The bear was massive. Twice as tall as Wen Dao when it reared up. Its forepaws had claws like curved daggers.
There was no fighting this. Not with this body. Not yet.
'Climb,' Wen Dao said sharply. 'Both of you. Now. That tree.'
He pointed at the nearest thick trunk. Mei grabbed Kun and ran for it. She boosted him up, then pulled herself after.
The bear ignored them. Its yellow eyes stayed fixed on Wen Dao.
He understood. He was the largest target. The bear had chosen him.
He ran.
Not away. Sideways. Then in a wide arc, circling back toward a different set of trees while the bear pounded after him. The ground shook with each step. The thing was terrifyingly fast for its size.
A claw swiped. It caught air — barely. Wen Dao felt the wind of it cross the back of his neck.
He hit a fallen log, vaulted it clumsily, stumbled, recovered.
The bear crashed through the log like kindling.
Wen Dao spotted what he needed. A narrow gap between two ancient trees — trunks close together, too tight for the bear's bulk. He aimed for it.
He hit the gap at full speed. Scraped through. Bark tore at both his shoulders.
The bear hit the gap and stopped. It roared. The sound shook leaves from the branches above.
Wen Dao didn't stop running. He went fifty more feet before he let himself slow.
He bent double, hands on his knees, lungs heaving.
The roaring faded. The bear gave up. Or found a different way around — in which case he had thirty seconds.
He moved back to the children's tree.
'Come down,' he said. 'Quickly.'
They climbed down. Mei's hands were shaking. Kun was completely silent, which Wen Dao suspected was a worse sign than crying.
He kept moving. He set a hard pace for the next two hours.
By the time the sun began to drop, they reached a rocky stream. He let them stop there.
He sat and read the Iron Body Scripture again while Mei caught a small fish with her bare hands — she was fast, and clearly not new to forest survival.
Wen Dao watched her technique with interest.
'How do you do that?' he asked.
'Father taught me. You wait until they swim into the shadow of your hand. Then they can't see it coming.' She held the fish up.
'So you use the shadow as a deception,' Wen Dao said.
'I guess.' She shrugged and started cleaning the fish with a sharp stone.
He looked at the scripture. He had been training all day. His forearms were dark with bruising. The scripture said the bruising was correct — it meant the skin was being forced to adapt.
'Does it hurt?' Mei asked, looking at his arms.
'Yes.'
'Why are you doing it then?'
He looked at her. 'If it didn't hurt, it wouldn't work. Something that strengthens you cannot also be comfortable.'
She stared at him like he'd said something in another language. Then she went back to the fish.
They ate. It was not enough but it was something.
After dark, Wen Dao kept watch while the children slept. He used the time to train. One thousand strikes per arm. The scripture was exact about the number.
By midnight, his forearms were swollen and throbbing.
By the second hour past midnight, something changed.
The swelling was still there. The pain was still there. But beneath it — something subtle. A faint warmth. Not external. Internal. As if the flesh itself was beginning to respond.
He pressed the scripture against his chest and breathed steadily.
On the edge of the stream, a sound. Soft. Deliberate.
A man sat against a tree fifteen feet away. He had not been there a moment ago. He was old. Pale. His robes were soaked in blood.
He looked at Wen Dao with sharp, tired eyes.
'The boy can sense changes in his flesh,' the old man said. 'Interesting. Most would have given up by now.'
Wen Dao did not move. 'Who are you?'
The old man coughed. Blood on his lips.
'Someone who is dying,' he said. 'And who needs to pass something on before he does.'