Chapter Twenty-One: A Simple Truth—Survive

With great effort, Yang Fan moved the tiger's corpse aside and leaned against a tree, gasping for breath.

Staring at the lifeless tiger beside him, a cold sweat broke out on Yang Fan's forehead. If he hadn’t managed to kick the beast off or deliver that fatal blow, he might have been the one lying dead on the forest floor now. The thrill of survival could not quell the terror of having brushed so close to death. Glancing at the bloody gashes on his arm, pain surged anew.

He rummaged through the medical kit issued by his mentor, took out some hemostatic powder and bandages, and began tending to his wounds. Once he had dressed the injuries, Yang Fan turned his gaze to the tiger’s body. Instantly, his face paled and he retched violently to the side.

The blood-soaked scene assaulted his senses. He was still only eighteen, never having killed even a chicken in his life, yet now he had slain a striped wild tiger—how surreal it all seemed.

After a while, Yang Fan recovered somewhat, picked up his knife, and approached the tiger. This was his trophy; he had to bring something back. The beast was too large to carry, so he selected the parts he could manage. He decided to sever the tiger’s tail and take it with him.

The pervasive stench of blood made him deeply uncomfortable, and with dusk approaching, he wondered just how far the scent would travel, and how many unknown dangers it might attract.

“I need to find a place to wash up, or else I’ll be in real trouble,” he muttered to himself.

Yet, reality rarely aligned with one’s wishes. As darkness fell, Yang Fan still hadn’t found a place to clean himself. He considered returning to the coast, but with the smell of blood clinging to him, he dared not retrace his steps, fearing he might encounter those lions again. The tiger had nearly cost him his life; if he ran into a pride, survival would be but a distant hope.

As the sky grew darker, anxiety gnawed at him. “Looks like there’s no water source. Forget it, I’ll stop searching,” he said irritably.

He soon found a tall tree and climbed up. Sitting on a branch twenty-five meters above the ground, Yang Fan closed his eyes—only to see the gaping maw of the tiger. He thought he had adapted, but such visceral terror was not so easily dispelled.

The night passed without incident. Whether it was because he had climbed high enough for the wind to carry away the scent, or sheer luck, not a single danger appeared.

...

The next morning, bright sunlight pierced through the leaves. Yang Fan slowly opened his eyes. Though nothing had happened during the night, his nerves remained taut with tension. The image of the tiger haunted him, and he had hardly slept.

Yang Fan made up his mind: to quickly hunt a few solitary beasts, fulfill the task requirements, and leave this cursed place. Since yesterday morning, he had eaten nothing. Even as a first-rank martial apprentice, the depletion of his strength left him feeling weak. If he delayed any longer, danger would come not only from the forest, but from his own body.

With his plan set, Yang Fan descended the tree, wincing at the pain from his wounds.

Elsewhere, Jiang Chao—whom Yang Fan had met briefly before—sat atop a wild boar, panting heavily, his body smeared with blood, uncertain whether it belonged to the boar or himself.

“This is torture. Why did I pick such a thick-skinned beast to fight? My weapon barely hurts it! If it didn’t bleed, I’d wonder if I’d even hit it. This nearly killed me—and I got injured, too...”

Jiang Chao complained endlessly, but his expression showed little distress, and his wounds were not severe.

About two kilometers away, Zhou Yiyi was sobbing as she cut off a paw from a limping lone wolf. The girl’s tear-stained face made her look utterly pitiful.

...

As dusk fell once more, Yang Fan emerged from the forest. Bloodied from head to toe, limping, he made his way toward the large ship anchored by the beach, carrying a section of tiger tail and two leopard paws in one hand, gripping his long knife tightly in the other.

“Look at that guy! He’s covered in blood.”

“Yeah, it’s terrifying. He’s carrying something, too—look!”

“A tail, paws. He must be a first-rank martial artist. That’s a lot! He’s the first one to return, isn’t he?”

Many students had already arrived at the coast, some wounded, others disheveled, but none as battered as Yang Fan. Most were ordinary students, forming teams, setting traps, and working together to kill several wild beasts.

Yang Fan ignored their chatter and strode toward his mentor.

“Yang Fan, reporting back,” he declared.

He had rehearsed those words all the way here, wanting to make a strong impression. Young men, after surviving peril, always wish to show themselves.

The mentor gazed at the bloodied youth, sighing softly. Though he had witnessed such scenes countless times in previous years, each encounter stirred fresh emotions in his heart.

“Not bad. The first first-rank martial artist to return. What did you gain?” the mentor asked.

“Killed one tiger, two leopards. Here’s proof,” Yang Fan replied, handing over the beastly remains.

The mentor took them and said, “Well done. We’ll verify these. You’re injured—go to the tent over there for treatment.”

He pointed to the only tent by the shore.

Yang Fan wasted no words and walked straight over. He was covered in wounds—not only from the tiger’s claws, but also fresh scars from the two leopards: one on his back, one on his leg, and another in his heart.

Physical wounds were easy to heal; those in the heart, less so. He recalled how, when facing the last leopard, if he hadn’t used his lightning ability, he would have lost his head. Since awakening his power, Yang Fan had never used it—partly because it was weak at first, and partly because he didn’t want to reveal too much. Unlike blood energy, abilities were invisible unless activated.

When the leopard lunged for his throat, Yang Fan had been desperate. Clinging to hope, he unleashed his lightning, stunning the beast. Only then did he grab his knife and finish it off.

But a new shadow of fear fell upon him. The crisis felt even more intense than that brought by the tiger. Yet amidst his terror, a sense of excitement flickered—the power of his lightning ability was impressive. It was a hundredfold stronger than when first awakened. If the initial lightning felt like a spark from a lighter, now it was akin to a 220-volt outlet—not quite as strong, but far beyond his expectations.

...

Entering the tent, Yang Fan found a female mentor he hadn’t met before. She frowned at his bloodied state and said, “Don’t come in yet. Go to the sea and wash yourself first, then return.”

Yang Fan was stunned. Wash in the sea? Wasn’t that risky for infection?

“Don’t worry about that. Just go clean yourself,” she explained, sensing his concern.

Limping, Yang Fan headed for the shore, his mind racing. The moment he stepped into the sea, his whole body trembled—not only from the cold, but from pain, as the salt stung his wounds, sending sharp agony through his nerves.

When he returned, shivering, the female mentor began applying medicine and bandages. The ointment soothed his pain and wrapped his wounds in a cool sensation. Once she finished, Yang Fan felt almost whole again.

“No bathing for the next few days. When you return to the academy, come to the infirmary every morning to have your dressings changed. You can go now,” she said, turning away to wash her hands.

Yang Fan exited the tent. As the sky darkened and students trickled back, his heart gradually calmed. He found a flat patch of ground and lay down. After more than twenty hours of constant tension, his strength and spirit were spent.

He fell asleep immediately, secure in the knowledge that with mentors nearby, he could finally rest.

...

When Yang Fan next opened his eyes, the sky was still gray and dim, blanketing the sea and the island in gloom.

He had been awakened by the commotion of students around him. Once clear-headed, he looked about and saw a boy missing an arm being carried into the female mentor’s tent.

“Lost his arm? Zhang Shaofeng lost his arm.”

“Wuwu, it’s so scary. I want to go home.”

“How could this happen? I always thought the mentors were secretly protecting us. I always believed…”

“Yeah, I thought so, too. That’s why I dared to hunt wild beasts and act reckless. If I’d known there weren’t mentors following us, I’d never have dared.”

“What now? We haven’t even officially entered the academy, and this happened? Zhang Shaofeng’s from my hometown, second-rank talent, and now he’s lost an arm?”

Yang Fan listened to the calls around him, unfamiliar emotions stirring in his heart.

Mentor protection? Yang Fan had never relied on that idea—not because he was confident he’d be safe alone, but because he knew it was impossible. With over two thousand new students scattered across the island, how could there be enough mentors to watch everyone?

This, then, was the path of cultivation—a path paved in blood, not only the blood of enemies, but sometimes his own.

Yang Fan had understood since childhood: rely on yourself. Don’t count on others; only by becoming strong could he face any crisis.

Since he had chosen this road—whatever the reason—he would walk it, growing stronger, simply to survive.