L
The narrow stone tunnel was cold and damp, but it did its job—Claire Jensen managed to escape from Fort Jensen without incident.
But not even thirty minutes had passed before the forces of the Ten Thousand Demons Sect tracked the route.
Apparently, the secret tunnel wasn't as secret as they'd hoped.
Seeing no other choice, Claire crouched down near a thicket and gently placed baby Aeron into a bundle of leaves and moss.
"I'll distract them. I'll come back for you."
She smiled with pain in her eyes, stroked his cheek, then disappeared into the woods with deliberate swiftness.
Though she had just given birth, Claire was no ordinary woman—as the wife of a top martial master, she had trained herself over the years. Her stamina matched a mid-tier martial expert, and her agility was almost supernatural.
But time kept passing.
Two hours. Then three.
Claire never returned.
Aeron, wrapped in cloth and dried leaves, blinked up at the forest canopy.
"She's not coming back."
He knew. If Claire had succeeded in losing the pursuers, she would have returned immediately. The fact that she hadn't meant only one thing.
She hadn't escaped.
"How ironic." He let out a breathless thought. "From the heir of a noble fortress... to nothing."
But now wasn't the time to mourn.
As a newborn, his greatest enemy wasn't grief.
It was survival.
The cold was creeping in.
The ground sapped his warmth. Even now, surrounded by leaves, he could feel his body trembling. An ordinary child would have burst into cries by now.
But Aeron didn't cry.
He knew what would happen if he did. In these remote woods, wild beasts prowled.
The scent of a human baby was a delicacy.
"If I were just a few days older…" Aeron sighed inwardly. "Even just a week would've helped. I could've done something."
With his Heaven-Defying Comprehension, he only needed a short time to unlock profound insights. In his first world travel, he had grasped the Great Buddha Fist at the age of three.
But now?
He couldn't even sit up.
The sun dipped, and night arrived with a chilling wind.
The temperature dropped fast.
Aeron's pink skin began to pale as the cold crept in. Still, he gritted his nonexistent teeth and remained silent.
Then it happened.
Rustling.
Leaves and twigs snapping under something's weight.
Not human.
Aeron's breathing slowed. His infant body tried not to shiver, though it ached with cold.
Something was approaching.
Fast. Four-legged. Sniffing. Hunting.
Suddenly, a flash of inspiration struck him.
[Your comprehension defies heaven. While observing the dry leaves and trees, you realize the Deadwood Breathing Technique.]
[Deadwood Breathing: By mimicking the breath pattern and stillness of lifeless wood, you mask your presence entirely.]
Aeron didn't hesitate.
His breathing altered. Subtle. Shallow. Syncing with the wind's rhythm.
His skin began to dull in color, blending in with the dead leaves.
Even the faint scent of milk from his body faded.
From afar, he looked like nothing more than discarded wood wrapped in cloth.
The wolf arrived.
A full-grown predator. Its nostrils flared. It circled, grunted, then growled—uncertain.
But after a few tense minutes, it turned and vanished into the brush.
Aeron had survived.
"Deadwood Breathing… I need to remember that."
He stayed hidden, conserving his energy.
Time crawled by.
Half a day passed.
Hunger gnawed at his stomach.
His limbs ached. Dizziness came in waves.
[Your comprehension defies heaven. Under the pressure of hunger, you grasp the Hibernation Breathing Technique.]
[Hibernation Breathing: Slows bodily functions to reduce energy consumption.]
The second breakthrough.
Using the two techniques in tandem, Aeron became indistinguishable from a dead plant.
---
Two full days passed.
He was fading.
His consciousness clung on by a thread.
Suddenly—
Footsteps.
Graceful. Light.
Human.
Aeron's eyes fluttered open. He pushed the techniques away and let out a single cry.
"Wah!"
A Taoist monk appeared through the treeline.
"Hmm?"
The man stopped, eyes scanning.
"A baby? Out here?" he muttered, moving closer.
The middle-aged priest had a long robe and a weathered face. His expression softened as he knelt.
"Is this… a child from Fort Jensen?"
His eyes fell on the jade pendant around the infant's neck.
Two words: Mountain Peak.
"…Mark's pendant," the priest whispered. "Then this must be… his son."
Tears welled in the monk's eyes.
He was Elder Evergreen, from the legendary Dragonspire Monastery. Mark had sent him a letter months ago, warning about the Ten Thousand Demons Sect.
Evergreen had set out immediately but was ambushed midway by the cult's guardians.
By the time he reached the fort, it was in ruins.
Everyone was gone.
He had planned to return in mourning—until he heard Aeron's cry.
Hope returned.
"Mark's bloodline lives." Elder Evergreen knelt and scooped the baby up.
Aeron blinked at him, pale and cold, but alive.
Elder Evergreen ran his hand over the child's chest, preparing to pour some of his own inner energy into the baby's frail form.
But then he paused.
"No damage? No frostbite? Not even malnourished?"
The priest was dumbfounded.
"Incredible." he murmured.
"From today, child… you belong to Dragonspire."
---
Dragonspire Monastery – Hall of True Martial Arts
Elder Evergreen stood before a serene figure, dressed in flowing green robes.
This was Master Viren, the head of the monastery—a peerless martial saint and guardian of the sacred teachings.
Elder Evergreen bowed deeply and told him everything.
When he finished, Master Viren sat in silence.
"The new leader of the Ten Thousand Demons Sect… he has reached the Celestial Phenomenon Realm," he said at last.
"They intend to devour the land."
"And Fort Jensen paid the price."
Then he turned toward Aeron, who now slept in Evergreen's arms.
"What name was he given?"
"I found a pendant on him. It read 'Mountain Peak.'"
"Hmm…" Master Viren's eyes softened.
"Then let him be called Cliff Jensen."
"Let him grow with strength—as firm and unmoving as a mountain."
---
So began Aeron's second life.
Now Cliff Jensen, he was raised in the quiet halls of Dragonspire.
At first, Elder Evergreen feared the baby would cry constantly.
But Cliff never did.
If he was hungry, he would stare wide-eyed at his guardian until food came.
He never whimpered, never wailed.
Milk was sourced from kind villagers at the mountain's foot. Though it was a humble life, Cliff was content.
And so the years passed.
Ten of them.
Cliff Jensen—former
ly Aeron—grew into a slender, observant boy with calm eyes and a brilliant mind.
His legend, though quiet for now, was only just beginning.
---
(End of chapter)
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