The Path of Thorns and Blood

# Chapter 4:

Ling Han's hysterical laughter didn't last long. It was quickly replaced by a deep feeling of exhaustion and emptiness. His small body was trembling, not just from the effort he had exerted, but from the horror of what he had done. He had killed. He had extinguished a human life. True, the man was a scoundrel who deserved death, but the act itself, the act of killing, left an indelible mark on his soul.

Ling Han sat beside the man's corpse, the smell of blood filling his nostrils. He no longer felt nauseous, but rather a kind of cold numbness. He touched the short sword stained with blood and felt its coldness seeping into his bones. Is this what it meant to be strong? Is this the price of revenge? To become a monster like those who destroyed his life?

"Are you proud of yourself now, Han?" whispered his sister Xiao's voice, carrying a tone of cold sarcasm. "You killed an almost unarmed man. Do you feel heroic?"

"He deserved to die!" Ling Han replied in a hoarse voice, trying to convince himself more than her. "He was like them! He would have hurt other innocents!"

"And does that make you different from them?" her voice continued to torment him. "You are now a killer. Your hands are stained with blood. How will you look at yourself? How will you look at us?"

Ling Han couldn't answer. He felt lost. The hatred that had been driving him began to mix with other emotions, emotions he didn't know how to deal with. Fear, disgust with himself, and loneliness. A loneliness deeper than ever before, because now he was not just a victim, but had become part of the cycle of violence that had destroyed his world.

"Don't listen to her, Han." His mother's voice came, softer this time, but still carrying a deep sadness. "You did what you had to do. This is the path of revenge. A path full of thorns and blood. It won't be easy, and it won't be beautiful. But it's the only way to give our spirits rest, and to find your own peace."

Peace? Could there be peace after all this? Ling Han doubted it. But he clung to his mother's words like a drowning man clutching at a straw. Revenge. That was his goal. That was what would keep him alive.

Ling Han rose with difficulty. He took nothing from the man's corpse, no food or money. He didn't want anything that would remind him of this moment. All he wanted was to get away, to find a place to hide and lick his wounds, both physical and spiritual.

He began walking again, with no clear destination, but with heavier steps. He felt that something had permanently changed within him. The little innocence that might have still been clinging to his soul had completely vanished, replaced by a denser darkness and a colder harshness.

In the days and weeks that followed, Ling Han continued his struggle for survival. He learned to hunt better, using his short sword not just for defense, but also to kill small animals for food. He learned how to find clean water, and how to build a simple shelter from tree branches and leaves to protect him from rain and cold.

His family's whispers still accompanied him, but they became less harsh in their criticism, and more focused on guiding him. His sister taught him how to move silently like a ghost, how to use his sense of hearing to feel the slightest movement around him, and how to anticipate animal attacks before they happened. His father urged him to be tough and merciless, and to never hesitate in eliminating any threat.

As for his mother, she constantly reminded him of their suffering, of the images of their torture and death, to keep the fire of hatred burning in his heart. "Don't forget, Han..." she would whisper to him every night. "Never forget what they did to us. Don't forget their faces, don't forget their laughter, don't forget the pain they caused us. Make this pain your motivation, your strength."

And Ling Han began to feel that mysterious energy, the energy of the world, more clearly. He could feel it flowing through his body when he concentrated, especially when he was in danger or when anger overtook him. He didn't know how to fully control it, but he began to understand that it could increase his strength and speed.

Once, he was cornered by two hungry wolves. They were large and extremely fierce. In the past, he would have fled or surrendered to death. But this time, Ling Han stood firm, his sword in hand. When one of the wolves lunged at him, he felt that energy flowing into his arm, and he swung his sword with a strength and precision he hadn't possessed before. He hit the wolf in the neck, and the animal fell to the ground, blood flowing profusely.

The other wolf hesitated for a moment, then attacked as well. But Ling Han was ready. He dodged its attack with difficulty, and stabbed it in the side. The wolf howled in pain and tried to escape, but Ling Han didn't let it. He chased it and stabbed it again until it fell dead.

Ling Han stood over the two wolf corpses, panting, blood covering his sword and clothes. He didn't feel disgust this time, but rather a kind of cold satisfaction. He had killed, but he had killed for survival. Did that make him better than those who killed his family for pleasure or greed? Perhaps not. But at least he was fighting for something, even if that something was just the right to continue living for revenge.

"Well done, Han..." his father's voice whispered, carrying a rare tone of pride. "You're learning quickly. But don't let this make you arrogant. The world is full of monsters, and humans are the most dangerous of them all."

Ling Han knew his father was right. He had come a long way since he was that blind, crying child. But his path was still long and dark. A path full of thorns and blood, a path whose end he didn't know, but he was determined to walk it to the end, whatever the cost.

He began to understand that strength wasn't just the ability to kill, but also the ability to endure. Endure pain, endure loneliness, endure despair. And Ling Han was enduring all of this, and more. He was turning his suffering into strength, his despair into determination. He was building his own personal hell, not just to take revenge on those who wronged him, but to protect himself from a world that had never shown him mercy.

And every night, when he closed his extinguished eyes, he no longer saw anything but darkness. But in that darkness, there were whispers. Whispers promising him strength, whispers demanding revenge, whispers shaping his destiny, one drop of blood at a time.