Chen Mo woke before dawn, still sore from yesterday’s archery practice. He poured himself a small bowl of coarse bran porridge—barely enough to fill his stomach—and chewed slowly, savoring the simple meal. As he ate, he remembered the small stash of coins left behind by the original Chen Mo: 100 coins, hidden beneath the floorboards. Not much, but enough to buy 20 jin of coarse bran at 5 coins per jin, just enough for two meals a day over the next couple of weeks.
He quickly calculated his plan: for the next 16 days, he would focus solely on archery, grinding the skill from 20/100 to proficiency before attempting real hunting. Each day, he would push himself to complete five correct repetitions, each tracked by the panel with a +1 prompt. The panel promised guaranteed progress—no regression, no wasted effort. With the panel as his reliance, Chen Mo knew he needed to be cautious and meticulous, and as long as he remained steady, his future could be limitless.
Food would be tight. Two jin per day at 5 coins per jin meant 10 coins daily, leaving him short of a full 16-day supply. He would have to ration carefully, supplement with foraged herbs or scraps, and endure hunger when necessary. But survival was only the first step; mastery of the bow would give him the strength and precision to hunt efficiently, earn silver, and slowly climb out of the trap of poverty he had inherited. For the first time since waking in this harsh village, Chen Mo felt a real path forward.
After finishing breakfast, he slung the old bow over his back and stepped outside.
The village was already awake.
Women were drawing water, smoke rose from cooking fires, and hunters gathered in small groups near the village edge, checking bows and traps. Several neighbors noticed him and paused mid-step.
“You’re alive?” an aunt blurted out before catching herself.
Chen Mo smiled faintly and nodded. “I was lucky.”
The looks he received were a mixture of surprise, relief, and cautious distance. No one lingered. Kindness was expensive here.
As he walked toward the granary, he passed a group of children carrying woven baskets, preparing to head toward the foothills.
“Chen Mo, are you coming to gather herbs today?” one of them asked.
He shook his head politely. “Not yet. I’m still recovering.”
They didn’t insist. Everyone understood weakness had its place, but only briefly.
The village granary stood near the center, guarded more by custom than force. Grain here was bought collectively, stored carefully, and rationed during bad seasons. Chen Mo found the clan chief already there, overseeing the distribution.
The old man studied him for a moment, eyes sharp despite his age.
“So you didn’t die after all,” the chief said calmly.
Chen Mo bowed slightly. “I troubled the village.”
“Hm.” The chief gestured toward the grain sacks. “Trouble costs grain. How much do you need?”
“Enough for half a month,” Chen Mo replied after a pause.
The chief’s brow furrowed. “That’s ambitious for someone who can’t hunt yet.”
“I’ll manage,” Chen Mo said quietly.
The old man studied him again, then nodded. “Work harder. Be careful in the mountains. The village can cover you for a while, not forever.”
“I understand.”
He paid his coins, receiving a small sack of coarse bran. It wasn’t much, but it bought him breathing room.
On his way back, greetings followed him again, softer this time. Survival earned respect faster than words.
Only after returning to his hut did Chen Mo set the grain aside and retrieve his bow. He stood for a long moment, steadying himself.
With the panel as his reliance, Chen Mo knew he had to be cautious and meticulous. No risks. No shortcuts. As long as he moved steadily, his future would not be sealed by this village.
He stepped outside, found his familiar tree, drew the bow, and began.
Chen Mo planted his feet in the dirt behind his hut, shoulders squared, bow raised. The old bow creaked softly as he drew it back, breath slow, spine straightening with effort rather than grace. The arrow wavered, dipped, then thudded into the trunk of a nearby tree, missing the faint mark he had scratched earlier.
He exhaled, adjusted his stance, and reached for another arrow.
Footsteps approached from the path leading deeper into the village.
A small group of children passed by, each carrying woven baskets and short knives tied at their waists. They were headed toward the lower slopes of the mountain, where common herbs grew in abundance this season. Seeing Chen Mo, they slowed, curiosity overcoming routine.
“Chen Mo,” one of the younger boys called, surprised. “You’re already up?”
Another chimed in, glancing at the bow in his hands. “We’re going to gather herbs. Uncle Huang said the rain last night should’ve helped them grow. Want to come?”
Chen Mo lowered the bow and nodded in greeting. His breathing was still uneven, sweat clinging lightly to his temples.
“Not today,” he said calmly. “I’m still recovering. I’ll focus on this for now.”
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The children exchanged looks. Herb gathering was familiar, safe by village standards. Standing alone with a bow, shooting at a tree again and again, looked like wasted effort to them.
At that moment, a sturdier figure stepped forward from the group.
Chen Gou.
He was a head taller than most of the children, his arms already carrying the faint definition of someone who ate better and worked alongside adults. His clothes were cleaner, better patched. The hunting knife at his waist was real, not ceremonial. Everyone in the village knew who his father was.
Chen Gou studied Chen Mo for a moment, eyes lingering on his posture, the bowstring, the shallow calluses forming on his fingers.
“You’re planning to hunt?” he asked, not mocking, just matter-of-fact.
Chen Mo met his gaze and nodded. “Eventually.”
Chen Gou frowned slightly, then shook his head.
“My father says bow work like this won’t get you far,” he said. “You learn faster following a team. Traps, routes, wind. Shooting at trees won’t feed you.”
The others nodded unconsciously. This was how things were done.
Chen Mo smiled faintly. “Maybe.”
Chen Gou seemed unsatisfied by the answer, but he didn’t press further. In his eyes, Chen Mo wasn’t arrogant—just stubborn, and a bit foolish.
“Suit yourself,” he said, turning away. “Don’t starve before winter.”
With that, he motioned for the others to move on. The group soon disappeared down the path, their voices fading into the morning air.
Chen Mo watched them go, then looked back at the tree.
He raised the bow again.
His arms trembled as he drew, muscles protesting, breath growing shallow. The arrow flew—this time closer to the mark.
A familiar prompt flickered briefly before his eyes.
Archery +1
Chen Mo didn’t smile.
He simply reset his stance and prepared the next arrow.
That evening, smoke curled from the chimneys as the village settled into its usual rhythm.
Chen Tie sat on a low wooden stool outside his hut, a whetstone in one hand, a hunting knife in the other. The blade rasped softly, steady and patient. Years of hunting had carved lines into his face, the kind earned only by wind, cold, and watching the mountains long enough to know when to retreat.
Chen Gou squatted nearby, chewing on a strip of dried meat.
“I saw Chen Mo today,” he said casually. “He was shooting at a tree again. Same place as always.”
Chen Tie didn’t look up. “And?”
“He refused to come gather herbs. Said he’s training to hunt.”
The knife paused for a breath, then resumed its rhythm.
“Training alone,” Chen Tie said. Not a question.
Chen Gou nodded. “Looks tiring. Wasteful too.”
Chen Tie finally lifted his eyes and glanced at his son.
“You think hunting is only following others?” he asked.
Chen Gou hesitated. “No… but—”
“But nothing,” Chen Tie interrupted, his voice calm but firm. “You’re not a child anymore. Next year you’ll join the outer hunts. You think watching is enough?”
He set the knife down and fixed Chen Gou with a steady gaze.
“If someone chooses to suffer now, don’t laugh at it. Ask yourself why you aren’t suffering the same.”
Chen Gou flushed slightly and lowered his head.
“I’ll train more tomorrow,” he muttered.
Chen Tie grunted. “Good. Eat. We leave before dawn.”
Days passed.
At first, the children still slowed when they passed the hut at the village’s edge. Some whispered. Some laughed quietly. Some shook their heads.
Chen Mo stood there every morning and afternoon, bow in hand, shooting at the same tree. His arrows missed more than they hit. His posture collapsed when he was tired. His fingers blistered, split, and healed again.
No miracles happened.
By the fourth day, the children stopped watching.
By the seventh, Chen Mo was just part of the scenery. The thin orphan by the hut. The dull thud of arrows against bark. A presence, no longer a curiosity.
Hunger became sharper.
Chen Mo reduced his meals without ceremony. Morning porridge thinner than before. Evening portions measured by handfuls rather than bowls. He counted days, not by comfort, but by how much grain remained in the jar.
At night, his arms ached deep into the bone. When he closed his eyes, he could still feel the bowstring biting into his fingers, the weight of the draw pressing against his back.
On the tenth day, after another exhausting session, he finally sat down against the hut wall and summoned the panel.
The transparent text hovered quietly.
Name: Chen Mo
Age: 14
Realm: None
Martial Arts: None
Skill:
Archery: 65/100
Chen Mo stared at the number for a long time.
Ten days. Sixty-five points.
He did the math without emotion.
Six days left.
If nothing went wrong, he could reach proficiency before the grain ran out. Barely.
He closed the panel and looked at the jar inside the hut, then at the mountains rising in the distance, dark and indifferent.
“I don’t have room to fail,” he murmured.
Tomorrow, he would push harder.
Not because he wanted to.
Because the world would not wait.
