Chapter 15: A Harvest of Blood

Chapter 15: A Harvest of Blood

Weeks rolled by like a slow wind through the forest, each day toughening Zephyr Kain as he pressed deeper into the wild. The air turned chilly, and golden leaves dropped from the trees, crunching under his boots as he walked. His skin had darkened to a rich bronze from long days under the sun, his body growing stronger—shoulders broader, arms thick with muscle from carrying his pack and battling the forest's dangers. A few rough hairs sprouted on his chin, not many, just a small hint of growth for a sixteen-year-old hardened by survival. His qi hummed steady at the fourth level of Qi Condensation, built from herbs he found and a core he took from the Coiling Depths—a prize he kept close. He wasn't rushing; the fifth level would come when he was ready, not before.

His pack carried everything he'd gathered: spirit stones from a trader named Torin, bits of ore from a camp he'd fought at, grain from a cart heading to Pine Hollow, and his dagger, which he'd taken back from a boy after a quick scuffle. The chipped spirit sword hung on his belt, its edge worn but still sharp enough to kill. Zephyr kept thinking about the Serpent's Fang Clan—their hunters with spears and bows, searching for a "lone cultivator with blood on his hands." That was him. They knew about the people he'd killed in Serpent's Hollow, the fights he'd won. Oakridge waited to the east, a busy place full of trade and rumors, and he had to watch his step.

Zephyr stopped beside a big, twisted tree, its roots sticking out of the ground. He rubbed a scar on his arm—claw marks from wolves he'd fought near a stream. His qi-sensing skill, practiced over weeks, picked up something—two people with third-level qi, moving fast to the east. Not the clan, not Torin—someone else. He shifted his pack and headed toward them, his boots quiet on the soft earth. The forest had made him tough, his body bigger than when he started, and he wanted more—food, tools, anything to keep going.

The feeling brought him to a deep ditch with high, dark sides. He heard shouting, then a scream that stopped with a wet thud. Zephyr hid behind a big rock and looked down. Three people lay dead on the ground, their throats cut, blood spilling around them. They wore torn clothes and held small knives—just normal folks, not cultivators. A fourth man stood over them, thin and nervous, with qi at the third level. His hands shook as he searched their pockets, stuffing things into a sack—grain, herbs like bitterleaf and qi vine, and a few shiny pieces of ore.

Zephyr watched closely. This man had qi, but he was weak—shaky and sloppy with his kills. The dead ones had no power, just bad luck—maybe bandits or traders who got in his way. Zephyr stepped out, his voice clear. "Nice stuff you've got."

The man turned fast, his knife trembling in his hand. "Who are you? This is mine—stay back!"

"I'm Zephyr," he said, keeping his hands where the man could see. "I have qi too. Want to trade? I've got ore for your herbs."

The man's eyes flicked around, then turned hard. "Are you from the Serpent's Fang Clan?"

Zephyr smiled a little. "No. Just passing by. Show me the sack."

The man paused, then kicked the sack open. Grain spilled out, herbs rolled, and three ore pieces shone in the dirt. "Look, but don't try anything funny."

Zephyr nodded and bent down to check—the herbs were good, enough to help him for days. He felt the man's qi with his skill—weak, no hidden tricks. But then the man jumped forward, his knife swinging for Zephyr's neck. Zephyr dodged fast, the blade just brushing his shoulder, leaving a small cut with a bit of blood. His dagger came out quick and stabbed the man in the stomach. The man gasped, fell to the ground, and stopped moving, blood dripping from his mouth.

Zephyr breathed out and wiped his dagger on the man's clothes. The man had been too greedy, and it cost him his life—Zephyr didn't even have to plan it. He looked through the sack—five bitterleaf stalks, two qi vines, three ore pieces—and checked the dead men's pockets. He found a cracked spirit stone and a small bag with dried meat inside. It was a good haul, worth the fight, even with the scratch on his shoulder. He set the bodies on fire with a spark from his dagger, watching the flames eat them up, and then walked away with the sack.

A week passed as Zephyr kept moving east toward Oakridge. He ate a qi vine, its bitter taste giving his energy a small lift, and thought about how he started—all the way back in Blackstone Valley. He hadn't always had qi. When he woke up in this world at sixteen, a strange twist after dying on Earth, he was weak—just a noble's son with no power. His father was a cold man, always chasing profit, teaching Zephyr to take what he could. One day, Zephyr found a dark jade slip hidden in a cave near the valley. Its words were strange, talking about a skill called *Blood Harvest*—a dark way to start cultivating. It said he had to poison a family member and use their death to wake up his qi. So Zephyr mixed a slow poison into his father's wine, watched him drink it at dinner, and waited. When his father fell, choking and still, Zephyr felt the qi rush into him—his first taste of power, born from a trade he never looked back on.

One afternoon, he heard noises—horses clopping and people shouting—from the west. Zephyr hid behind some bushes and peeked out. A big group rolled into view—four wagons pulled by horses, eight people walking beside them, all normal folks with no qi. They carried spears and bows, ready for trouble. A woman with a scar on her face led them, her voice strong. "Stay close together—Oakridge is two days away. Wolves attacked the last group."

Zephyr watched her carefully. He knew that scar—she was the woman from the Pine Hollow cart he'd traded with a while back. She might remember him. The wagons held grain, herbs, and a box that glowed a little—something with qi inside. He could try to take it, but eight people with weapons were too many to fight alone.

The wagons stopped when a wheel squeaked loudly. The scarred woman looked around and spotted his bushes. "Come out," she called, her bow ready to shoot. "I feel your qi—fourth level, full of blood."

Zephyr pressed his teeth together. She'd caught him—his qi-sensing skill wasn't strong enough to hide yet. He stepped out, his sword still in its holder, and spoke clearly. "I'm Zephyr. We traded before—ore for grain."

Her eyes got small and tough, her arrow pointing at him. "I remember you. On the road to Pine Hollow—a cultivator with death all over him. The Serpent's Fang Clan is hunting someone like you."

"I'm not with them," he said, lifting his hands. "Just traveling. I have ore—want to trade again?"

An older man with a gray beard stepped up, holding a spear. "Are you the one they're looking for? Oakridge says there's a killer—fourth level, always fighting."

Zephyr smiled a little. "Rumors aren't true. One ore for some herbs."

The woman lowered her bow just a bit, her voice cold. "One ore, one bitterleaf. Hurry up."

Zephyr threw a small ore piece, and she slid a single bitterleaf stalk across the ground. It wasn't much—just a tiny gain—but he picked it up and stepped back. "Safe travels."

They stared at him as he left, their eyes hard, and the wagons started moving again. He'd gotten something, but it was small—they knew him now, and that made things tricky. Oakridge was close, a place full of talk and danger, and the clan's hunt was getting tighter.

When night came, Zephyr found a small cave covered by vines. He ate the bitterleaf, its energy giving his qi a little push, and checked his things—stones, ore, meat, herbs—all from the dead man's sack, much better than the caravan's tiny trade. His dark bronze skin had new scratches, his body strong from weeks of hard work, a few hairs on his chin feeling rough when he touched them. Blood Harvest stayed in his head—a dark skill he'd used once, poisoning his father to start his qi. He wouldn't use it again unless he had no choice.

A wolf howl broke the quiet—fang wolves, far off but coming closer. Zephyr stood up, dagger in hand, his qi-sensing skill feeling them—third-level qi, a group, moving south. He stepped out to meet them, the forest calling him to fight or find something worth taking—one more step on his hard, lonely path.

---