They had walked for less than a mile when the jungle decided to strike again.
This time, there was no warning. No snapping twig, no intuitive prickle on the back of the neck. One moment, the path was clear; the next, a mountain of orange and black fur blocked the way.
It was an Iron-Hide Tiger, a beast twice the size of the panther Aael had fled from earlier. Its fur wasn't just hair; it was matted with metallic quills that clinked softly as it breathed. Muscles rolled under its skin like boulders.
The tiger didn't crouch. It didn't need to. It stood tall, blocking the narrow game trail, its golden eyes fixed on the old man. It opened its mouth, revealing rows of teeth stained with old blood, and let out a growl that vibrated in Aael's chest like a war drum.
Aael froze, his legs locking up. He looked around for a rock, a tree, anything to climb.
But the old man didn't stop walking.
He didn't break his stride. He didn't drop his bucket of fish. He walked toward the massive predator as if it were a log lying across the road.
"Move," the old man grumbled, sounding more annoyed than afraid.
The tiger roared—a sound that should have paralyzed any living thing—and swiped. Its paw, heavy enough to crush a boulder, came down in a blur of claws.
The old man didn't dodge. He didn't cast a spell.
He simply raised his right hand. The bamboo fishing rod, thin and fragile, flicked through the air.
Swish.
It was a sound so faint it was barely audible—like a whisper cutting through silk.
The old man walked past the tiger.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened. The tiger stood frozen in mid-roar, its paw raised, its eyes wide with confusion. Aael blinked, wondering if the old man had cast an illusion.
Then, a thin red line appeared on the tiger's nose. It traveled up its forehead, down its neck, along its spine, and all the way to its tail.
SQUELCH.
The sound was wet and horrific. The massive beast simply fell apart. The left half slid one way, the right half slid the other. The internal organs spilled out onto the jungle floor in a steaming heap. There was no struggle. The beast had been dead before its brain even registered the strike.
Aael stared at the corpse, his mouth hanging open. He looked at the bamboo rod in the old man's hand. It wasn't glowing. It wasn't made of steel. It was just wood. And yet, it had cut through iron-hide and bone like they were water.
The old man didn't dodge. He didn't cast a spell.
He simply raised his right hand. The bamboo fishing rod, thin and fragile, flicked through the air.
Swish.
It was a sound so faint it was barely audible—like a whisper cutting through silk.
The old man walked past the tiger.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened. The tiger stood frozen in mid-roar, its paw raised, its eyes wide with confusion. Aael blinked, wondering if the old man had cast an illusion.
Then, a thin red line appeared on the tiger's nose. It traveled up its forehead, down its neck, along its spine, and all the way to its tail.
SQUELCH.
The sound was wet and horrific. The massive beast simply fell apart. The left half slid one way, the right half slid the other. The internal organs spilled out onto the jungle floor in a steaming heap. There was no struggle. The beast had been dead before its brain even registered the strike.
Aael stared at the corpse, his mouth hanging open. He looked at the bamboo rod in the old man's hand. It wasn't glowing. It wasn't made of steel. It was just wood. And yet, it had cut through iron-hide and bone like they were water.
Part 9: The Question
The old man stopped. He hadn't even looked back at his kill. He adjusted his straw hat, seemingly irritated by the interruption.
He turned slowly, his dark eyes boring into Aael, who was shivering next to a fern.
"Boy," the Master said, his voice flat. "That beast was hunting you, not me. I smell like river mud and old age. You smell like fear and fresh meat."
He pointed the tip of the fishing rod at Aael's chest. Aael flinched, terrified that he would be split in half next.
"I fed you," the Master said. "I let you warm yourself by my fire. The debt is paid."
The rod lowered.
"So tell me," the old man asked, his eyes narrowing. "Why are you still following me?"
The smell of the tiger's blood was sharp and metallic in the humid air. Aael stood trembling, looking from the ruined beast to the back of the old man.
"Why?" Aael repeated the question, his voice cracking.
He looked at the dark, suffocating jungle around them. He looked at the shadows that seemed to stretch like claws.
"Because there is nowhere else," Aael whispered, dropping to his knees in the mud. The adrenaline was fading, leaving him cold and empty. "The river took me. The cliff took my brother. The fire took my father."
The old man didn't move. He stood still, the bamboo rod resting on his shoulder, listening.
Aael looked down at his hands—hands that had been too weak to lift the stone, too weak to hold a sword, too weak to save anyone.
"I stood there," Aael choked out, the tears finally spilling over, hot and stinging. "My father burned himself to nothing to save me. My brother... my brother tried to fight. He stood in front of me. And I just watched."
He dug his fingers into the wet earth.
"I watched them die. I watched my mother..." He couldn't finish the sentence. The image of Elara's rot-filled eyes was a knife in his gut. "Being weak... standing there while the people you love fall... it hurts more than dying. It hurts more than being eaten."
Aael wiped his face with a muddy arm, smearing soot and tears across his pale skin. He looked up at the old man. His eyes were red and swollen, but the terror in them had changed. It had hardened into something brittle and desperate.
He pointed a shaking finger at the dead tiger.
"You killed that monster with a stick," Aael said, his voice gaining a sudden, fierce edge. "You didn't use magic. You didn't use a greatsword. You just... swiped."
Aael struggled to his feet. He took a step toward the old man.
"Teach me," Aael demanded. It wasn't a request; it was a plea from the bottom of a grave. "Teach me to be strong like that. I don't want to be the one who survives anymore. I want to be the one who protects. I want to be strong enough that no one ever has to die for me again."
The silence stretched for a long time. The only sound was the dripping of blood from the tiger's carcass.
The old man finally turned around.
He didn't look sympathetic. He didn't look kind. His face was a map of deep wrinkles and old scars, etched with a lifetime of violence and regret. Under the shadow of his hat, his dark eyes studied Aael like a blacksmith inspecting a piece of rusted scrap metal.
"You think strength is a gift?" the Master asked softly. "You think it is a shield? You are a fool, boy."
He walked back toward Aael, stopping just inches away. He loomed over the boy, smelling of river water and dried fish. He looked Aael up and down, his gaze critical and mocking.
"Look at you," the Master scoffed, gesturing to Aael's shivering frame. "You are twigs and water. You are skin stretched over glass. If the wind blows too hard, you will snap. You have no muscle. No reach. No weight."
He leaned down, his voice dripping with disdain. "You want to carry the weight of the world? You can barely carry your own shadow. You are not a warrior, boy. You are barely a snack for the worms."
Aael didn't flinch. He didn't look down at his muddy feet or his trembling hands. He stood his ground, his jaw set so hard his teeth ached. The tears on his face had dried, leaving tracks through the soot, but his eyes burned with a cold, frantic light.
"Then break me," Aael said, his voice steady. "And build me again."
The Master stared at him. He looked for the flinch. He looked for the hesitation of a pampered chieftain's son who had never known true hunger.
He found none. He saw only a boy who had already died inside and was refusing to lie down.
The old man let out a long, weary sigh. It sounded like wind scraping over stone.
"You are a stubborn fool," the Master muttered, adjusting his straw hat. The mockery faded from his voice, replaced by a grave seriousness.
"Listen to me, Aael of Silverleaf," the Master said, his voice low. "The path you are asking for... it is not a path of glory. It is a path of agony. It is walking barefoot on knives. It is eating bitterness until your blood turns sour. To forge steel, you must burn it first."
The Master's dark eyes locked onto Aael's.
"It will hurt more than the river. It will hurt more than the grief. It might kill you before you even learn to hold a sword. Can you walk that path?"
Aael didn't blink. He didn't speak. He didn't look back at the dark jungle or the dead tiger.
He looked the Master in the eye and gave a single, sharp nod.
The old man held his gaze for a second longer, then grunted. He turned his back and started walking.
"Then keep up," the Master said. "Try not to die on the way home."