Three days. That's how long it took me to make preparations. Not because I was lazy, but because caution is the only thing keeping me alive. This isn't one of those blood-pumping cultivation novels where a protagonist flees from a clan and instantly stumbles into an ancient ruin or a powerful master. No. I am a lowly slave with a broken spirit root and a stolen seed. If I act like a main character, I'll die like a side one—quickly and painfully.
So I waited.
First, I checked for dangers. The Li family's territory bordered a stretch of untamed wilderness, but it wasn't completely uninhabited. Wild beasts sometimes roamed near the edge, and worse, there were rumors of rogue cultivators using it as a hideout. I couldn't afford to walk into a den of monsters thinking it was salvation. So I watched the tree line every morning and every night. For three days, I scouted, hiding under brush and climbing low trees. I listened for roars, for movement, for any sign of unnatural life. There was nothing. Just birds, wind, and the occasional rustle of harmless forest creatures.
Good. That was one hurdle down.
I stole a worn-out map from the overseer's room, memorizing the nearby geography. The cultivation market in the southeast was marked clearly—an open bazaar where low-level cultivators traded goods and information. I wouldn't go there yet, but I kept it in mind. Maybe, someday, I could blend in. Disguise myself. Scout for a better manual, maybe barter for it.
That's why I waited. That's why I planned. I couldn't afford mistakes.
I gathered food—dried roots, hard bread, water skins. I pieced together a crude weapon, a sharpened stick hardened by fire. I wrapped my broken cultivation manual in cloth and tied it to my chest like a lifeline. It was barely worth the ink it was written with, but it was all I had.
On the third night, I ran.
No fanfare. No glorious escape. I slipped through the back gardens, avoided the guards by timing their patrols, and crept into the woods like a ghost. I moved quickly but cautiously, erasing my tracks, using tree branches to confuse the trail. I didn't head toward any known route—I picked a jagged, winding path to avoid pursuit. The Li family would eventually notice I was gone, but they wouldn't think I'd actually cultivated. No, they'd assume I was escaping punishment or death. A slave trying to delay the inevitable. They wouldn't expect me to survive.
Let them believe that.
For weeks, I wandered. I found a small cave nestled between two hills, partially hidden by hanging vines. It wasn't deep, but it had shelter, and more importantly—it had no signs of beasts. I spent the night there, scraping moss from the rocks to use as bedding. The next day, I swept away my tracks, covered the entrance, and moved on. I never stayed in one place for long. The forest was vast, and the Li family's influence only reached so far, but I refused to take chances.
After three months of cautious movement, I found it.
A clearing near the foot of a rocky slope. Half-ringed by trees, the ground was soft and covered in moss. A small stream trickled nearby, and there were no signs of large predators or humans. It was perfect.
This became my home.
I built shelter using fallen branches and leaves. Not a house—just something to keep the rain off. I dug a shallow pit for waste and gathered berries, fruits, even trapped small animals. The meat was gamey and hard to swallow, but I ate it anyway. Hunger doesn't care about taste. I taught myself how to make spears, basic crossbows, crude traps. With time and repetition, I got better.
But I didn't forget why I was here.
Every day, I practiced cultivation. I sat cross-legged, closed my eyes, and followed the steps in that wretched manual. I visualized my spirit root, a cracked and twisted thing inside my core. The energy came slowly, like drops from a leaking faucet. Every trickle of qi I gathered felt like a victory. It was painful, slow, and unrewarding. But it was real.
Telekinesis—my only tangible ability—became my focus. I trained it relentlessly. I lifted pebbles, leaves, even insects. The progress was pitiful, but it was progress. From a few grams to half a kilogram. From five meters to six. It wasn't cultivation—it was survival. But it gave me something to hold on to.
I even tried some stupid things, like hiding slips of paper in nearby caves with fake techniques scrawled on them. I wanted to pretend I'd find some cheat, some golden finger. Of course, there was nothing. Just me and my delusions.
Seven months passed like that.
I studied my manual until I memorized every word. Rewrote it by hand in case I lost it. Crafted better tools. Improved my traps. Strengthened my hut. But none of it changed the truth.
I was breaking.
My spirit root was garbage. I could feel the stagnation in my body. It took me days to gather enough energy for the most basic techniques. Practicing drained me, mentally and physically. My limbs moved slower. My mind wandered. I was alone, surrounded by silence and the endless whisper of leaves. I hadn't spoken in weeks.
I couldn't go on.
The decision was sudden, but not impulsive. One day, I sat by the stream, holding a small fish I'd managed to catch. I stared at it for an hour. Then I cooked it, ate it, packed my things, and left.
It took me weeks to travel with my weakened body, but I followed the map. Headed northwest toward a trade road that skirted the edge of the wilderness. I avoided caravans, ducked into shadows when I saw other travelers. Eventually, I reached a small town—a place where beggars were common and no one asked questions.
With my ragged clothes and the smell of the wild clinging to me, I blended in easily. I became one of them. I slept in alleyways, shared space under broken roofs. I begged. Just for a few days. Just enough to observe.
The marketplace was filled with low-tier cultivators, merchants, and travelers. I watched how they spoke, how they moved, what they valued. I listened for rumors of new techniques, of obscure manuals, of people like me.
I wasn't ready to reveal myself. But I was here.
I had left the forest.
And I had survived.