Law of the Jungle (Book 1): A Wuxia Progression Fantasy Adventure Series, page 1
Vasily Mahanenko
Law of the Jungle
Book#1
Magic Dome Books
Law of the Jungle
Book 1
Copyright © Vasily Mahanenko 2024
Cover Art © Linni 2024
Designer: Vladimir Manyukhin
English translation copyright © Mikhail Yagupov 2024
Published by Magic Dome Books, 2024
All Rights Reserved
ISBN: 978-80-7693-318-7
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the shop and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This book is entirely a work of fiction. Any correlation with real people or events is coincidental.
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Table of Contents:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
About the Author
Chapter 1
50 years ago…
“THE IRONY OF IT ALL is quite remarkable, isn’t it, my old nemesis? To meet your end in a prison of your own creation… The Emperor, may he reign eternally, has a flair for poetic justice, doesn’t he? Your school lies in ruins, your disciples are no more, and your legacy has been obliterated from the annals of history completely. Every trace of the School of the Silver Heron and its illustrious founder, Huang Lung, has been eradicated. This world has no mercy for the weak.”
Chen Feng, the immortal patriarch of the School of Spirit Power, a nascent god of the Silver rank, gazed upon his fallen rival with a sense of superiority.
The two-decade war had culminated in a complete defeat of Huang Lung. Hosts of his disciples had been slaughtered, their sanctuaries laid to waste, their treasures plundered, and their places of power fallen into the greedy clutches of Chen Feng and his followers. Huang Lung, once a nascent god of the Silver rank and now reduced to the fate of a mere mortal, had no words left as he stood there with his head held proudly high.
The Emperor, may he reign eternally, had taken a personal interest in the conflict between the schools. In his judgment, death was too lenient a fate for the vanquished. So they had sealed Huang Lung’s source of power and condemned him to the very prison he had crafted.
Within the confines of Tier Zero, Qi energy was scarce — there was just enough to maintain the barest of existences. Thus, high-level Taoists trapped within such formations would wither, their minds unraveling under the relentless assault of an insatiable, soul-rending hunger.
However, such a fate would not befall Huang Lung — he was now but a simple man. His demise would be of hunger, but a hunger of the flesh, not of energy. Chen Feng had decreed that only six days’ worth of sustenance be provided, as per the Emperor’s will.
The aftermath was clear to all — Huang Lung was to perish. There was no place for the weak in the Deforean Empire.
“Farewell, my old enemy. May your final moments be filled with agony as you curse the hour you refused my offer. Better a slave than a corpse, after all.”
With these words, Chen Feng departed the cave, leaving the formation and sealing the exit. Only then did Huang Lung allow his emotions to surface: a flicker of despair crossed his face. For three centuries, he had led his school, unlocking mysteries of the cosmos and exploring the frontiers of Qi energy, yet it was all for naught. The School of the Silver Heron had proven too feeble to protect its secrets, and thus too feeble to claim its right to exist.
A brief moment of weakness was all Huang Lung had permitted himself. Sitting down and closing his eyes, the old man had entered a state of meditation, contemplating his next move. He was no longer a Taoist, and the energy eluded his body, but the habit of strategic thinking in deep meditation did not fade. The School of the Silver Heron was renowned for its master artificers, who had tamed numerous secrets of nature. In fact, it was these secrets that had led to the war in the first place. The School of Spirit Power sought to seize all techniques and instructions for crafting great artifacts for itself. More the fools, they! As defeat loomed and the school’s edifices crumbled, Huang Lung decided to safeguard all knowledge in the one place beyond the reach of any Taoist: his personal inventory. Those were among the great secrets of the now-defunct School of the Silver Heron. Huang Lung had resigned himself to the thought that these secrets would die with him, but Heavens had granted him a shadow of an opportunity to right the wrongs. Six days was the duration allotted by the Emperor. If he was frugal enough, he might stretch the provisions to some two or three weeks. Then, the inevitable end would come. The time granted needed to be utilized to its fullest potential.
Huang Lung retrieved a tinder and flint from his personal inventory. Striking the stones several times, the old man managed to spark a flame. He had only ten torches left — never had he imagined he would live long enough to need them. The light had to be conserved. Of course, he could have used the lamp that had appeared nearby, but activating it required infusing power into a spirit stone. As a mere mortal, he was incapable of doing so now. Nor could he use the dozens of great artifacts he’d had to hide from his enemies in his personal inventory — they were but dead weight to him now.
Looking around, Huang Lung nodded in satisfaction. Nothing had changed in the prison formation over the thirty years since its creation. Except for a few more skeletons — all those unfortunates sent here to die of madness. The old man pulled several bookcases from his personal inventory and began filling them with scrolls of techniques and thick tomes describing artifact crafting, moving with haste. All the wisdom of the School of the Silver Heron, so coveted by Chen Feng, had fit into six bookcases. The prison formation had been fully activated, ensuring that no living being could enter this cave for the next thirty years — neither a beast, nor a human, nor a demon. Then again, there would hardly be demons in Tier Zero. Chen Feng believed himself victorious. In thirty years, he would forget his old enemy and the secrets he’d held. Whoever would find this place was unlikely to belong to the School of Spirit Power. There was little there to be of interest to them in a zone as remote as Tier Zero. Who could that person be? A hunter? A fugitive? An outcast? The nearest settlement was almost thirty miles away, surrounded by dense forests and formidable beasts. In reality, the chance of this cave being discovered was minimal. But one must never despair. As long as there was hope, the School of the Silver Heron lived. And Huang Lung, in the time remaining, would do everything in his power to preserve his knowledge.
Tier Zero. Those who lived here were just beginning their journey into the understanding of immortality and the energy of Qi. Resources were not as plentiful as in the inner tiers, yet everything necessary to fulfill Huang Lung’s plan could be found. The old man took out writing materials and sheets of paper reinforced with longevity spells, and set up a desk. He began to write carefully.
“Greetings, seeker! This cave holds all the knowledge and secrets of the School of the Silver Heron, but before you use them, you must create a personal inventory. It is a unique artifact tied to the soul of a Taoist. An artifact that cannot be taken away, even when the Taoist’s power is sealed. An artifact whose existence is unknown to anyone but its owner. I understand my words may frighten you, but destiny leaves us no other choice. The path to greatness is arduous and thorny, but with my guidance, you can traverse it much more easily than others. I will show you which books to study first, and which techniques to use to avoid suspicion, but all this will come after you create your personal inventory.
First, however, you must learn the basics of artifact creation. You will need the following…”
Huang Lung paused from his writing and finally allowed himself a smirk. If the Heavens willed it, the School of the Silver Heron would yet make its mark under this sky. May all its enemies be destroyed!
* * *
Turgan from the village of Darin looked at me with blatant superiority in his gaze verging on the mockery, clearly already preparing to be feted as the victor. At just under twelve years old, he was a head taller than me and his shoulders could rival those of my uncle, who had spent half his life in the forge. The small wooden sword in my opponent’s hands seemed like a mere toothpick, yet I knew all too well how dangerous this “toothpick” could be. Turgan’s three previous opponents had already been dragged off to the medic, and on ly Heavens knew when they’d be able to walk properly again — if ever.
“Turgan! Turgan! You’re the best!”
A sizable delegation had arrived from Darin to support their champion. My father said that almost the entire village had come to witness their beloved champion finally win the annual provincial tournament. All that remained for him was to overcome one last, seemingly insignificant and frail opponent. Namely, yours truly.
“The final battle of the Verin Province contender tournament is about to begin!” boomed the deputy governor’s sonorous voice. “Turgan from the village of Darin versus Zander from the village of Caled!”
Prefect Sarin of House Wang, seated on a small tribune, leaned forward to better observe our fight. His ten-year exile in our province was coming to an end, and as a candidate of the Golden rank, he would soon be allowed to enter the First Tier. However, as my father said, our esteemed Sarin was not in any condition to embark on the path to ascension, and was unlikely to relinquish his comfortable position. Many chose to remain peak candidates in Tier Zero over starting again as novices in the First Tier.
“I need to stop by the market and buy some gifts for the family,” my father said calmly, not even turning his head toward me. He didn’t wish to speak about the fight. Everything that needed to be said had already imparted to me by this rock-like man. Now it was my fight, and the village elder of Caled deemed it unnecessary to offer advice. That suited me just fine. I would have preferred my usual bronze jian to this wooden dummy, of course, but who would allow real weapons at a contenders’ tournament? Such a practice was reserved only for the First Tier, and even there, not all schools permitted it.
“Let the battle begin!”
The prefect’s deputy finished extolling our past victories and waved his hand, signaling the start of the final duel. Turgan started running towards me immediately, raising his sword for a strike. His tactic was clear — he intended to deal with me in one blow, just like he had with all his previous opponents. It would be foolish to test the strength of the training weapon; I knew it was worthless. The broken wooden pieces from Turgan’s past fights lay scattered at the edge of the arena as a symbol of his previous opponents’ folly. His strength was utterly disproportionate to his age. Watching his fights, I often caught myself thinking I was seeing a true Taoist and not a green Copper-rank candidate.
Turgan’s parents were lumberjacks, so he struck as he’d been taught — with a wide diagonal overhead swing meant to break through any defense and send his opponent straight to the medic. Considering his strength and decent speed, such a tactic might have worked, if not for one thing: I had no intention of standing still like a tree, passively awaiting the woodcutter’s axe. Feinting a move as if trying to jump back to Turgan’s supporting leg, I swiftly turned and, narrowly dodging his sword, whacked his lowered arm with my wooden stick. Had it been a real weapon, Turgan’s arm would have dropped to the ground, and he would have been rolling on the ground howling in pain. But we were at a tournament, and I had only scored one point for a successful hit. The first to reach three points would be declared the winner of the contenders’ tournament.
Turgan’s right arm hung limp. Gripping his sword in his left hand, he started tracing intricate figures of eight in the air, showing he could handle the weapon just as well. Breaking through such defense was tough. My father had trained me for this, but physically, Turgan was twice as strong as me. Attempting to block his sword would be futile — I would either break my hand or my weapon, which would automatically make Turgan the winner. It was time for Plan B.
“Fight, you coward!” Turgan bellowed as I began to retreat. The arena wasn’t large, just about thirty feet across, but it was enough for me to dodge the brute’s furious attacks. Turgan accelerated, intending to finish the fight at once, but I kept running around the edge without stopping. Constantly spinning a sword at such speed was impossible for anyone, even my father, a Golden-rank candidate. Turgan couldn’t keep it up, either. He frantically chased me around the arena for a while but gradually started to tire. His figures of eight slowed, the power of his movements waned, his speed dropped, and large beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. A perfect moment for a counterattack.
The blow rattled my training sword, nearly ripping it from my hands — despite his fatigue, Turgan was still monstrously strong. I didn’t have time to twist my wrist and strike with the sword, so I did what I had planned — kicked him squarely in the chest. No matter how strong and sturdy my opponent was, he couldn’t withstand such a hit — he toppled over with a loud grunt. I should have finished him off then, as he was defenseless, but the tournament rules forbade it. As much as I wanted to land a punch on his thick neck to see him roll his eyes back and end the fight, I couldn’t. So the score was two to Zander and zero to Turgan.
Yet Turgan defied expectations. Instead of launching a blind attack, the Darin villager surprised everyone as he rose with a furious roar. Reaching into his pockets, he produced a small stone. The surrounding crowd gasped in unison, and Prefect Sarin, perched on his seat, leaned forward with intense interest, nearly tumbling over. Turgan had a spirit stone — a rare and precious item in Tier Zero, which could only be obtained from anomaly monsters, and not just any monster, either. In white anomalies, such stones were very rare, and the only yellow anomaly in the entire province was regulated very strictly, with village warriors allowed access only on designated days. The value of these stones was such that the tournament winner would be awarded one as a prize. It wouldn’t be a large stone, but it would still be enough to power our cart for several weeks, no less.
Yet the crowd’s astonishment wasn’t merely a reaction to the twelve-year-old Turgan’s possession of a spirit stone. It was what he had done with it that had left everyone aghast. Turgan popped the stone into his mouth and swallowed it. This was the only known way for non-Taoists like us to utilize the energy of spiritual stones. My opponent twitched a few times, as if lashed with a whip, then calmed and peered at me with a gaze that was no longer human. He was overflowing with energy which demanded release. Turgan’s eyes and ears started to bleed — his body wasn’t ready to handle Qi, but he appeared prepared to risk everything in his thirst for victory.
“It’s a technique! He’s gonna use a technique! He’s become a Taoist!” someone shouted.
I had to react swiftly. I threw myself to the ground to avoid a translucent blade that whistled dangerously close overhead. Attempting to parry it with a wooden sword would have been suicidal — it wouldn’t even register that pathetic imitation of a weapon as it would tear right through it. Turgan had employed Spirit Arrow — a basic and readily-accessible first-level technique. I rolled to the side just in time as the spot where I had been a split second ago exploded in a fountain of sand. The madman used the technique again!
“Stop the fight!” Prefect Sarin yelled, but above the crowd’s uproar, my father’s deep voice resonated, silencing everyone:
“Continue the fight! The use of techniques is not prohibited by the rules! There will be a winner in this tournament!”
My father’s words were so unexpected the crowd went eerily silent. Everyone gazed at the village elder of Caled in astonishment, well aware of what the likely outcome would be if one of Turgan’s strikes landed. Either a limb or my head would get severed; alternatively, he could punch a hole in me large enough to fit a hand through. Fearing the accuracy of Turgan’s strikes, spectators scrambled away from the arena. Preventing any injury was paramount to me as well. Even if I survived, my father would skin me alive if any bystander got hurt. Bleeding profusely, Turgan still persisted in using his technique. One strike, followed by another, and then a third. He staggered, unable to run, but still kept launching the deadly technique at me with dogged determination. Ideally, I should have left the arena and sought refuge behind the tribune, letting the elders deal with this lunatic. However, leaving the arena meant defeat. If my father believed there was no prohibition on using techniques, then it must have indeed been so. And I had no intention of losing, anyway.
The tenth strike of the arrow also proved Turgan’s last — I leaped up, letting the semi-transparent blade pass under my feet, and then my opponent collapsed face down. He didn’t even put his arms out. The sand beneath Turgan turned crimson — blood seemed to be flowing from his every pore.
