The door to the thatched hut creaked open, and Chen Mo flinched, still weak from fever and fainting. A middle-aged man, the village elder who had carried him back from the forest, stepped inside, eyes widening in shock. “You… you’re alive?” he stammered, voice trembling with disbelief.

  The elder, responsible for gathering herbs and overseeing the younger children in the village, had taken care of Chen Mo largely out of pity and a lingering sense of friendship with his father. In this harsh world, every family struggled just to eat; his efforts had been more about preventing the boy’s corpse from decaying before the villagers discovered him than about any hope of recovery. Yet here Chen Mo sat, ragged and shivering, staring back at him, very much alive.

  The door creaked wider, and Chen Mo forced himself upright. Seeing the familiar face, he hurriedly cupped his hands.

  “Uncle Huang,” he said hoarsely. “It seems I was lucky this time. If not for everyone’s care… I might not have made it.”

  Chen Huang stared at him for a long moment, as if afraid the boy would vanish the next time he blinked. Then he let out a slow breath.

  “It’s good that you’re fine,” he said, his tone steady but restrained. “Don’t talk too much. Your body is still weak. Rest for a few days, then prepare to go back to work.”

  There was no false warmth in his words, only the blunt practicality of someone accustomed to hardship. He paused at the doorway, then added, “I’ll have my son, Chen Shun, bring you some meat broth later. It won’t be much, but it should help you recover.”

  With that, he turned and left without lingering.

  Chen Huang returned to his own home, a low earthen house no better than Chen Mo’s. As soon as he stepped inside, his wife looked up from the stove.

  “He’s alive,” Chen Huang said simply.

  She froze, eyes widening. “Alive? That fever didn’t kill him?”

  “He woke up.”

  For a moment, she said nothing. Then her gaze shifted to the small clay pot on the stove, where thin meat broth simmered. Her lips tightened.

  “We barely have enough for ourselves,” she said quietly.

  “I know,” Chen Huang replied. “Just a bowl. Send it with Shun.”

  She hesitated, then sighed, ladling out a portion despite the reluctance in her movements. “That boy’s fate is stubborn,” she muttered. “To survive something like that…”

  Chen Mo was still contemplating his next steps when soft footsteps sounded outside the hut. The door opened just enough for a small figure to slip in. It was his cousin, Chen Shun, barely seven years old, holding a wooden bowl with both hands.

  “Brother Mo,” the boy whispered, placing it down quickly. Before Chen Mo could say much, a sharp voice called from outside, urging the child not to linger. Chen Shun glanced back nervously, nodded once, and hurried out without waiting for a reply.

  “Thank you,” Chen Mo said anyway, his voice low.

  The smell of meat broth rose faintly from the bowl. He lifted it with trembling hands and drank greedily, every mouthful warm and precious. It was thin, more water than meat, but to him it tasted better than anything he remembered from his past life. When the bowl was empty, he exhaled slowly. His stomach was not full, not even close, but strength had returned to his limbs, enough that standing no longer felt impossible.

  He pushed himself up and began to take stock of what little he owned. In the corner sat a small jar of coarse bran grain, barely enough for a few days. Beside it leaned the old bow, its wood darkened by age, the string slightly frayed. That was all.

  “Food…” Chen Mo murmured. “Food will be my main concern for the foreseeable future.”

  His gaze shifted, and the familiar translucent panel appeared before his eyes.

  Name: Chen Mo

  Age: 14

  Realm: None

  Martial Arts: None

  Skills: Archery 15/100

  Martial arts were unrealistic for now. He knew that clearly. Without money, without connections, even stepping through the gates of a county martial school was a fantasy. If he wanted to survive, he had only one path available.

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  “I’ll have to rely on archery,” he said quietly. “Raise my mastery first. Only then can I hunt reliably.”

  The decision settled in his mind, calm and heavy. From this moment on, every arrow, every breath, every repetition would matter.

  Chen Mo took the old bow into his hands and tested its weight. The wood creaked softly as he strung it, the bowstring rough against his fingers. He gathered the five arrows he owned, their shafts uneven, the iron heads dulled by years of use, and stepped outside the hut.

  Not far away stood a thick tree trunk, scarred by old cuts and weathered bark. It would do.

  He planted his feet, trying to recall the posture from the inherited memories. His stance felt wrong immediately. His shoulders were tense, his grip uncertain, and when he drew the bowstring back, his arms trembled under the strain.

  Too shallow… too stiff…

  The first arrow flew crookedly, thudding into the dirt several paces short of the tree. Chen Mo frowned and adjusted his stance, shifting his weight, forcing his breathing to slow. He drew again. This time the arrow struck the trunk, but only barely, skimming the bark at an awkward angle.

  Sweat beaded on his forehead. His back ached. His fingers burned where the string bit into them.

  He loosened his posture slightly, lowered his shoulders, and tried again. One shot. Then another. With each repetition, the movements began to connect, clumsy at first, then marginally smoother. His breathing aligned with the draw, his gaze steadied, his release became less panicked.

  Just as he was beginning to grasp the rhythm—

  A faint prompt flashed before his eyes.

  Archery +1

  Chen Mo froze mid-breath.

  So it was real.

  He exhaled slowly, feeling the ache in his arms, the dull pain in his shoulders, and the sting in his fingers. This wasn’t power handed freely. Every gain demanded effort, correct effort.

  A thin smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

  If that’s the rule, he thought, then I can work with it.

  Chen Mo lifted the bow and aimed at the tree trunk. His hands shook, his arms were unsteady. The first arrow flew crooked and buried itself in the dirt.

  He adjusted his stance and tried again. This time, the shot was clean. A faint prompt appeared before his eyes: +1

  Encouraged, he drew another arrow. It veered slightly left, but the next one struck correctly.

  +1

  He experimented, correcting his posture, testing his grip, fumbling, releasing arrows at odd angles. Some were disasters, some merely mediocre. Each time he managed a proper draw and release, the prompt appeared:

  +1

  +1

  By the time his arms trembled violently, his back ached, and his fingers stung from the string, he could do no more. Sweat poured down his face, his stomach growled, and he slumped against the tree.

  Summoning the panel, he finally saw the cumulative result:

  Archery 20/100

  Five correct repetitions. That was all his weak, untrained body could manage today.

  Chen Mo exhaled. The panel rewarded only correctness—mistakes did not count—but it also made progress tangible. Trial, error, fatigue, and hunger mattered. Every correct motion brought a reward, but pushing past the body’s limits would only result in wasted effort.

  He leaned the bow against the tree and trudged back to the hut, muscles sore, mind already planning tomorrow’s repetitions.

  Chen Mo trudged back into the hut, every muscle protesting. He set the bow aside and poured a small portion of coarse bran into a pot, adding water over the embers of the dying fire. The porridge was thin, rough, and barely filling, but it was enough to dull the relentless gnawing in his stomach. He ate slowly, savoring every bite as if it were a feast, all the while planning tomorrow’s repetitions in his mind.

  When the last spoonful was gone, he lay down on the straw bed, limbs heavy and sore. His eyes fluttered shut, and for the first time since waking in this new body, he allowed himself to sink into deep, dreamless sleep. The mountains outside were silent, indifferent to the struggles of a fourteen-year-old boy, but inside the hut, Chen Mo rested, muscles aching, spirit quietly steeling itself for the grind to come.