Excerpt 19

  (Page 17, Section 1)

  Power manifests in many forms—some born of flesh, others forged in fire. Beasts of brute instinct often possess natural weapons: talons sharper than blades, fangs like daggers, and hides as durable as a shield. Their bodies are their armor, their weapons, and their shields. Without thought, they rely solely on instinct and raw might.

  By contrast, those of higher intellect—the thinkers, strategists, and wielders of craft—do not depend on body alone. They shape their environment, mastering the art of war through the creation of swords, shields, and armor. Such equipment is not merely a tool; it is the embodiment of knowledge, discipline, and purpose. To wield a forged weapon is to extend one's will beyond the limits of muscle and bone.

  Yet, the most formidable of beings are not those who rely on strength or intellect alone, but those who possess both—and understand the value of synthesis. For even a body like living steel can be honed further through craftsmanship. To reject armor because one’s hide is tough, or to forgo a blade because one’s claws are sharp, is to limit one’s potential. Equipment is not just a crutch for the weak; it is an amplifier for the strong.

  Still, one truth remains: power means little without the ability to shape it. Those who cannot forge—or lack the means to acquire—are bound by the limitations of their own bodies. But those who can create, who can temper steel to match their spirit, carry with them an edge that transcends nature itself.

  Source: The Edge Beyond Flesh – Grandmaster Blacksmith Orvakhan

  Excerpt 19 End

  Why in the world is it so hard to make a makeshift weapon?

  Hassan cursed under his breath as he eyed the thorned branch in his hands. His grip was careful, fingers spaced out to avoid even the smallest brush against the needle-like protrusions jutting from its bark. Each thorn glistened, slick with something faintly oily—something he now knew, from painful experience, could kill him in minutes.

  He had already died to one of these. Not in some dramatic battle. Not from a monster. Just… a few scratches. He hadn't even noticed it at first. There had been no pain, no warning. But within moments his vision blurred, his breath grew shallow, and then—

  Darkness. Suffocation. System notification.

  Now, every thorn was a threat. Every motion a test of precision.

  He crouched beneath the twisted remains of a half-fallen tree near the edge of a dense thicket. Its roots jutted upward in a jagged sprawl, forming a shallow natural alcove just large enough to conceal him from sight. It wasn’t ideal shelter, but it offered something—partial cover and a potential escape route into the underbrush if something approached too quickly to fight.

  Behind him loomed the poisonous bush—the same one from which he’d harvested the thorned branch. Its limbs bristled with venom-laced growths, and though it stood still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that danger lingered within. The snake he’d killed had come from it. And there were likely more.

  He glanced around, alert. The forest had already proven it wouldn't offer second chances freely. Anything could be watching. Anything could strike. There was no safety here—only the illusion of it.

  He didn’t have rope, not even cloth. Everything around him was either alive and waiting to strike, or too dangerous to touch. The vines dangling from the trees looked usable—like jungle lianas. But he knew better. They were alive. And lethal.

  This branch, though... it had potential. Not just a weapon—it was a natural deterrent. The creatures feared it. The thorns, too, were coated in venom. Lethal venom. If he could wield it without dying in the process, he might actually stand a chance out here.

  Even if he did die, the next time he returned, he’d bring more tools—like hide or rope—to do it better.

  He crouched low, inspecting the structure of the branch. The thorns weren’t uniform—they twisted, curved inward at strange angles, and some were already dried to the point of crumbling. The trick was to strip just enough of them to make a grip while keeping the rest intact. He needed the poison. He just couldn’t afford to bleed for it.

  On his first attempt, he used a smaller stick to wedge one of the thorns off.

  It cracked. The entire branch splintered at the base.

  He sighed, tossed it aside, and started again.

  Second attempt—too cautious. The thorn didn’t even budge.

  Third try, the thorn chipped off but stayed on.

  By the fourth branch, same problem.

  His fifth and sixth tries ended in failure. One shattered completely. The other bent just enough to spring a thorn toward his hand, stopping barely a finger’s width from slicing him.

  Close. Too close.

  He gritted his teeth and didn’t say a word.

  By the eighth attempt, his breath had slowed to a near meditative rhythm. His fingers moved with delicate intent.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Don’t slip. Don’t rush. Don’t die.

  He pinched the base of one thorn with a flat rock and twisted, angling his pressure just enough to break the connective fibers without fracturing the wood underneath. It popped off cleanly.

  One down.

  He repeated the process, working methodically down the branch, stripping just enough to create a narrow handhold. It still wasn’t perfect—some jagged nubs remained, and one thorn had snapped but not fully detached—but it was good enough.

  He stood up slowly, holding it at arm’s length, marveling at the brutal simplicity of it. A branch laced with venom. Nature’s death made portable. If he could land even a grazing blow with it, he might not need to fight twice. That was if they didn’t run away after seeing it.

  Finally.

  He flexed his fingers and stared down at his prize with a sense of grim satisfaction.

  Then his eyes drifted to the corpse still slumped nearby—the twisted, branch snake he’d killed earlier. It lay coiled on the ground, unmoving, head fully smashed. It was stiff now, hollow-looking, almost brittle.

  He didn’t know if it was safe to eat. Probably not. But it didn’t matter.

  What mattered was what it looked like. He’d killed something. Something that could kill others. That had to count for something, didn’t it?

  He crouched beside the corpse, grimacing as he worked to hoist it by the tail. It was oddly light for its size, but the message it sent was heavy. If something crossed his path and saw him dragging this thing behind him, maybe it would think twice. Maybe it would assume he was dangerous.

  Or insane. Either worked.

  A venomous branch in one hand. A dead predator over his shoulder.

  Who wouldn’t be afraid of that?

  This wasn’t just about surviving anymore. It was about learning—understanding the rules of this world before it tore him apart. Every decision had to serve a purpose: to reveal something about the terrain, the predators, or perhaps even a temporary place to call home until he was strong enough to fight back.

  He still wasn’t sure where he stood in the grand layout of the forest. Was he near its edge, or only skimming the outskirts of something far deeper? The number of creatures he had encountered so far felt too few, too scattered, like the real threats hadn’t yet begun to show themselves.

  For now, his goal was clear—scout and gather information. Map the terrain mentally. Find water and food. Locate a defensible space. A natural choke point. Anything that could give him even a slim chance of surviving a full night here.

  If nothing else, he could retreat to the grassy plains and wait. Wait until he was strong enough—not just to survive his return, but to dominate it.

  He headed toward the grassy plains, following the brighter sky where the trees began to thin. The light was his guide now—where it filtered cleanly through the leaves, the forest gave way to open field. That meant visibility. Space. Less danger from above, at least.

  Then, just as he was beginning to relax, he heard it.

  Water.

  He stopped walking.

  There it was again—a soft, flowing sound. Not loud, not dramatic. Just… calm. Like a shallow stream passing over stones. Gentle and persistent. The kind of sound that pulled at something deeper than thirst. He hadn’t drunk true water since he arrived in this world.

  Dew on leaves. The waterisus plant. Strange, nutrient-packed moisture from roots and leaves. All functional. None truly satisfying.

  He turned without hesitation, following the sound.

  His mouth wasn’t dry. But something deeper inside him ached.

  The closer he got, the more the forest opened up. The ground sloped gently downward, and then he saw it—a thin stream carving through a dip in the terrain. Sunlight caught the surface, making it shimmer like glass.

  And drinking from that stream, right at the edge of the bank, was a monster.

  At first glance, the creature looked feline, the way its spine arched and its legs bent. But the other details made him think otherwise.

  Spikes. Long, sharpened spines rose from its back like a porcupine’s—but thicker, deadlier. They twitched slightly with each breath. Its fur was the color of dried mud, and its body rippled with muscle, huge and broad. It was easily three times the size of the caregiver. Maybe more.

  He stopped breathing.

  It turned.

  Its head moved slow, deliberate. No fear. No surprise. Just motion—steady and terrifying.

  Then its face came into view.

  Its eyes were huge, jet black, glassy. Reflective in a way that made them look hollow. Its ears were curled inward, frayed at the edges. Its nose twitched once, then froze. The skin on its face was taut and wrinkled, dry like sun-rotted leather. There was no humanity in it. No instinct he could read.

  It didn’t snarl. Didn’t lunge. It just stared—unblinking, unnatural. Hassan felt its gaze crawling beneath his skin, dissecting him, not with hatred, but with cold, clinical curiosity. As if it wasn’t deciding whether he was prey, but whether he was even worth the effort.

  He felt every muscle in his body tense. His hand gripped the branch so hard his knuckles turned white. He almost issued the mental command to leave the system space. But he didn’t—he wasn’t even sure he could survive long enough to exit.

  Neither did the beast move.

  Seconds passed. Then a minute. Then another.

  Eventually, it shifted its posture, turning just enough to face him fully—then sat back on its haunches, like a statue guarding the stream.

  Still watching.

  Still not attacking.

  He wasn’t going to wait for it to change its mind.

  Slowly, silently, he began to back away. One step at a time. Never turning his back.

  Only when he was certain it wasn’t following did he let himself breathe again.

  No water was worth that.

  Even as he retreated, Hassan’s mind kept working. That feline-like creature hadn’t attacked. Why? Was it territorial—guarding the stream as its own vital resource? Or had it simply eaten already and had no need to kill again? That kind of restraint was power in itself. Or worse, maybe it was waiting for a prey worth the effort—something large enough to satisfy its hunger in one go.

  He thought back to the other beasts he had encountered. The lizard had used near-perfect camouflage, lying in wait. But once discovered, it chased with surprising speed, launching itself from elevated ground for a sudden burst of momentum. The branch snake had waited for distraction, then struck in a clean, lightning-fast line—no wasted motion, just precision.

  Even the vines were not passive lifeforms. They blended into their surroundings, lashing out with aggressive intent only when touched or at night. The rabbit-like creature had been the only prey animal he’d seen, and even it operated at full alert, twitching at every sound, ready to bolt at the faintest provocation.

  This forest wasn’t random. It was refined. Everything in it had a role—a specialized method of survival shaped by relentless pressure. It wasn’t just dangerous; it was efficient.

  If he wanted to survive longer, he couldn’t rely on brute force or luck. He had to adapt. He had to analyze. He had to become part of the system—not just a foreign body resisting it.

  Hassan returned toward the plains, every step feeling heavier now, as if the forest had taken a piece of his courage with it.

  He broke through the last of the trees and looked out over the grasslands—open, vast, exposed. But safer. For now.

  Then it hit him.

  He’d forgotten to get a hide.

  No covering. No protection. No way to survive the night out there. Not with the delroaches crawling through the plains.

  He let out an annoyed breath between his still-forming teeth and looked at the horizon.

  Sunset was coming fast. Two hours, maybe less.

  He looked to the sky, then down at the weapon in his hand. No words. Just purpose.

  Fine.

  He would train.

  He would learn to swing it without impaling himself on the thorns.

  And when the night came, he’d go back.