The shadow moved.
Not fast.
Not slow.
It detached itself from the rock wall with a soundless glide, stretching and condensing until it took form.
A wolf.
Its body was lean, stripped of excess flesh, ribs faintly visible beneath dark fur. Its eyes reflected no light—only depth. Qi clung to it unevenly, coarse and unstable, but unmistakably present.
Bone Refining Realm.
First Stage.
Azazel did not move.
The wolf lowered its head slightly, muscles tensing. Its gaze fixed on him—not hungry, not curious.
Assessing.
They stood less than ten paces apart.
The ravine swallowed sound.
Azazel shifted his footing.
The ground beneath was uneven. Loose stones. Narrow margins. A poor place for mistakes.
He had no weapon.
Outer disciples were not issued blades unless earned. He had not earned one yet.
The wolf noticed the movement.
It stepped forward once.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Azazel inhaled and let the darkness settle into his bones. Not outward. Not visible. He did not circulate Qi the way manuals described.
He held it.
The wolf lunged.
It moved faster than expected.
Not a blur—but efficient, practiced. Claws scraped stone as it closed the distance in a heartbeat.
Azazel twisted aside.
The wolf's claws missed his throat by inches, tearing into the rock wall instead. Stone cracked. Fragments scattered.
Azazel struck.
Not wildly.
His fist slammed into the wolf's shoulder.
Impact reverberated up his arm.
The wolf was lighter than he expected.
It flew back, skidding across the ravine floor before regaining its footing.
Azazel's knuckles throbbed.
No breaks.
Good.
The wolf growled.
Low.
Resonant.
Qi flared around its frame, dark and uneven. Its muscles tightened unnaturally, bones shifting beneath the skin as it prepared to strike again.
Azazel adjusted.
He had made one mistake already.
He had underestimated its reaction speed.
He would not repeat it.
The second attack came from the side.
The wolf feinted low, then twisted mid-lunge, jaws snapping toward Azazel's neck.
Azazel ducked and stepped inside its reach.
Too close.
He drove his elbow down into the wolf's spine.
The impact was solid.
Too solid.
The wolf howled—not in pain, but rage—and twisted violently. Its tail lashed out, striking Azazel's ribs.
The force knocked the breath from him.
He staggered back, boots scraping stone.
Pain flared along his side.
Cracked ribs.
Not broken.
He exhaled slowly and steadied himself.
So this is the difference, he thought.Between practice and killing.
The wolf did not give him time.
It circled now, faster, confidence growing. Its movements were no longer measured. It had tasted resistance—and found it insufficient.
Azazel's breathing slowed.
He stopped retreating.
Instead, he stepped forward.
The wolf hesitated.
Only for a fraction of a second.
That was enough.
Azazel lunged.
Not toward the wolf's head.
Toward its front leg.
He caught the limb mid-stride and twisted sharply.
Bone met bone.
There was a crack.
The wolf yelped and collapsed sideways, momentum betraying it. Azazel followed it down, driving his knee into its ribcage.
He felt something give.
The wolf snapped wildly, teeth grazing his forearm. Skin tore. Blood welled.
Azazel did not pull away.
He slammed his palm into the wolf's skull.
Once.
Twice.
The third strike carried darkness with it.
Contained.
Focused.
The wolf convulsed, then went still.
Silence returned.
Azazel remained crouched for several seconds, breathing controlled, senses alert.
The wolf did not rise.
Qi bled out of its body unevenly, dissolving into the air like smoke.
Azazel stood.
His arm burned. Blood dripped steadily from shallow wounds. His ribs ached with every breath.
He ignored it.
He knelt beside the corpse and examined it.
Bone Refining.
First Stage.
Nothing special.
Nothing weak.
Yet it had killed trained disciples.
They panicked, he realized.Or they fought it like beasts fight beasts.
He wiped his hand on the wolf's fur and stood.
The ravine felt different now.
Quieter.
As if something had been removed.
Azazel retrieved the boundary token from one of the bodies and secured it at his waist. He did not linger.
The smell of blood would attract more predators.
And if the wolf had hunted here—
It had not done so alone.
As he climbed out of the ravine, pain caught up to him.
Each step sent a dull ache through his side. His arm throbbed. Blood loss was minimal—but not irrelevant.
He adjusted his pace.
Not slower.
Smarter.
By the time he reached the upper forest line, the sun had dipped low. Shadows stretched long between the trees.
Azazel paused briefly.
Looked back.
The ravine lay quiet.
Too quiet.
This mission is not finished, he thought.
And for the first time since entering the sect—
He understood something clearly.
Cultivation was not about becoming strong.
It was about surviving long enough to adapt.
He turned and continued on.