Dao of the World Walker (Xianxia) Book 2

Yang’s eyes opened just as the first pale light of dawn began filtering through the cave entrance. His body ached in places he hadn’t known could hurt, muscles protesting yesterday’s constant movement through the dense forest. His scratched arms stung, and his scraped palms felt raw against the dirt floor.

But he was awake, and he was alive.

He sat up slowly, wincing at the stiffness in his back from sleeping on stone. The small pile of dry twigs he’d gathered yesterday sat against the far wall, untouched. He’d been too exhausted to attempt making fire, but today would be different.

Today, he needed to find food, and that meant he needed to move quickly while he still had strength.

Yang crawled out of the cave into the cool morning air. Rays of golden sunlight broke through the canopy overhead, illuminating patches of moss and making dewdrops sparkle on leaves. Birds called to each other in the branches, their songs echoing through the trees in a morning chorus that would have been beautiful if Yang’s stomach wasn’t cramping with hunger.

It had been more than a day since he’d eaten anything. The hollow feeling in his belly had transformed into actual pain, a constant gnawing that made it hard to think about anything else.

He needed water first, then food. Water was easier to find, and drinking would help quiet his screaming stomach for a little while at least.

Yang set off toward the spring, moving much faster than yesterday. He knew exactly where he was going now, and could recognize the landmarks he’d memorized during his first trip. That thick bush with the oddly twisted branches. The fallen log is covered in bright green moss.

The journey that had taken him nearly 2 hours yesterday took only half that time today. He found the small spring bubbling up between its circle of rocks, the sound of trickling water as welcoming as anything he’d ever heard.

Yang dropped to his knees and drank deeply, cupping the cold water in his hands and bringing it to his mouth over and over until his stomach felt uncomfortably full. The water helped push away the worst of the hunger pangs, but he knew it was only temporary relief. His body needed actual food, needed nutrients and energy that water alone couldn’t provide.

After drinking his fill, Yang splashed water on his face and arms, washing away the dirt and dried blood from yesterday’s scratches. The cold water stung the cuts, but it also felt cleansing somehow, like he was washing away some of yesterday’s grief and fear along with the grime.

He chose a direction he hadn’t explored yet, angling away from both the spring and his cave, and began walking. His eyes scanned constantly, looking for anything that might be edible, any sign of food he could safely consume.

The forest was full of life. Birds flitted through the branches overhead, their bright plumage catching the morning sunlight. Insects buzzed and hummed in the undergrowth. He saw evidence of larger animals, tracks in the soft earth, droppings, patches where something had dug or foraged, but the creatures themselves remained hidden. Yang’s larger size, even as a small child, was enough to scare away most of the forest’s smaller inhabitants.

As he walked, his mind turned to the practical problems of survival. He needed to find a way to make vessels, containers to carry water or store food. That meant either finding clay he could shape and fire, or learning to carve wood into bowls. Both seemed impossibly difficult with no tools beyond his bare hands and whatever rocks he might find.

He needed a more stable source of food than wandering the forest hoping to stumble across something edible. That meant either learning to hunt, which required tools and skills he didn’t have, or finding plants he could harvest regularly.

He should probably move his dwelling closer to the water. Living near the spring would save him hours of walking each day. But water also meant other animals would come to drink, and some of those animals might see a small child as easy prey. The cave’s remoteness was a form of safety, even if it was inconvenient.

Yang had been walking for what felt like hours, the sun climbing higher and warming the forest around him, when he spotted a bush heavy with berries. His heart leaped with recognition and relief.

Star berries. Red and plump and wonderful. He’d picked them often with Grandpa, had loved their sweet taste and the way they stained his lips and tongue bright red. Grandpa rarely ate them himself, claiming the slightly harder texture hurt his gums, but he’d always smiled watching Yang enjoy them.

Yang rushed forward, his hands already reaching for the berries. He was so hungry that rational thought had fled entirely, replaced by pure need. He picked a large handful, brought them toward his mouth, and was about to shove them past his lips when he suddenly froze.

The sensation hit him like a bucket of cold water. The same feeling that had gripped him that terrible night when he’d been running through the forest. The same instinct that had made him veer right and avoid whatever had been howling in the darkness.

Danger.

Yang’s eyes snapped open, scanning the forest around him. Was there a beast nearby? A predator waiting to strike? He dropped into a crouch, making himself as small as possible behind the berry bush, every sense straining for any sign of threat.

Minutes passed. Birds continued singing. Insects continued buzzing. Nothing lunged at him from the shadows. Nothing growled or snarled or gave any indication that death was imminent.

Yang didn’t understand. The feeling had been so strong, so certain. Why was nothing happening?

Slowly, carefully, he stood. In his fear, he’d dropped the berries. They lay scattered on the ground at his feet, bright red against the brown earth. Yang bent and picked them up again, wiping them against his threadbare clothes to remove any dirt.

He raised them toward his mouth once more.

The sensation slammed into him again, even stronger this time.

Danger. Stop.

Yang’s hand froze halfway to his face. He stared at the berries, confused and frightened. Then understanding began to dawn, cold and horrible.

There wasn’t danger around him. It was a danger in his hand.

Yang crouched down and grabbed a nearby rock, then carefully placed one berry on a flat stone and crushed it. The juice that oozed out looked exactly like star berry juice, that familiar bright red. But when he examined the crushed remains more carefully, paying attention to details he would have normally overlooked, he saw that the pit looked different. Slightly larger. Shaped wrong.

Horror washed through him, cold and nauseating. These weren’t star berries at all.

Fern berries.

The memory surfaced from somewhere in the collection of stories Grandpa had told him over the years. One of Grandpa’s brothers had died from eating fern berries, thinking they were the safe star berries everyone picked near the village. The two plants looked nearly identical, tasted identical according to those who survived the mistake, but fern berries were deadly poison.

The villagers always destroyed any fern berry bushes they found near the forest edge, making sure no one would accidentally eat them. But here, deep in the forest where people rarely came, they grew freely.

Yang had almost murdered himself. In his desperate hunger, driven by the familiar sight of what he thought was safe food, he’d nearly shoved poison into his mouth. If not for that strange internal warning, that inexplicable instinct that had saved him twice now, he would be dying. Would be convulsing on the forest floor with no one to help him, no one to even know what had happened.

He felt despair settling over him like a heavy blanket. He didn’t know how to hunt. Had nothing to hunt with, even if he knew how. He knew that with time, he could figure out how to make simple traps, how to fashion crude weapons, but time was the problem. The longer he went without food, the weaker he would become. Eventually, he’d be too weak to search for food at all.

Yang forced himself to keep walking, to keep searching. He only had a couple of hours before he’d need to start the journey back to his cave. He couldn’t afford to waste daylight standing around feeling sorry for himself.

He was walking when his foot suddenly caught on a tree root. Yang pitched forward, landing hard on his hands. Pain shot through his already scraped palms as they hit the ground.

”Stupid,” he muttered, wiping his stinging hands on his clothes. He started to stand and started to continued walking.

Then that feeling came again. Gentler this time, less urgent, but undeniable. Not danger, exactly. More like a pull, a suggestion.

Yang was learning to trust this instinct. Whatever it was, wherever it came from, it had saved his life. Twice now, if he counted the fern berries and whatever he’d avoided that first night in the forest.

He walked back to the tree he’d tripped over, studying it more carefully. It was old, its trunk thick and gnarled. The root that had caught his foot protruded from the earth, exposed by years of erosion.

Yang knelt at the base of the tree and began to dig with his hands, his small fingers scraping at the dirt. The earth was soft here, easier to move than he’d expected. He’d only dug for a few minutes when his fingers hit something solid.

A root vegetable. Large and pale, shaped like a twisted finger.

Yang’s heart hammered with excitement as he dug more carefully around it, working it free from the soil. Then he found another. And another. The tree had an entire network of these vegetables growing around its base.

He gathered as many as he could carry, cradling them against his chest like precious treasures. They were heavy and awkward, but Yang didn’t care. This was food. Real, substantial food that might keep him alive for days if he were careful.

Yang made his way back to the spring, moving slowly now with his arms full. He drank again, filling his stomach with water, then began the journey back to his cave. The sun was still high, so he had time, but he wanted to get back while he had enough daylight to attempt making fire.

The return journey felt longer with his burden, but Yang’s spirits were higher than they’d been since that terrible night. He had food. Not much, but enough for now. Enough to buy him time to figure out better solutions.

He reached the cave and carefully carried the root vegetables inside, placing them against the wall furthest from his pile of dry wood. The cave was small enough that he had to choose his storage locations carefully, making sure nothing would get in the way of anything else.

Now came the hard part. Fire.

Yang had watched Grandpa make fire countless times, had seen the patient way the old man would work with his fire starting tools. But Grandpa had proper tools, flint and steel that could create sparks with a few strikes. Yang had nothing but wood and stone and determination.

He remembered Grandpa mentioning other methods. The fire plough was one. You took a stick and rubbed it back and forth in a groove on a larger piece of wood, creating friction and heat until eventually, hopefully, you got an ember.

Yang found a flat piece of wood from his pile and used a sharp stone to carve a groove down its length. Then he found a straight stick and began rubbing it back and forth in the groove, pressing down as hard as his small arms could manage.

His arms burned with effort. Sweat dripped down his face despite the cool cave air. The stick felt like it was creating heat; the wood in the groove was definitely getting warm, but no ember appeared.

Yang kept going. His muscles screamed in protest. His hands developed new blisters on top of yesterday’s cuts. The light outside began to fade as the sun sank toward the horizon, but Yang didn’t stop.

Finally, after what felt like hours, a tiny wisp of smoke curled up from the groove. Yang’s heart leaped. He blew gently on the spot, encouraging it, and was rewarded with a small orange glow. An ember.

With shaking hands, Yang carefully transferred the ember to a nest of dry grass and bark he’d prepared, then blew on it steadily, feeding it air. The ember grew, caught the grass, and suddenly there was flame.

Yang quickly fed the small fire with twigs, building it up until he had a proper blaze going in the center of his cave. The smoke found its way out through cracks in the rock overhead, and warmth began filling the small space.

Yang wanted to collapse right there, to celebrate this victory over the fundamental forces of nature. But he still needed to cook.

He took one of the root vegetables and a small branch, trying to skewer the vegetable so he could hold it over the fire. The root was incredibly hard, and it took all his strength and several attempts before he finally forced the branch through. By the time he succeeded, full night had fallen outside.

The day had been productive. More than productive. He had food and fire, the two most essential elements of survival. Yang felt a fierce pride burning in his chest alongside the hunger.

He held the skewered root over the flames, checking it every few minutes to make sure it wasn’t burning. The smell of cooking food made his mouth water and his stomach cramp even harder with anticipation. When he finally judged it ready, Yang reached for it, then yelped and dropped it immediately. Too hot.

He waited a few agonizing minutes, then carefully picked it up again. The outer layer was black and burned, but he peeled that away to reveal pale flesh underneath. Yang scooped a tiny bit with his fingernail and brought it to his mouth.

Bitter, with a texture like potato. Not delicious, but not poisonous either. That strange internal sense gave him no warning, no feeling of danger.

Yang took a large bite. Then another. The root was gone in moments, and he wanted desperately to cook another. But held himself back. He needed to save the rest for tomorrow and the days after. He didn’t know when he’d find more food.

It had been a few hours since sunset, but Yang’s body was already demanding sleep. His days now consisted of constant walking, constant work, and constant vigilance. He needed to wake at dawn to make the most of the daylight, which meant early nights whether he liked it or not.

Yang lay down on the cave floor, his head pillowed on his arm. It would take time to adjust to living like this, time to build up the endurance his child’s body needed for this harsh new reality.

His eyes closed. His last thought before sleep claimed him was a simple one: I survived another day.

Then unconsciousness took him as quickly as his head hit the ground, and Yang knew nothing more until dawn came again.