The morning mist had not yet lifted when Chen Mo returned from the foothills.

  The minor achievement in archery had quietly reshaped his hunts. There was no sudden bravado, no reckless confidence. His steps were lighter, his breathing steadier, his judgment sharper. He no longer chased every opportunity. He waited, observed, and struck only when the angle, distance, and wind aligned.

  Two pheasants. One hare.

  No wasted arrows.

  By the time the sun climbed overhead, he cleaned the game by the stream, packed the meat carefully, and headed back. When he checked the panel in his mind, the familiar lines surfaced.

  Archery: +20

  Progress steady. Reliable.

  That alone would have made it a good day.

  But as he entered the village, he sensed the shift immediately.

  The clan chief had returned.

  The donkey cart stood near the central yard, traces of dried mud still clinging to its wheels. Several elders were gathered nearby, their voices low, expressions tight. There was no relief in the air, no chatter about successful trade or fair prices. Only restrained tension, the kind that settled like dust after a collapse.

  Chen Mo slowed his steps.

  He did not need to draw closer to hear the words that mattered.

  “The toll has increased.”

  The chief’s voice was calm, but heavy.

  “Ninety tael per month.”

  A murmur rippled through the elders.

  “Eighty was already squeezing blood from stone…” someone muttered.

  “The bandits didn’t negotiate,” the chief continued. “They sent word. Several villages failed to gather enough.”

  No one interrupted.

  “They were ransacked.”

  The word landed like a dull blade. Not shouted. Not dramatized. Simply stated, as if describing weather.

  Chen Mo felt his fingers tighten around the strap of his bag.

  “So long as the silver is delivered,” the chief said, “they do not linger. But if it falls short…” He did not finish the sentence. He did not need to.

  The elders exchanged glances. Faces hardened. Calculations were already being made.

  After a short while, the discussion ended. The elders dispersed one by one, each carrying their own worries back to their homes.

  Chen Mo turned to leave as well.

  “Chen Mo,” the chief called.

  He stopped and turned back, instinctively straightening his posture. He stepped forward and gave a slight bow, measured and respectful.

  “You asked me something before,” the chief said, studying him for a moment. “About matters beyond hunting.”

  Chen Mo nodded. “Yes, Chief.”

  “Stay a moment.”

  The courtyard emptied further, the noise of the village resuming at a distance. The chief gestured for him to sit.

  The weight in the air did not lessen.

  If anything, it grew heavier.

  The chief rested his hands on his knees, gaze drifting toward the distant tree line beyond the village.

  “You wanted to know about martial artists,” he said at last.

  Chen Mo did not rush his answer. He lowered his head slightly, the gesture careful but not servile. “Yes, Chief. I heard the elders mention them before. I wish to understand… how they differ from ordinary people.”

  A faint curve appeared at the corner of the chief’s mouth. Not amusement. Approval.

  “At your age, curiosity is not a fault,” he said. “As long as it does not blind you.”

  He paused, choosing his words.

  “Martial artists are not like us. Their strength is not simply muscle or skill. They move faster, strike harder, endure longer. Some can leap distances a grown man could not cross at a run. Others can shatter stone with their palms.” He shook his head slowly. “To people like us, it looks inhuman.”

  Chen Mo listened without interrupting, his back straight, his breathing even.

  “Are they common?” he asked.

  “In the county,” the chief replied. “Not here.”

  He leaned forward slightly. “Martial halls exist only there. They gather those with talent, silver, or backing. Sometimes all three.”

  Chen Mo’s eyes sharpened. “Can anyone join?”

  The chief let out a short breath, half a sigh. “In theory. In practice, no.”

  He raised one finger. “First, there is an entry fee. Not a one-time payment. A monthly one. Fifteen tael of silver.”

  Chen Mo’s expression did not change, but the number echoed in his mind.

  Fifteen tael. Every month.

  “That alone,” the chief continued, “filters out ninety-nine out of a hundred people. Even if a family sells land, livestock, and grain, they might last a few months at most. After that, they starve.”

  “And if someone manages to pay?” Chen Mo asked.

  “Then they learn,” the chief said. “Or they are sent away if they lack talent. The halls do not run charities.”

  Chen Mo hesitated briefly before asking the next question. “Do the county guards intervene against the bandits… because of the martial halls?”

  The chief shook his head.

  “The guards protect the county. Not villages. The halls protect their own interests. As long as the bandits do not threaten trade routes or challenge county authority, they are tolerated.” His eyes darkened. “Sometimes, they are useful.”

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  Silence followed.

  The wind stirred dust across the courtyard. Somewhere, a child laughed, the sound distant and unaware.

  Chen Mo finally spoke again. “Then… power decides everything.”

  The chief looked at him for a long moment.

  “Yes,” he said. “And silver decides who gets power.”

  He straightened, his tone firming. “That is why I tell you this now. Curiosity can push people forward, but it can also lead them off cliffs. You are doing well. Better than most your age. Do not let distant things make you neglect what keeps you alive today.”

  Chen Mo stood and bowed properly this time. “I understand, Chief.”

  The chief studied him, then nodded. “Good. Keep steady. The world does not reward impatience.”

  Before leaving, Chen Mo reached into his pouch and placed a small stack of coins on the table.

  “One hundred and fifty coins,” he said. “For the village.”

  The chief’s brows rose slightly, but he did not refuse. “You’ve grown,” he said quietly.

  Chen Mo did not reply. He bowed once more and turned away.

  As he walked back toward his hut, the words echoed in his mind.

  Martial halls. Silver. Power.

  That night, he sat on his bed, washed and fed, and called up the panel.

  Name: Chen Mo

  Age: 14

  Realm: None

  Martial Arts: None

  Skill: Archery — 160/300 (Minor Achievement)

  The lines were simple. Almost stark.

  The numbers were clear.

  The progress was undeniable.

  Chen Mo stared at the panel for a long moment, his breathing slow and controlled. There was no excitement on his face, only confirmation. What he had been doing was right.

  His path settled firmly in his mind.

  First, silver.

  Not scraps. Not barely enough to scrape by. He needed a foundation. At least twenty tael of silver. Only with that kind of reserve could he afford to step into the county without being forced back immediately by reality.

  Second, the county.

  Martial halls did not open their doors to the desperate. Without silver, even approaching one would be meaningless. He would need money not just to enter, but to survive long enough to be tested.

  Third, information.

  The county was unfamiliar territory. He would need to learn more. From elders who had gone before. From hunters who traded regularly. From anyone with experience, connections, or even rumors worth listening to. Power was not gained blindly.

  All of it pointed back to the same thing.

  Hunting.

  More game. Bigger game. Fewer wasted arrows. Longer days in the foothills. The silver he needed could only be carved out of the mountains, one hunt at a time.

  Chen Mo exhaled softly and dismissed the panel.

  There was no rush. No illusion of shortcuts.

  He lay down, eyes open in the darkness, already planning the next day’s route.

  Steady steps. Sharper arrows.

  That was enough for now.

  The following days passed in a rhythm as steady as Chen Mo’s breathing while drawing his bow.

  At dawn, he entered the foothills. At dusk, he returned with blood on his hands and weight on his shoulders. His routine no longer wavered. Solo hunts in the morning, careful recovery of arrows, skinning and sorting at noon, then training again when the light softened. Each day, the gains were modest but relentless.

  Twenty points.

  Sometimes twenty-one.

  Never less.

  The minor achievement in archery continued to reveal its depth. His shots no longer relied on conscious adjustment. Distance, angle, and wind merged into instinct. His body moved first, thought followed later. Misses became rare, and when they happened, he understood why.

  The village changed alongside him.

  More hunters began venturing out in teams, even those who had once hesitated. Elder men carried traps again. Younger men sharpened blades. Children who should have been chasing each other now trudged toward the slopes with baskets on their backs, guided by elders. Even women joined the herb-gathering parties, fingers stained green by roots and leaves.

  Everyone was working harder.

  No one needed to say why.

  Chen Mo noticed it all without slowing down. He simply adjusted his routes, pushed a little deeper, stayed a little longer. His haul grew heavier by the day. Pheasants, hares, the occasional fox when opportunity allowed. Meat was dried carefully. Pelts were stacked and tied with practiced hands.

  By his own estimate, his output had stabilized.

  Six hundred coins per week.

  A number that would have been unthinkable a month ago.

  On the fifth evening, after cleaning his arrows and washing the smell of iron from his hands, Chen Mo sat down and summoned the panel once more.

  Archery: 270/300 (Minor Achievement)

  The number stared back at him.

  Thirty points.

  Just a few more days.

  The air in the hut felt different as he dismissed the panel. Not heavier, not lighter, but charged, like the moment before a storm breaks.

  Major achievement was no longer a distant concept.

  It was close enough to feel.