After his first victory of catching a fish and fulfilling his hunger, Jian Zhi stood on the riverbank and undressed. His sharp eyes conducted a cold analysis of his own body, learning its biomechanics through slow, deliberate movements.

  He tucked in his arms, throwing punches in straight, efficient lines that protected his shoulders. He practiced this for hours, his fists snatching single falling leaves from the air. He remembered a rabbit he’d once seen, moving with incredible agility to escape a predator. He simulated the motion, feeling the shift of muscle and bone, and adopted its principles. Not to run away, but to run faster toward his prey.

  He experimented on the narrow mountain paths, barefoot. Jumping telegraphed his movement. Sliding created friction. *What if I combined them?* he asked the silent forest. After countless attempts, one combination worked: a one-legged jump to cover distance, followed by a powerful slide. He had created his first tool: "Ghost Step."

  He tempered his fists on the bark of tall trees and hardened his shins on strong bamboo—a weakness he’d noted in his reflection. He was forging the metal of his body with the fire in his heart. With every punch, he saw the tree as his father. He reshaped it into a man and struck the temples, the ribs, the solar plexus—every vital point he’d learned from a forgotten book in an acupuncture shop. He trained until his knuckles were raw and bloody, until he could no longer feel his hands.

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  Burning anger and the memory of his mother’s pain fueled him. He combined fierce punching combinations with his dangerous agility and powerful kicks, synthesizing a new martial art: "The Devil’s Way."

  For two years, his discipline was absolute. He was no longer a child.

  At fourteen, he detected movement in his territory—two groups: his wolf pack, and unwelcome guests—mountain bandits. Hidden in a tall tree, his Viper-like mind calculated the variables. In a flash of stealth, he grabbed one bandit from behind, crushing his throat with the relentless pressure of a python.

  Armed with the man’s knife, he turned on the remaining three. One swung a blade at his neck. Jian Zhi saw the motion before it finished. He dipped low and drove a fist into the man’s liver, dropping him instantly. A second bandit grabbed him from behind, pinning his arms for the third to strike. Without hesitation, Jian Zhi wrenched the knife from the first bandit’s grip and pivoted, driving it into the second man’s oblique, breaking his hold. The third stood alone, knife shaking in his hand. Jian Zhi looked at him with the eyes of an apex predator, his killing aura a physical weight. He knew he would win. The man lunged. Jian Zhi slid right—a flash of **Ghost Step**—and kicked the back of the man’s knee. A straight punch shattered his nose.

  Unconsciousness was not a neutralized threat. Jian Zhi tied them tightly, took their supplies, and dragged their bodies over the rough, rocky ground toward the wolf den. Their skin tore and bled against the stone.

  He faced the alpha wolf, his sharp eyes and blood-soaked aura radiating a simple message. He offered the bodies he had hunted. It was not friendship; it was a peace treaty. A pact between predators.