Little Creek Village

As Yan Jin made his way back to his humble hut, his cane tapping softly against the earth with each step, he couldn't shake the feeling of unease that had settled over him. It wasn't just the memories of his past weighing heavy on his mind; there was something else, a sense of presence that lingered in the air like a whisper of smoke.

Pushing open the door to his small dwelling, he was greeted by the sight of Xiao Xiao, the spirited granddaughter of the village blacksmith. Her presence was unexpected, and Yan Jin couldn't help but raise an eyebrow in curiosity.

"What are you doing here, Xiao Xiao?" he asked, his voice tinged with a mixture of amusement and suspicion.

Xiao Xiao, a precocious seven-year-old with a mischievous glint in her eyes, met his gaze with a playful smirk. "Who wants to come in your poor hut?" she retorted, her tone teasing yet affectionate. "Grandfather said you should come in early for the new order. The hunting team is preparing for the winter hunt."

Yan Jin couldn't help but chuckle at her boldness, despite himself. Xiao Xiao was a spirited young girl, full of fire and curiosity, much like he had been at her age. She had a knack for finding herself in places she didn't belong, but her heart was always in the right place.

"Alright, alright," he said, waving her off with a smile. "I'll be there soon. Tell your grandfather I'll be along shortly."

With a cheerful giggle, Xiao Xiao darted out of the hut, leaving Yan Jin alone once more. He sighed softly, the weight of the world settling back onto his shoulders.

Yan Jin's movements were methodical and precise as he gathered his belongings—a worn water gourd, a hefty hammer, and a small pocketknife. Each item was selected with care, a testament to his practical nature and resourcefulness. With his cane tapping rhythmically against the ground, he set off towards the village.

The village of Creek was situated at the eastern outskirts of the Beast Forest, a sprawling expanse of ancient woodlands that dominated the landscape of the northern continent of the world of Pi.

This continent was a realm steeped in myth and legend, where warriors sought to awaken their bloodlines and cultivate their abilities until they could transcend the limitations of mortal flesh and ascend to heights beyond imagining.

In the world of Pi, the bloodline was everything—a legacy passed down through generations, granting its bearer unique abilities and powers.

Warriors dedicated their lives to mastering their bloodline, training tirelessly to unlock its full potential and rise to greatness. It was said that those who succeeded could fly beyond the skies and split mountains with a single blow—

Beyond the safety of human settlements lay forbidden zones teeming with demonic beasts—ferocious creatures born of dark magic and ancient curses. These beasts prowled the depths of the forest, their eyes gleaming with hunger and malice, a constant threat to the fragile peace of the continent.

In the face of such peril, humans banded together in groups, forming villages, towns, and cities under the protection of skilled warriors and sacred beasts.

Yet even in the relative safety of their villages, the people of Creek knew that they were not immune to the harsh realities of their world. The winter months were particularly unforgiving, with bitter cold and relentless snowstorms sweeping across the land. Small encampments like Creek had to gather resources and prepare diligently before the onset of winter, stockpiling food and supplies to ensure their survival through the long months ahead.

His hut was located in the remote eastern outskirts of the village. Its was a solitary haven and a refuge from the prying eyes and whispers of suspicion that followed him wherever he went.

Since the death of his uncle, the villagers had regarded him with a wary gaze, their skepticism was fueled by the ominous scar that marred his eyes. They had expected him to wither away in solitude, become a broken soul unable to survive without his guardian's guidance. Yet, to their surprise—and perhaps their dismay—he had defied their expectations, proving himself to be more resilient than they had anticipated.

As Yan Jin approached the village, the sounds of training echoed through the air—a chorus of clashing swords and grunts of exertion. He recognized the voice of the young warrior's trainer, imparting words of wisdom and encouragement to his eager students. A faint smile tugged at the corners of Yan Jin's lips as he listened, the familiar cadence of the training regimen bringing a sense of nostalgia to his heart.

"Horse stance is the basis of all martial arts," the trainer's voice rang out. "If you want to awaken your bloodline, you need to work harder."

Yan Jin's smile widened as he recalled the countless hours he had spent honing his own skills under his uncle's guidance. 

Yan Jin made his way towards the smithy, the rhythmic clanging of metal on metal guiding his steps.

The old master blacksmith stood outside the forge; his weathered hands clasped behind his back as he waited for Yan Jin to arrive. Though he had never officially taken the boy on as an apprentice and had hesitated to impart anything beyond foundational skills, he couldn't help but feel a grudging admiration for the young man's ability to adapt and persevere in the face of adversity.

There were moments when the old master found himself stupefied by Yan Jin's uncanny knack for navigating the world despite his blindness. He had tested the boy multiple times, subtly questioning him or setting traps to catch him off guard, yet Yan Jin always seemed to pass.

As Yan Jin approached, the old master couldn't help but study him with a mix of curiosity and skepticism. "Yan Jin," the old master greeted him with a nod, his voice gruff yet tinged with a hint of begrudging respect. "You're late."

Yan Jin offered a small, apologetic smile as he set down his belongings. "Apologies, Old Ma" he said, his tone humble yet unwavering. "I had some personal matters to attend to."

The old master grunted in acknowledgment, his gaze lingering on the boy's face for a moment longer before turning towards the forge. "Well, no matter," he said dismissively. "We have work to do."

Together, they entered the forge, the heat of the flames washing over them like a familiar embrace. The old master wasted no time in assigning Yan Jin his tasks for the day, his instructions crisp and authoritative. "five hundred arrow heads, before tomorrow."

Yet as Yan Jin began to work, the old master couldn't help but marvel at the boy's talent. Despite his lack of formal training, Yan Jin had a natural gift when it came to crafting weapons, especially arrows. His arrows were works of art—each one meticulously crafted, balanced perfectly for flight, and marked with intricate designs that displayed a keen eye for detail.

Though he would never admit it aloud, he couldn't deny that there was something truly remarkable about the boy, something that set him apart from the rest.

As the day went by the forge echoed with the sound of hammer on metal. It was about six in the afternoon when the rhythm got interrupted by the entrance of 3 people.