Merin steps outside the building and is greeted by four boys and two girls his age. All six wear the black headbands of the Axe Gang.
Yesterday morning, Merin visited the town's training ground to refine his movement technique. He had cultivated through the entire night without sleep, but his body showed no signs of fatigue. With energy to spare, he began practising the Wind Walk technique—a low-level movement skill.
The name caught his interest. Wind Walk. A technique likely built around the Wind Artistic Conception. Merin understands two artistic concepts, and wind is one of them. Believing he could elevate the technique beyond its basic level, he committed himself to its mastery. The training ground became his testing field.
At the training ground, before leaving, he had practised the Bull Boxing technique. Among his two middle-level fighting techniques, he had already mastered the Cloud Sword technique, leaving only Bull Boxing.
From the Cloud Sword technique, he comprehended the Cloud Artistic Conception. That experience left him wondering—Would mastering Bull Boxing let him grasp the Bull Artistic Conception? The question had rooted itself deep in his mind.
His curiosity didn't fade. It wouldn't fade until he fully mastered the Bull Boxing technique. If an artistic conception could be drawn from a bull, then what about humans? Was there a Human Artistic Conception hidden in the world?
And if it existed—if he could truly grasp the Human Artistic Conception—then creating a cultivation method for the higher realm might not just be possible. It might become inevitable.
But he wouldn't devote his time to the Bull Boxing technique anymore. Before he could cultivate the Second Turn of the Great Samurai Realm, there was no need to chase abstract concepts like the Human Artistic Conception. Still, the question lingered in a quiet corner of his mind.
While leaving the training ground that day, he met Dara and the others. They had seen him practising the Bull Boxing technique and asked to spar with him. Merin agreed and practised with them for a few rounds. Before parting ways, they mentioned their plan to go hunting the next day, today.
Now, Merin stands with Dara and the other five, forming a circle. Their expressions are tense as they scan the surrounding trees. They're surrounded by a group of Iron Monkeys. Among them, Merin senses three distinct auras—stronger, heavier, more focused. These three carry the pressure of Middle-Rank Samurai beasts.
"I'll engage the three Middle-Rank monkeys," Merin says, his voice steady. "You guys hold your ground until I injure or kill them."
Without waiting for a response, he rushes forward. The Low-Rank Iron Monkeys hoot and leap at him, their cries echoing through the forest. Merin slashes with his sword, knocking several aside. He spins and drives a kick into another, sending it flying into the trees.
Near one of the Middle-Rank monkeys, he channels his artistic conception. Natural energy surges through him. A blade of wind and will takes shape—a conjured knife of focused power. With a flick of his wrist, he throws it at the beast.
The conjured knife slices into the Middle-Rank Iron Monkey's shoulder, drawing blood and a furious howl. Rage flares in the beast's eyes. It charges Merin with maddened strength, swiping its thick iron-coated arms at him.
Merin meets the attack head-on, his sword glowing faintly with inner energy. He swings, but as his blade clashes against the monkey's hide, only a burst of sparks flies. No wound—just metal against metal.
Now he understands why they're called Iron Monkeys. Their fur isn't just dense—it's like forged iron, and it only hardens with their rank and strength. A normal sword strike, even with energy, barely scratches the surface.
The monkey lunges again. Merin parries and steps back, keeping distance. He glances over his shoulder. Dara and the others are holding up well, fending off the lower-ranked monkeys with teamwork and discipline. But the other two Middle-Rank monkeys have turned their eyes toward them, sensing an easier fight.
Merin grits his teeth. He can't let them join the fray.
But he's locked in a stalemate. Since that first injury with the natural energy blade, every strike has bounced off uselessly. His inner energy isn't enough. So he shifts. Draws deeper. Pulls natural energy into his sword—not just a layer, but a surge, like wind channelling through a blade.
With a shout, he swings. This time, the sword cuts through the iron fur and into flesh.
The Middle-Rank monkey howls in pain, stumbling back.
That cry does more than echo—it draws the attention of the other two Middle-Rank monkeys. Their heads snap toward Merin, and in a blink, they leap into the trees.
They move fast. From branch to branch, howling with fury, closing in on Merin like iron shadows.
Now, all three are after him. And the danger to his group spikes sharply.
Merin exhales and lets the natural energy flow through him. Wind stirs beneath his feet. Cloud gathers behind his steps. As the first Middle-Rank Iron Monkey lunges at him, Merin shifts to the side, his body gliding like mist parting before a breeze. The creature crashes past him, its iron-coated arms slamming into the earth with a dull thud.
Before the second monkey can follow up, Merin is already gone—his movement smooth, weightless. The Wind Walk technique, fused with both Wind and Cloud Artistic Conceptions, elevates him beyond normal motion. He doesn't just move fast; he flows. The monkeys' wild swipes cut through empty air. They roar in frustration.
From behind, the third monkey leaps, claws extended. Merin ducks low and vanishes into a blur, reappearing behind it with a sharp burst of air. His sword slashes across its back, drawing blood. Not deep, but enough to sting. Enough to provoke.
The three monkeys snarl and regroup. Their muscles tense. Their eyes burn with fury. Then, they attack all at once.
One drops from the trees with crushing force, another charges from the front, and the third flanks from the right. The trees shake with their movement. The ground cracks beneath their strength. But Merin is no longer where they expect.
He spins, his body light as vapour. He rises above them in a swirling updraft of wind, then lands behind the first monkey and drives his blade into its shoulder. It shrieks and lashes out, but Merin has already retreated with a flicker of cloud.
They chase. He leads them through the forest, dancing between branches, ducking low sweeps, sidestepping sudden lunges. Each time they think they've cornered him, he slips away like fog at dawn. His sword gleams, carving shallow wounds across their limbs and flanks. He doesn't stay still. He doesn't let them breathe.
Their agitation grows. The forest echoes with their screams, hoots, and roars. They slam trees, tear bark, and swipe at the shadows he leaves behind.
One monkey, furious beyond reason, leaps straight at him. Merin spins midair, using a current of wind to redirect himself. He glides past the beast and drags his sword across its side. The cut is longer this time. Blood sprays. The monkey crashes into the dirt with a roar that shakes the canopy.
The other two hesitate—but only for a breath. Then they come again, more reckless, more desperate.
Merin's eyes sharpen. He's not just dodging now. He's weaving through their movements, cutting rhythm into chaos. His steps leave trails of mist, his slashes leave lines of red. Every strike he lands draws more fury, more noise.
The Iron Monkeys scream again, louder than before. Their cries ring through the forest, but still, they cannot touch him.
He is wind. He is cloud.
And they, for all their rage and strength, can only chase shadows.
As Merin dances between the trees, wind and cloud flowing with each step, his perception stretches far and wide, sharpened by the merging of artistic conceptions and battle focus. Amid the shifting energy of the fight, he senses something new.
More life signals.
Not just the three Middle-Rank Iron Monkeys in front of him. From deeper in the forest, more are coming—Low-Rank, Middle-Rank, and several others moving fast, drawn by the chaos. His heart tightens. Even if he can stay alive, his new friends won't last against such a swarm.
He considers waiting, just a few more minutes. Perhaps he can deal enough damage before escaping.
But then, another presence enters his range. Heavy. Sharp. Oppressive.
Stronger than the Middle-Rank monkeys.
His perception focuses. A High-Rank Iron Monkey. It's charging toward them at frightening speed.
Merin's face hardens. He can't wait any longer.
He breaks away from the three Middle-Rank monkeys with a sudden burst of wind, vanishing before their claws strike. His feet skim over branches and roots as he races toward his friends. In one smooth motion, he descends into the fray of Low-Rank monkeys attacking them.
Natural energy surges into his blade.
He slashes—one swing, one corpse. Another. Then another.
"Quickly escape!" he shouts, his voice cutting through the chaos.
Dara's expression twists in confusion. They were winning. They had the upper hand.
"Why?" she shouts back.
Merin spins, putting himself between them and the approaching Middle-Rank monkeys. "Do as I say! Quickly, escape!"
They hear something in his voice—urgency, fear, command. They don't argue again. One by one, they turn and retreat into the trees, faces pale.
Merin remains behind.
More Iron Monkeys burst through the trees. He blocks them all—his blade laced with natural energy, each strike lethal. He cuts down another wave of Low-Rank monkeys, deflects attacks from the injured Middle-Rank trio, and holds the line alone.
Then he feels it.
The High-Rank Monkey approaches, its aura now looming at the edge of his perception like a rolling storm.
Merin grits his teeth. He channels a surge of energy—wind spirals around him, cloud gathers above, his sword glows bright. In a single sweeping motion, he unleashes a devastating attack.
A shockwave tears through the battlefield.
Dozens of Low-Rank monkeys fall, bloodied and broken. The three Middle-Rank monkeys are thrown back, shrieking in pain. Trees are split and uprooted, wind roaring through the clearing.
Merin wastes no time.
He turns and vanishes into the forest, his movement technique pushing him to full speed.
Within minutes, he catches up to his fleeing friends. But the Iron Monkeys aren't giving up. Reinforcements flood behind them. And the High-Rank Monkey is gaining ground fast, each bound shaking the forest floor.
They push harder. Trees blur around them. The air grows thinner, the terrain steeper.
Then, just as the pressure nears the breaking point, the Iron Monkeys halt.
The moment they approach the base of Miji Mountain, the beasts stop chasing.
Merin and his friends stumble to a halt at the mountain's foot, breathless and wide-eyed.
They are safe—for now.
Merin and his friends walk through the worn path leading to Miji Town, the towering wooden gates just ahead. The town's walls are old but sturdy, marked with axe symbols. As they approach, the guards at the entrance lower their spears, eyes narrowing as they notice the group's condition—torn sleeves, blood-smeared arms, and bruises across Dara and the others. Only Merin stands untouched, his clothes clean, his breathing steady.
"Halt," one of the guards says, stepping forward. "You look like you've been through a battle. What happened out there?"
"We went hunting," Dara answers, her voice tired but steady.
The guard raises a brow. "And came back empty-handed?"
Another guard steps closer, recognition flickering in his eyes. He says to Dara, then glances at the others. "Dara, what happened?"
Dara exhales. "It was supposed to be a simple hunt. But we were surrounded by Iron Monkeys. Three of them were Middle-Rank… Merin fought them alone while we escaped."
The guards shift, exchanging glances. Then their eyes settle on Merin.
"You fought three Middle-Rank monkeys alone?" one of them asks, voice lower now, more respectful. "And you're unscathed?"
Merin simply nods.
One guard frowns. "If you were winning, why retreat?"
Merin's expression turns serious. "A high-ranking monkey was approaching. I sensed it."
The words land like thunder. A ripple of disbelief spreads among the guards. One of them opens his mouth to question him further, but stops when Merin steps forward.
He releases a wisp of his artistic conception.
The wind stirs unnaturally. A quiet pressure settles over the group, like the forest itself has bent toward him. The guards' tense eyes widen, and the disbelief on their faces vanishes.
"…You can stop," one of them murmurs.
Merin withdraws the pressure, and silence follows. Then, the lead guard straightens and nods.
"Come with me. The elder will want to hear this."
They led him through the town's outer streets, past weapon shops and old inns, into a solid stone building with the Axe Gang's emblem carved into its doors. Inside, a white-haired elder waits, arms folded. His gaze is sceptical at first.
"He claims a high-ranking monkey appeared near Miji," the guard says.
The elder raises an eyebrow. "You expect me to believe—"
Before he finishes, Merin releases his artistic conception again.
Wind swirls faintly around the room. Pressure floods the chamber—not aggressive, but undeniable. The elder's eyes widen slightly. His posture straightens.
"I see," the elder murmurs, then smiles faintly. "Do you want to join the Axe Gang?"
Merin bows lightly. "Thank you for the offer, Elder. But I must decline."
The elder studies him a moment longer, then nods. "A wise man walks his own path. You're welcome here, regardless."
Later, as Merin returns to his quiet lodging and closes the door behind him, Asuna stands near the table.
She looks up and says, "That officer we met yesterday? He's calling for you."