Although the Flintclaw Tribe lived deep in the wilderness where conditions were harsh and life was cheap, the clan still possessed a precious territory — the Flintclaw Ore Ridge.
The ridge was rich in minerals and faintly saturated with Vital Qi, which caused metals to grow purer and denser than normal. To the impoverished Flintclaw Tribe, it was a sacred land — a "mine shrine."
Of course, to a major tribe, this ridge would be worth almost nothing. Across the vast wilderness, countless territories had far denser Vital Qi, filled with high-grade ores and spiritual metals.
Large tribes occupied those wonderlands, for they were not only rich in resources but safer for cultivation. The strongest desolate beasts tended to avoid such shrines for reasons unknown, granting the settlers relative peace.
Even so, the balance came with risk. Occasionally, an enraged or wounded desolate beast would break through the perimeter, bringing destruction to an unprepared tribe.
The Flintclaw Ore Ridge's energy density kept beasts away, but it also made hunting scarce — no rabbits, no deer, no easy prey. Only true Vein Blood Warriors dared venture into the deep wilderness for a proper hunt.
The ridge was the tribe's lifeblood — and the reason it existed at all. Each morning, when villagers were sent to the ridge to mine, they were searched thoroughly to prevent anyone from hoarding even a pebble of ore.
Zaric slung a rough-hewn mining basket over his shoulder and followed Lyra up the narrow path leading into the ridge. As they climbed, he asked about something that had been weighing on his mind.
"Sis Lyra, what exactly are the ranks of warriors in this world?"
Lyra smiled faintly and explained as they walked.
"The lowest level is called Mortal Blood, and those who reach it are known as Mortal Blood Warriors. It's only the beginning — the first stage of physical tempering."
"The name 'Mortal Blood' means exactly that — their blood is still that of mortals. They can't yet draw upon the world's Qi, but they're far stronger than common folk. A Mortal Blood warrior can tear apart a wolf or run as fast as a horse."
"The Mortal Blood Realm has five stages," she continued, "Valiant, Vigor, Thunderous, Meridians, and Qi Gatherer."
Zaric listened closely, committing the words to memory.
"The Valiant Stage," Lyra explained, "is reached through constant training — lifting weights, running, striking posts — and eating nourishing foods like ginseng or beast meat. With effort, strength and speed grow far beyond normal limits."
Zaric nodded. His current strength was around three hundred pounds, and his speed easily doubled that of Brant Ironjaw. That meant he'd already stepped into the Valiant Stage — and well beyond the average.
The second level, Vigor, involved enhancing breath and stamina. A Vigor warrior could exhale with such force that their breath shot like an arrow. Their hearts beat slower, their blood pulsed stronger, and they could sprint for an hour without tiring.
The third level, Thunderous, represented mastery of the body. Every joint, tendon, and muscle worked in perfect harmony, and when they exerted power, their bones echoed with thunder.
At Meridians, the fourth stage, a warrior could sense the world's Vital Qi, having cleared the twelve main channels in the body.
The fifth, Qi Gatherer, was when that energy could finally be absorbed and stored within the self. A true cultivator was born at that point.
And beyond that — the sixth realm — was Vein Blood.
It was said that when a warrior broke through to the Vein Blood realm, his blood grew as thick as mercury, glowing faintly violet-gold under the sun. That blood carried vitality and power far beyond mortal limits.
A single Vein Blood Warrior could rule a tribe like a king. His word was law, his will absolute. Even the Patriarch bowed before such strength.
And every woman in the tribe would see him as salvation — a hero who could bring them out of starvation and into comfort. In this world, strength was everything — and to the desperate, it was the most seductive kind of power.
"Zac, I'll climb up and mine from the upper ridge. The ore veins there are richer," Lyra said, tightening her grip on her pickaxe.
"No way," Zaric replied immediately. "You mine near the base. I'll take the top."
"Don't be ridiculous," she said sharply. "You only just recovered. How could you—"
Her words froze. Zaric had already grabbed a vine of irongrass and scaled the cliff face like a cat, his movements smooth and effortless.
"Zac… you—" Lyra stood dumbstruck, watching him climb what was nearly a vertical wall as if it were a gentle slope. When had her frail brother become so agile?
Mining in the ridge wasn't just about strength; it required skill and knowledge. Different ores formed under different conditions — some deep in shadow, some beneath sunlit stone, others near veins of crystal frost or magma flow.
Zaric had only learned the basics of ore identification the day before, but as he worked his way upward, something unexpected happened.
About twenty feet up, he paused. A faint trail of light dots shimmered in the air beside a cluster of exposed rock.
They hovered for a few seconds before drifting straight into his chest.
The Yellow Amethyst stirred instantly. That familiar coolness spread through his body, flooding his veins with a refreshing tide of energy.
It's absorbing again!
Zaric's pulse quickened. He climbed higher, brushing away dirt and stone until he found the source — a cluster of crimson ore nodules, each glowing faintly like coal embers.
"This… is Flameheart Ore!" he breathed.
Flameheart Ore was a rare low-grade Vein Blood material, rich in fire-aspected energy. Judging by the color, this vein was decades old — pure, matured, and potent.
As Zaric reached toward it, a spark of light shot from the ore and vanished into his chest.
Then another.
Then another.
One after another, faint red motes flew from the Flameheart Ore and sank into the Yellow Amethyst hidden within him.
Soon, the entire cluster began to dim, its glow fading as if its very essence were being drained away.
Zaric could feel it — the amethyst absorbing the Flameheart's life force, refining it into something purer, and then feeding that power through his bloodstream.
A surge of vitality pulsed through him, and he bit back a groan of exhilaration.
"So the Yellow Amethyst can even absorb the essence of ore…"
He grinned.
What others mined for months to smelt and refine, he could draw in with a single breath.
The path to power was opening wider by the day — and deep beneath the Flintclaw Ore Ridge, the first flame-red veins of destiny had begun to stir.