushed a broken boulder by hand—found a crack in the surface and pressed until it split down the middle.
His muscles weren't bulky. They didn't swell or stretch his clothes. But they were solid. Dense. Stable. When he moved, he didn't feel the delay anymore—no hesitation, no stiffness. His strength didn't come from sudden bursts, but from quiet control.
Even his breath held longer. His steps became lighter.
But more important than all of that—his qi had deepened.
It moved smoother now, with more weight behind it. Like a river after the rain.
Every night, when the flames burned low and shadows danced at the edge of his vision, Felix sat in silence beneath the stars. The forest around him quieted, and the sky stretched wide with pale silver light.
He crossed his legs on the smooth stone beside the firepit, palms resting on his knees. His eyes closed.
Breathe in… hold… breathe out.
The qi moved with his breath, slow and steady. It gathered in his dantian, swirling gently. Not fast. Not fierce. Just steady, like the rise and fall of tides.
Sometimes, he listened to the insects. Sometimes, to the wind. Other times, he heard nothing but his own heartbeat.
He didn't chase breakthroughs. He didn't force it.
He just let the qi grow. Each night, a little deeper. A little fuller.