Chương 19: Chapter Eighteen: How Does a Wolf Move?

Soon, the sun disappeared beneath the shadows of the soaring trees surrounding Cyrus. He awkwardly lumbered through the dense forest brush. Twigs snapped beneath his boots as he pushed past the various vegetation that clawed at him. Gritting his teeth against the lashes and stings that reddened his skin, he continued moving deeper into the forest, as per Aithon's instructions. Beside his ear, a cicada hovered, its translucent wings vibrating softly.

"Look around you, my child," Aithon spoke.

"Nature is harshly beautiful. Civilization, on the other hand, only teaches men to be weak. Their bodies turn brittle, and their spirits grow dull." Cyrus swatted a thirsty mosquito away from his neck, then glanced at the fluttering insect.

"And what of the sects? Do they not train warriors?" Aithon scoffed—though in his cicada form, it sounded more like a strange, violent buzz.

"If what you learned in that sect reflects what the world of cultivation has degenerated into, then humanity's golden age is long dead." Cyrus walked silently ahead, the harsh words berating his ears. He took a deep breath, only to wince at the strong scent of resin as they passed a grove of pines.

"Consider the wolf," Aithon continued.

"The pup is not taught to hunt. Instead, it learns by failing, by going hungry, and by chasing prey. If it fails, then it dies. If it succeeds, it does not." Landing on a pine branch a few steps ahead, the cicada's compound eyes glared at Cyrus as he walked towards it.

"And so, when a wolf starves, it later also learns how to not," Aithon declared, lifting off as Cyrus passed the tree.

"Pain is the only true teacher in this universe, my child." Cyrus paused. He raised a hand, wiping the peals of sweat off his reddened face.

"So I am to starve?" Cyrus asked.

"You misunderstand me, my child. You are to hunt," Aithon corrected, buzzing around Cyrus's head.

"And you will start by hunting for a single hare." Cyrus blinked, looking up at the hovering cicada. He furrowed his brow incredulously.

"Hunt a hare? What does catching a rabbit in the woods have to do with cultivation?" The insect's wings buzzed violently.

"Everything in this world carries a reason, my child," Aithon spoke somberly.

"Do not let doubts cloud your vision. You must trust the path we walk." Before Cyrus could demand more explanation, the cicada's wings began fluttering lazily, slowly drifting down to face Cyrus.

"Now, while you attempt to track and capture this hare, I must retreat into slumber," Aithon announced.

"I spent much of my remaining energy guiding you here, and I must recover my power. Once you have captured and killed the beast, I shall wake up, and we shall advance to the next step."

"Wait!" Cyrus said, stumbling forward.

"You haven't even taught me the Famished Wolf Tempering Art yet! How am I supposed to use it if I don't know the technique?" Aithon buzzed drily.

"My child... the hunt IS the technique," Aithon murmured.

"Or at least, part of it. Now, goodbye." The insect shot straight toward Cyrus. Before the boy could even raise a hand to swat him away, the cicada vanished, sinking directly into the flesh of Cyrus's forehead.

"Aithon?" Cyrus muttered, slapping his palm onto his temples. But there was no reply. The spirit had gone completely dormant within his mind. Frustration flared in his chest. He stared blankly into the empty air, hoping the insect would suddenly pop back out with a snide remark. But nothing. He dropped his hand, shaking his head to clear the lingering fog. He didn't have time to stand around waiting for a dormant spirit to wake, and he certainly didn't have time to waste.

Every moment he spent lingering in the woods was another moment his family remained in danger. Steeling himself, Cyrus began heading deeper into the forest. He needed to catch a hare quickly. The faster he completed this trial, the faster Aithon would have to answer him. And luckily, it didn't take him long to find one. Inside this untamed and wild wilderness, free from any humane meddling for years, the beasts were quite abundant. Cyrus quickly spotted a fat grey hare ducked beneath a thick berry bush.

It reclined on the ground, nibbling peacefully on a root. Excitement surging through his muscles, Cyrus dashed forward. Bending his knees, he pounced forward. Launching himself off the forest floor with a roar, he hurtled through the air. He stretched out his hand, preparing to flatten the creature beneath his weight. But before Cyrus could even reach ten paces away, the hare's long ears twitched. It languidly stretched up, then bounded away, disappearing into the forest in seconds.

Cyrus struck the earth, plowing face-first into the dirt and thorns. Dazed and spitting out mouthfuls of dry soil, he scrambled up to his knees and whipped his head around. But when he saw nothing around him, he plopped back down onto the dirt, wiping away the sweat and mud from his stinging cheeks. He felt stung with humiliation. How am I supposed to know how to hunt? he thought defensively, glaring at the ground. He had spent his life baking bread. By the gods, he had never seen a hunter at work!

The closest he had only ever seen was the lifeless meat hanging from the butcher's shop. Cyrus pushed himself up, brushing off the twigs and crushed leaves clinging to his clothes. What was he missing? He had the strength to easily overpower the hare if he could… That was it! Reach. Cyrus needed something to be able to reach the hare. Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit. A weapon, he realized. He looked around the forest floor, until he noticed a fallen oak branch near him.

It was long—easily six feet—and thick. Perfect. Picking it up, he tested its weight. The top was much heavier than the bottom, which Cyrus figured was for the better. After all, more weight meant more crushing force. But as he looked at the blunt end, he decided it wasn't lethal enough. After finding a sharp rock on the ground, Cyrus began frantically hacking away at the end of the wood.

Spending the next twenty minutes scraping, he fashioned splintered barbs all along the top of the stick, creating a massive club filled with spikes. By the time he was done, the weapon was a monstrosity of sharp edges, so heavy that even holding it made Cyrus's arms tremble. Cyrus grinned, admiring his handiwork. It looked vicious. It looked deadly. He shouldered the weapon, and began searching for another hare. It didn't take long to spot his next target.

A small brown hare was nibbling on grass, just beneath a pine tree. Cyrus grinned, creeping forward while brandishing his weapon. He was confident in this attempt, to say the least. He closed the distance, trying to make sure to get as little distance between him and the animal, until… The hare's ears twitched. The moment the action registered upon Cyrus's mind, he screamed a bellow.

"Die!" He swung with all his might, and the club flew forward— But it also pulled Cyrus as well! The sheer weight ripped away his footing from right under him, sending him tumbling down into a brush of thistles, until Cyrus eventually landed facefirst into a pile of rotting leaves. The club rolled, coming to a rest harmlessly by his side. Cyrus rolled over, and stared up at the sky, utterly lashed with shock. He spat out a mouthful of dirt, a groan escaping his lips.

Turning his head to the side, he watched as the hare gave Cyrus a look—almost something like a gaze of annoyance—before skipping away into the wilds. Cyrus pulled himself out of the mulch, panting. He had never thought an animal could embarrass him so. Coughing awkwardly, he gave a mutter under his breath.

"That was just luck, little hare. Lady Tyche must've spared you." Spending the next twenty minutes trudging through the forest, Cyrus soon managed to delude himself. Truly, he refused to abandon the club. It had to work! The first time must've just been a fluke! Until eventually, he caught sight of another hare, resting amongst some clover. This time, he had the awareness to not stupidly let out a roar. Crouching and carefully sliding forward, he got as much distance as he could closer to the hare.

Then, taking a deep breath to steady himself, he pounced, striking with the club. But when he swung the massive weapon— Pow! Cyrus blinked. What? How was he on his back? Why was his gaze up at the sky? Turning his head, he spotted the hare lazily bounding away. He let out a groan, before prying himself back up. Feeling utterly ridiculous, he kicked away the spiked monstrosity he had created, sending it sliding down a hill. This was getting him nowhere! But what else was he supposed to do?

Cyrus clutched his temples in frustration. Oh, why had Aithon just abandoned him?! Hadn't the mysterious spirit promised that— The name of the technique he was supposed to be learning suddenly came to mind. The Famished Wolf Tempering Art. Cyrus cocked his head. Wait. Wolves…? He plopped down onto the ground, as the wilderness around him darkened. It would be night soon. Maybe something about those animals was the answer. Why else would the technique be named after them? Aithon had also hinted heavily at them.

If Cyrus wanted to catch a hare, perhaps he needed to stop acting like a brash human. Perhaps he needed to act like a wolf. The idea wasn't too far off. He knew that those beasts were natural hunters, capable and strong, being master stalkers that could most definitely catch a hare. Reopening his eyes, Cyrus frowned as he stared deeply into the forest. But how would he accomplish such a feat? He shook his head. He needed to organize his thoughts. First, how did a wolf move?

Well, for one, it didn't stomp around wearing leather sandals, roaring at its prey. He looked down at his footwear. Perfect for civilization, for the paved roads. But out here… Utterly useless. He kicked them off without hesitation. Setting his bare feet upon the ground, he winced as the sensations flooded his brain. The frigid mud, the crunchy leaves, the hard pebbles. It was uncomfortable and strange, but there was now truly a difference. Cyrus could actually feel the terrain.

For example, he could now tell where a dry, brittle twig was hidden before he put the full weight of his body down. Straightening up, he took a step forward. But then— The loud crack of a branch breaking beneath him echoed out. He stiffened. Even if he could sense the danger now, Cyrus was putting down his weight too fast. There had to be another part of the puzzle. He dug through his brain for answers. Until, suddenly, a recollection emerged from the fog of his mind.

He hadn't thought about this particular memory in years. He had been around seven or eight, walking outside with his father. He couldn't even remember why they had been out there. But he remembered that they had rounded a corner of a small hill, and there it had been. A solitary wolf standing motionless, its silver mane glowing in the soft moonlight. Young Cyrus had gasped with both reverence and surprise. Meanwhile, his father had slowly raised a hand to his chest.

Having Cyrus halt as well, his father had led him into bowing his head in a gesture of respect to Apollo. His father had stayed still, whispering a small prayer beneath his breath. The wolf had stared at them. Cyrus could still see those glaring, golden eyes that seemed to claim him—an idea so nonsensical. How could a mere beast claim a human? And yet it had done just that. Then, without so much as a growl, it had turned and slipped away into the wilderness.

Now, standing barefoot in the dark woods, Cyrus had to focus on how that wolf had moved. First, he started by pointing out the clearest of details. It had definitely not just hadn't bounded away. If Cyrus had to choose a word, it would be charis —grace. It truly had not moved like a typical fleeing animal, but like an mythical animal gliding towards the underworld. And now the important details. He closed his eyes, straining the eye of his mind to focus on the memory's image.

The wolf had walked on its toes and the balls of its feet. From one pad to the next, the wolf had carefully distributed its weight out, never once striking the ground as clumsily as a man. Cyrus opened his eyes and looked down at his own bare feet. He hunched towards the ground, bending his knees and lowering his torso just above the ground. Matching the prowling of the wolf, he carefully raised his right foot. He extended his toes, letting the very outer edges lightly sink into the earth first.

Using that, he felt around for dry twigs until he was satisfied. Then, he set down the balls of his feet. He repeated this over and over again. When he felt a brittle stick or a loose stone begin to yield under his toes, he froze, then sent back his weight into his thigh. He repeated the movement over and over. Though his thigh muscles burned as he continued being in the grueling crouch, the awkwardness soon faded away. Sensing that he was ready, Cyrus set out into the darkening forest.

He glided between the towering trunks of the trees, like a shade from the underworld, floating silently across the wild. Then, he spotted another hare, just through the tangled roots of a bush. It was pale and fat, resting in a field of clover. Its nose twitched softly, but its long ears remained relaxed, seemingly unaware of Cyrus's presence. Sinking into the earth, he took a deep breath, then prowled forward. Step after step. Step after step. Until he was closer to the beast then he'd ever been before.

The hare was well within striking distance, its soft fur practically within reach. A grin splitting his lips, Cyrus prepared to spring forward.