The training ground lay silent beneath a sheet of starlight.
Cold air rolled across the open field, and every ore weight scattered across it glittered faintly under a skin of dew. Each was forged from green steel, weathered by centuries yet unscarred by time.
In the Flintclaw Tribe, strength wasn't measured in titles—it was measured in pounds, stones, and cauldrons.
A stone equaled a hundred pounds.
A cauldron equaled ten stones—a thousand pounds.
Zaric stood before the line of ore weights, his breath misting in the night air. He glanced around—no patrols, no warriors. Perfect.
He stepped to a fifty-pound weight, brushed away the dew, crouched, and lifted.
It rose easily—too easily.
He gripped it with one hand, balanced it overhead, and laughed quietly to himself.
So it's true…
Next, he tried a hundred-pound weight. This one had some heft, but when he used both hands, it floated upward like a loaf of bread.
Zaric's pulse quickened. He moved to a two-hundred-pound ore stone, squatted, fingers curling beneath the cold metal. He inhaled deeply, drew strength from his core, and shouted—
"Rise!"
Muscles tightened, bones creaked… and the two-hundred-pound weight soared above his head.
He held it there for several breaths—one, two, three—before tossing it aside with a heavy thud.
"Ha!" he exhaled, staring at his trembling hands. "Two hundred pounds…"
It was absurd. A twelve-year-old boy, once barely strong enough to lift a sack of grain, now casually lifting weights thrice his own body mass. His strength hadn't just improved—it had transformed.
And it wasn't only strength. That day when Brant Ironjaw had attacked, Zaric's speed had doubled, maybe tripled. His body now moved as if air itself bent to his will.
The vomiting of black blood… the dark sweat clinging to his skin… it all made sense now.
Vein Cleansing.
He'd read about it once—a phenomenon where impurities were purged from the body, rebirthing the physique. It was the dream of every warrior, something most could only achieve after years of cultivation. Yet it had happened to him overnight.
He looked down at his chest. The Yellow Amethyst…
Zaric pressed a hand over his heart—and froze.
The stone was gone.
"What—?" He tore open his tunic, searching. Nothing. But the cool pulse beneath his skin remained, beating in rhythm with his heart.
It wasn't gone. It had merged.
Each heartbeat sent a faint vibration through his chest, a wave of coolness that spread into his veins like living light.
He lifted his eyes to the heavens. The stars shimmered above, countless points of fire.
And as he watched, a handful of them—tiny threads of starlight—broke away and drifted down toward him.
Straight into his chest.
The Yellow Amethyst is absorbing them.
The realization hit like lightning. He understood now: the gem wasn't a mere relic—it was a living conduit for energy.
Energy—the foundation of all creation.
Galaxies spun by it, storms breathed it, life itself depended on it.
And in this world, that same energy was Qi—the essence martial artists cultivated, the power that shaped warriors into legends.
The amethyst had an affinity for this energy. It drank the stars, the air, even the spiritual residue left in the world around it.
It had devoured Ren Flintclaw's energy twice—the poisonous Qi he'd struck into Zaric's body. The paralysis he'd suffered had been that energy eating away at him… until it touched the Yellow Amethyst. Then, the gem had consumed it completely.
Now Zaric knew where that energy had gone.
He could feel it—circulating through his bloodstream, each beat feeding his muscles, bones, and organs.
Every heartbeat cultivated him.
Every pulse made him stronger.
He clenched his fists. Even with just this passive flow, his strength had leapt from thirty pounds to two hundred. His vision sharpened, reflexes heightened, senses stretched like fine silk.
But there was more. The source of that immense surge… couldn't just be starlight or Ren's attacks.
It was the desolate bones.
He remembered that day—the chest opening, light spilling from the ancient ribcage. Those golden motes had flown straight into him, devoured by the amethyst.
Desolate bones—remnants of a beast whose body carried centuries of power. Even refined fragments could elevate warriors to new realms. For a prodigy like Ren, it was the key to becoming a Vein Blood Warrior.
And the amethyst had consumed a portion of that same essence.
A small, stolen portion—yet enough to remake him entirely.
Zaric exhaled, trembling, a grin spreading across his face before he forced it away. He couldn't afford arrogance.
This stone… this heart… is a miracle.
But in this world, miracles were hunted.
He tightened his jaw. "No one can know. Not even Sister Lyra."
It wasn't that he didn't trust her—he trusted her more than anyone—but the fewer who knew, the safer she'd be.
If anyone in the tribe discovered the treasure pulsing within him, it wouldn't just bring death to him—it would destroy her too.
He stared at the sky again, where faint motes of light continued to drift into his chest.
The night wind whispered through the training field.
"I'll grow strong," he murmured. "Strong enough to protect her… and to crush anyone who tries to use us again."
With that vow burning in his heart, Zaric stepped toward the heavier stones, the cool pulse of the amethyst echoing with his heartbeat.
His cultivation had begun.