Merin sits on the forest floor, his body covered in wounds, each throb reminding him that a week has already passed since they first stepped onto Sky Mountain.

It’s been three days since he split from the group, the decision made when the climb became harsher—every few meters up, gravity increased and made movement more punishing.

The mountain, teeming with beasts, grew deadlier with altitude, and even the same realm beasts here proved far stronger than their counterparts outside.

Mana was heavily suppressed by the rule of gravity, weakening spells and making casting far more taxing, so physical combat became inevitable.

With that in mind, Merin had chosen to ascend alone, sparing his people from the risk of clashing with dharma realm beasts that prowled the higher regions.

Now, leaning against a tree with blood crusted along his back, he closes his eyes and begins absorbing natural energy to restore his mana and mend his wounds.

But to his surprise, the natural energy is distorted, dense and sluggish under the grip of gravity, barely trickling into his core.

Opening his eyes with a frown, he takes out a mana recovery pill and swallows it, then continues one after another until his energy begins returning.

Just as his breathing steadies, a distant howl splits through the silence, distant at first, but followed by another, closer and sharper.

Merin’s brow furrows, and with a weary voice, he mutters, “The wolf’s coming for me.”

His injuries were from a wolf, not the bear he had slain earlier.

The wolf had ambushed him right after his fight with the bear, raking open his back while his guard was down, and though Merin wounded it in return, he chose to retreat.

But now it was coming again, unwilling to let him go, likely drawn by the scent of his blood or revenge.

Grimacing, Merin swallows one more pill, then pushes himself to his feet, no longer leaning on the tree.

He faces the dense forest where the howl came from, golden slit eyes sharpening as the trees part and the wolf enters his view.

The beast’s charcoal fur glistens under the filtered light, its hulking frame fluid and relentless as it sprints uphill like the mountain were a plain.

It shows no strain, no hesitation—gravity seemingly holds no meaning for it—as its muscles coil and launch it through the air, closing the distance in a heartbeat.

Merin exhales, his body sinking slightly, the earth cracking beneath his feet as he channels the artistic conception of strength, multiplying the power in every tendon and bone.

As the wolf lunges with fangs bared, Merin sidesteps at the last moment, his arm whipping out like a hammer to crash against the wolf’s ribs with a thundering blow.

The wolf twists midair, tanking the hit and landing on its feet with only a stagger, then charges again without pause, swiping its claw toward Merin’s chest.

Merin raises his forearm and blocks, but even with reinforced strength, the blow drives him back two steps, and a shallow gash blooms across his skin.

He grits his teeth, plants his feet again, and this time launches forward, slamming his shoulder into the wolf’s side with crushing force that sends the beast skidding into a tree trunk.

Before the wolf can rise, Merin rushes in and swings a knee into its jaw, following it up with a spinning kick that uses gravity’s pull to drive his heel down like a hammer.

The ground trembles from the impact, but the wolf rolls to safety, a low growl building in its throat as it circles Merin with murderous patience.

Blood drips from its mouth, but its eyes burn brighter, and the next second it charges with its entire body cloaked in a shimmering layer of energy—its own artistic conception.

Merin’s eyes narrow, recognising the pressure—it’s not as refined as his, but it’s still strength, raw and violent.

The wolf crashes into him, both bodies locking as they wrestle, muscle against muscle, strength against strength, claws raking and fists pounding.

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Merin’s transformation activates, his arms thickening with scaled flesh and claws emerging from his fingers, his back surging with subtle ridges of power.

With a roar, he grips the wolf by its foreleg and lifts it overhead, spinning once before slamming it into a boulder that explodes on impact.

The wolf yelps but recovers almost instantly, its jaw snapping shut on Merin’s thigh and trying to drag him down.

Merin growls, lifts his leg with the wolf still latched on, and channels his strength into a downward punch that smashes into the wolf’s spine.

The wolf finally releases him with a pained cry, staggering back with foam-flecked jaws and fur matted with blood.

Merin limps slightly, his thigh bleeding again, but his eyes are fierce, and he dashes forward without pause, slamming his fist into the wolf’s snout with a crack of bone.

The wolf’s body flips from the force and lands hard, twitching but not defeated, as it slowly pushes itself up, shaking its head clear.

Both man and beast breathe heavily, bloodied and battered, but neither yields—gravity pulls at them like an invisible chain, yet their sheer will keeps the battle raging.

Merin narrows his eyes at the wolf, then begins to circulate his mana, adjusting the flow through his meridians as he makes precise modifications to his body.

Since stepping onto Sky Mountain, he’s been forced into close combat—mana is suppressed, spells are unreliable without mental energy to guide them, and every fight becomes a test of raw strength.

He once thought the battle with the dharma shark would be the final time his spells failed him, but here, even common beasts resist magic, and every climb invites a new fight.

More and more, he’s relied on the artistic conception of strength, and through its repeated use, a truth became clear—this strength doesn’t come from nothing; it’s drawn from the depths of his body, from muscle, bone, blood.

If he changes the body itself, improves the foundation, then the power born from it will grow as well—the base improves, output multiplies.

But the wolf charges again, snapping him from thought, and Merin reacts in an instant, spinning his body and landing a roundhouse kick against its jaw that echoes like a thunderclap.

As the wolf reels, Merin channels mana to his right arm, igniting the artistic conception of fire—not as a spell, but as raw force—to transform his entire arm into a blazing weapon.

He might not be able to cast traditional spells, but his comprehension of artistic conceptions is deep enough to apply them directly to his body.

And fire is the natural enemy of metal—this wolf, a dharma beast with metal affinity, just met its counter.

The fire raging around Merin’s arm grows fiercer with every strike, licking the air in crimson arcs before deepening into orange, then blue, until finally the heat intensifies so greatly the flames shift to blinding white.

Each blow he throws sears the air and leaves the trees behind him smouldering, the sheer temperature warping the space around his arm as he pours every ounce of intent into his strikes.

But the wolf does not falter.

With a snarl that rumbles like thunder across the slope, it stamps the earth, drawing the metallic essence of the mountain into its body. Golden light pours from its fur, and its skin hardens into an armoured sheen.

The light forms a barrier, a radiant golden shield that glows like a sunstone, rippling as Merin’s blazing fist crashes into it with a sound like clashing metal.

The shield holds.

Merin grits his teeth, pressure building in his shoulders as he draws back, then slams his fist into the golden light again—sparks erupt, and the ground beneath them cracks under the force.

The wolf growls, taking a step back, then pounces with its golden claws, each one shining with the sharpness of a sword forged in divine flame.

Merin ducks under the slash, dragging the white fire of his arm along the wolf’s side—he smells burnt fur, but the golden light deflects the worst of the damage.

Still, the strike shakes the beast and forces it to leap away, its paws digging deep furrows into the mountain as it skids to a halt.

The moment it lands, the wolf howls again, and its body glows brighter—its golden barrier thickens, the shine so intense Merin has to squint as the creature doubles down on its defence.

“Trying to outlast me?” Merin mutters, raising his flaming hand again, white fire now mixing with violent bursts of orange as he begins to merge the artistic conception of strength into the flame.

He dashes forward—his feet cracking stone under the increased gravity—then slams his fire-forged arm into the wolf’s golden shield once more.

This time, the impact sends a shockwave down the mountain, trees snapping and dust flaring outward in a massive ring.

The shield wavers.

And the moment it flickers, the wolf lunges again, golden claws outstretched in a final desperate strike.

Merin meets it head-on, planting his foot into the ground and twisting his body into a brutal rising kick.

His heel crashes into the wolf’s chest, the force of it shattering the golden barrier like glass and sending the beast tumbling backwards with a strangled yelp.

Before the wolf can recover, Merin lifts his right hand—still cloaked in white flame—and focuses.

The flame that once danced wildly now coils with purpose, condensing and shaping into a long, searing blade of pure white fire.

His control over the flame has sharpened mid-battle, and with it, so has his understanding.

He leaps forward, the flame sword humming with lethal heat, and slashes clean across the wolf’s neck.

The white fire burns through fur, muscle, and bone with ease, and the wolf collapses mid-growl, its massive body thudding against the scorched earth.

Steam rises from the wound, and the golden glow fades from its fur as the last trace of life escapes its eyes.

Merin breathes heavily, lowering the flaming sword as it dissolves back into drifting embers around his arm.

He crouches beside the corpse, driving his hand into the chest and pulling out a dense, pulsing energy core still warm with residual mana.

He doesn’t linger.

His ears catch the distant rustle of leaves, the snap of twigs, the low growl of other beasts drawn by the commotion.

Footsteps—too many.

Merin stands, tucks the core away, and slips into the forest shadows, moving fast and silently.

It’s not a matter of fear, but wisdom.

His fight with the wolf sharpened not just his fire, but his restraint—and the rule of survival on Sky Mountain is not just about strength, but knowing when to strike and when to disappear.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep