The captive girl—now his fifth disciple—stumbled to her feet with his help, still weak but steadying herself with grim determination. They say it's hard to break a strong-willed woman, and maybe that's why the girl in front of him hasn't completely broken down.
Or maybe she'd been through worse before this. "Aren't you a strong one..." he said under his breath. He held her up as she agreed to follow his plan. He walked with her to the others that were done collecting and tying up the arrows into three bundles of eighteen.
"But, rest easy, I won't let them touch you again~."
The small troop of macaques moved silently, their movements tense and alert as they traveled back through the dense underbrush. The air remained thick with the coppery scent of blood and the distant echoes of unseen dangers lurking beyond the trees.
They traveled vigilantly through the forest. The macaque, though unappeased, still treated Oliver as their alpha and put his safety first, especially the herbalist macaque of the group—who he had kept calling the thin one—who made them stop at a stream of clear water.
"Alpha, this will sting, but please bear with it," the herbalist said as he sat him down at the edge of the stream. He had a small leather pouch; he held up his face and examined his mangled face.
The herbalist macaque dipped two gnarled fingers into the pouch and scooped out a smear of dull green paste. Without ceremony, he began dabbing it across the torn and swollen flesh of Oliver's cheek.
It burned immediately—sharp, biting, as though every nerve was being scraped raw with fire. Oliver's jaw clenched, but he didn't pull away.
"Good," the herbalist muttered, pressing it deeper into the wounds. "Pain means it's killing the rot."
Once the first layer was applied all over his face, the macaque set the pouch aside and drew out another—this one filled with brittle, crumbling leaves and twisted stems. He poured a palmful into a river stone shaped like a bowl, added a splash of stream water, and began grinding them into a thick, darker paste. The water turned murky green before the mixture grew heavier, clumping together like wet clay.
Satisfied, the herbalist scooped the mass into his hands and spread it over the first layer of ointment. The new paste was colder at first but quickly warmed, then began to stiffen. Slowly, it hardened across his face, sealing the wounds beneath a rigid shell.
"Leave it until it cracks on its own," the herbalist said, wiping his fingers on the moss by the stream. "When it falls away, your skin will be ready again."
Oliver tilted his head slightly, feeling the weight of the strange cement-like mask pulling at his skin. It wasn't comfortable, but it was solid enough to keep infection at bay.
How'd they get this advanced in medicine so fast? he wondered. Is this even possible without someone testing the herbs first?
He wondered where they had learned this. Could he exploit it? If he could keep using this puppet when he returned to the real world… he could make them mass-produce this medicine paste, the Forest Origin Pills, and anything else they'd developed for him.
I wouldn't even have to be here in Japan personally. I could hire someone to collect the bulk, fly around dropping empty bags, then come back to me filled—with me waiting in a Chinese penthouse, surrounded by women.
Yes. That was the plan. All he had to do now was figure out how to stabilize the connection—and test whether he could still control this body from outside, as well as the maximum distance before the link snapped.
The troop didn't linger. Once the treatment was done, they pushed forward again, weaving through the thick underbrush until the forest thinned and the first signs of their home appeared.
It wasn't a village in the human sense—no walls, no huts, no proper streets. Instead, massive nests of woven leaves and vines hung from the lower branches of the great trees, layered like sprawling platforms. The scent of damp foliage mixed with the faint musk of macaques everywhere.
Over twenty of them moved through the space, some perching high above while others loitered on the ground. Here and there, clusters of women—captives—were bound with thick vines that were coiled tightly around their wrists and ankles, forcing them to kneel. Their faces were hollow-eyed, some resigned, others quietly trembling.
The troop parted to let Oliver pass, their gazes low, their posture one of deference. Even here, in a place that was clearly theirs, he was treated as Alpha.
Oliver's eyes flicked over the captives, noting the mix of fear and hope in their expressions as he walked through the camp. Despite the rawness of the settlement, the air buzzed with an unspoken tension—slowly they got up when they saw the returning party of only five.
Less than the eighteen that they left with.
A low murmur rippled through the gathered macaques as they counted heads. Whispers flitted between branches like restless insects. One of the larger males dropped from a hanging nest, landing heavily before Oliver.
"Alpha," he said, scanning the survivors. "Why… why have you returned with only five? Where's the hunting party?"
Others leaned in, eyes sharp with expectation—and unease.
Oliver didn't stop walking. His gaze stayed level, his tone flat. "They're dead."
The words struck like a stone in still water.
The crowd stiffened.
"We underestimated the humans," he continued, pacing through the center of their leaf-laden clearing. "They fought like cornered beasts… and we paid the price."
He stopped, turning to face them fully, his good eye gleaming under the shadow of the hardening mask. "But this loss…" He tapped the bow against his palm, the faint pulse of Qi echoing the beat of his words. "…has shown me how weak we truly are."
A low, uncertain growl moved through the crowd.
"By tasting death," Oliver said, his voice deepening, "I have found our way forward."
He stepped onto one of the broad, low nests, so he stood above them all. "Gather everyone. From this day, we prepare—not to hunt for scraps, not to defend our borders like frightened prey—but for all-out war."
He raised the bow, the golden thread catching the dim light.
"We will crush the humans!"
The clearing erupted in a storm of cheers and battle cries. Fists slammed against chests, claws scraped bark, and voices howled into the night. Above, even the bound women stirred, some watching wide-eyed, others snarling through their gags.
Oliver's voice cut through the roar like a blade.
"From today onward—everything changes!"
"We've lost our way!" he bellowed. "Capturing women for nothing but pleasure and indulgence… that ends now!"
He took a step forward, the air around him thickening with intent.
"From this day, we capture to bolster our strength. To have mothers for our children. To build the foundation of our immortality. From this day forth, we will be known as the Dual Cultivation Beast Sect!"
His voice rose to a shout.
"Untie the women! We start again with a clean slate! They will learn to wield blades, and you will learn my Yin-Devouring Yang Beast Technique!"
The crowd's roar shook the leaves above, the early night alive with the promise of war.
The beasts moved as one. Claws slashed through vine knots, fangs tore bindings, and heavy hands ripped away the green ropes that had held the women for days—some for months. The air was thick with the scent of sap and fear.
The women stumbled free, some collapsing onto the leaf-strewn ground, others clutching their wrists where the vines had bitten deep.
Oliver stepped forward, his bow resting casually in one hand, his eyes sharp as a hawk's. He spoke in slow, clear Japanese, his voice carrying over the restless crowd.
"From this day—you are free. Free to run. Free to hide. Free to hunt us for revenge if you dare."
The women's eyes flickered—hope, confusion, and disbelief tangled in their gazes.
"But understand this…" His tone hardened, cutting through the fragile quiet. "What you've suffered here is nothing compared to the world beyond these trees. Out there, the strong devour the weak without hesitation. No laws. No mercy. No shelter."
He let the words sink in, the forest pressing in around them.
"If you want to survive, I offer you a choice. Stay here. You will never be touched. You will work—clean, cook, tend to our camp—and you will be under my protection."
A murmur rippled among the women, some clinging to the words, others shrinking away from them.
Oliver's eyes darkened.
"Or…" he continued, his voice steady, "learn the way of combat. Take up blades. Fight beside us. And in return, you will give yourselves to our warriors every night until you have birthed the second generation of this tribe."
The forest fell silent but for the rasp of breath and the rustle of leaves.
Some women broke down instantly, sobs tearing from their throats as they clutched their bellies—knowing the choice wasn't truly freedom. Others stood frozen, eyes empty, resigned. One woman shut her eyes entirely, feeling the small, heavy lump within her stomach—a reminder that the future had already been decided for her before this speech had even begun.
In the sky, the sun set in golden red hues as the moon crept in to replace it, cold and indifferent, watching the birth of a new order in the wild.