Consciousness returned with the same leaden weight as the day before, but this time his purpose crystallized immediately.
The burial was complete—his parents could rest. Now survival demanded his full attention.
The borrowed sleeping mat beneath him felt colder than memory suggested. Through Uncle Chen's patched roof, thin morning light revealed frost clinging to the edges of the shutters.
The growing season was ending, and with it, any hope of easy sustenance.
Primary objective: strengthen meridians while maintaining cover identity.
He closed his eyes and turned inward, resuming construction of his memory palace.
The modest house in his mind's eye had grown more defined overnight—rooms with clear purposes, shelves organized by immediate relevance.
The work felt oddly satisfying, like fitting puzzle pieces into their proper places.
On the training mat labeled 'cultivation techniques,' he deposited fragments recovered during his brief moments of lucidity. The Gentle River Method remained maddeningly incomplete—he could sense vast knowledge about breathing patterns and meridian pathways, but accessing it directly risked another catastrophic neural overload.
Memory palace construction: ~0.00000000000000000000002% complete. Qi manipulation techniques: insufficient data.
His search for environmental breathing techniques yielded unexpected information instead. The local climate patterns, seasonal variations, historical weather records—all pointing to an anomaly that explained far more than simple drought.
Atmospheric Qi density: significantly below historical averages. Pattern suggests systematic drainage.
The revelation settled into his consciousness with uncomfortable implications. Qi didn't simply disappear—it was either consumed by massive cultivation efforts or deliberately channeled elsewhere.
Someone or something was drawing the life force from this entire region, creating the cascade of crop failures and famine that threatened everyone within hundreds of miles.
Hypothesis: external force manipulating regional Qi distribution. Evidence: insufficient for confirmation.
Voices from outside interrupted his analysis. Uncle Chen and Aunt Mei, speaking in the hushed tones people used when discussing catastrophe.
"—the Zhao family sold their plow oxen yesterday. For grain that'll last maybe a week."
"That last sack of millet... it's barely half of what we had this time last year." Aunt Mei's voice carried the weight of careful rationing, of meals stretched thinner each day.
"The boy needs to eat too. Growing child, lost his parents. We can't just—" Uncle Chen's voice faltered.
"If the snows come early..." The sentence hung unfinished between them, heavy with implications neither wanted to voice.
The conversation continued, but the essential mathematics were already clear.
Resource calculation: current food stores insufficient for three individuals through winter season. Probability of survival with additional dependent: marginal.
His analytical mind processed the data with mechanical efficiency, but something else twisted in his chest—something that made the numbers feel like accusations rather than neutral facts.
Internal conflict detected: logical assessment versus emotional attachment.
They were discussing his life as a resource management problem, and they were absolutely correct to do so. In his previous existence, he would have catalogued such efficient triage as admirable rational thinking.
Now, listening to people who had shown him kindness debate whether they could afford to keep him alive, that familiar pressure built behind his eyes.
Status: emotional interference compromising optimal decision-making.
But for once, the interference felt... right. These people had taken in a stranger's child without question, fed him when they had little to spare, offered shelter when they needed every resource for themselves.
The mathematical certainty that his presence threatened their survival didn't diminish the magnitude of their sacrifice.
The conversation outside had shifted to specifics—how to break the news gently, where he might find other relatives, whether the temple in the next valley still accepted orphans.
Decision matrix: departure optimal for all parties. Attachment: tactically irrelevant.
Yet as he prepared to rise and announce his intention to leave, a different possibility surfaced from his memory palace.
Not cultivation knowledge or tactical analysis, but fragments of agricultural science, water management principles, basic chemistry and biology that required no Qi to implement.
Alternative strategy: contribute sufficient value to offset resource consumption.
He sat up carefully, testing his balance. The crushing fatigue remained, but his mind felt clearer than it had since his rebirth.
Perhaps he couldn't access advanced cultivation techniques or manipulate Qi directly, but his vast knowledge contained countless methods of survival that required nothing more than mortal understanding.
Query: agricultural techniques, food preservation, water management.
He reached toward the knowledge and found... fragments. Incomplete pieces that scattered before he could grasp them fully. His head began to throb with the familiar warning of cognitive strain.
Memory access: limited success. Pattern analysis required.
But then he paused, remembering yesterday's work with the shovel. The physical act of digging had triggered agricultural memories automatically - soil composition, root depths, drainage principles. His body had remembered what his mind struggled to access directly.
Hypothesis: sensory cues trigger automatic memory retrieval. Limitation: cannot predict which cues activate specific knowledge domains.
He rose and moved to the door, listening as Uncle Chen's voice carried the weight of difficult decisions.
"Maybe the Liang family could take him. They've got that trading route, more resources than most."
"The Liangs have five children of their own, Chen. Nobody has resources to spare this year."
Optimal timing: immediate intervention before alternatives are selected.
He opened the door and stepped outside. Uncle Chen and Aunt Mei looked up from their hushed conference, expressions shifting to forced cheerfulness that couldn't quite mask their underlying worry.
"Morning, Ming. Sleep well?" Aunt Mei's smile was gentle but strained.
"Uncle Chen, Aunt Mei," he said, his voice carrying more certainty than he felt. "I heard you talking. About food, about winter."
The adults exchanged glances—caught in the impossible position of trying to shield a child from adult realities while facing starvation themselves.
"Don't worry about such things," Uncle Chen said, but his carved flute remained motionless in his hands. "Adults will figure it out."
"I know you're trying to decide what to do with me," he said simply. "And I know your food won't last through winter for three people."
Tactical approach: acknowledge problem directly, present solution immediately.
Aunt Mei's expression crumpled slightly. "Oh, sweet boy—"
"But I think I can help," he continued quickly. "My father taught me things. About plants, about making the most of what we have."
It wasn't entirely a lie. The knowledge was there, even if its source was somewhat different than claimed.
Uncle Chen's weathered face showed polite skepticism. "Your father was a good man, Ming, but farming's hard work. Takes years to learn properly."
Demonstration required: select simple but impressive technique.
"The turnips in Aunt Mei's garden," he said, pointing to the struggling plants. Their green tops were pale and wilted, and the soil around them was a network of tiny cracks, hard and gray as slate.
As he looked at them, fragments surfaced—something about water, roots, soil density.
"Aunt Mei, could I have a cup of water?" he asked.
She looked puzzled but fetched a small clay cup from inside. He took it and knelt beside one of the larger turnips, pouring the water slowly onto the soil at its base.Their green tops were pale and wilted, and the soil around them was a network of tiny cracks, hard and gray as slate.
The water pooled on the surface, forming a small puddle that refused to sink in. They watched as it sat there, barely penetrating the hard-packed earth.
"See?" he said quietly. "The water can't reach the roots. But I know how to fix it."
Uncle Chen crouched beside him, pressing a finger to the compacted soil. "I never... we always just watered from above..."
Memory trigger confirmed: visual and olfactory cues activate relevant knowledge fragments.
"There are other things too," he continued carefully, not wanting to promise more than he could deliver. "Food storage, water collection. I remember some techniques, but..." He hesitated, choosing his words. "I'll need to work with my hands, see the problems directly. The memories come easier that way."
Uncle Chen set down his carving tools, his expression shifting to something approaching skeptical hope. "You really think these things would work?"
Confidence assessment: high. Knowledge base: extensive. Risk of failure: minimal.
"I know they will," he said simply. "Give me two days to show you. If the improvements don't work, if I can't help enough to justify the extra food... I'll leave before winter sets in properly."
Timeline established: two days to demonstrate value. Acceptable risk parameters.
Aunt Mei moved closer, her weathered hands clasping his shoulders. "Ming, child, you don't need to prove anything. We're not going to abandon you."
But her eyes told a different story—the hollow look of someone calculating grain rations against human lives.
Emotional manipulation detected: natural sympathy response. Counter-strategy: appeal to practical benefits.
"Let me try," he said. "These techniques... they're not just for now. They'll help next year too, and the year after. I can teach you everything."
Long-term value proposition: knowledge transfer ensures sustained improvement beyond individual survival.
Uncle Chen and Aunt Mei exchanged another look—this one carrying different weight. Hope, perhaps, mixed with the desperate calculation of people facing winter with empty stores.
"Two days," Uncle Chen said finally. "Show us these things your father taught you."
Agreement secured: demonstration period established. Success metrics: measurable improvement in resource efficiency.
As they moved toward the garden to begin implementing the first improvements, that strange pressure in his chest shifted.
Not the crushing weight of unwanted emotion, but something lighter—purpose, perhaps, that went beyond mere survival calculation.
Observation: contributing to others' welfare generates unexpected satisfaction. Analysis: pending.
For the first time since his rebirth, his vast knowledge felt like a gift rather than a burden. He might be powerless, Qi-depleted, trapped in a fragile mortal form—but he could still create value, still solve problems, still matter.
Primary objective unchanged: strengthen meridians, maintain cover, survive investigation. Secondary objective added: demonstrate sufficient value to justify continued shelter.
Personal note: emerging attachment to benefactors may represent tactical liability. Continue monitoring.
Even if the atmospheric Qi continued draining away to whatever force was consuming it, even if imperial guards arrived to investigate plague reports, even if winter brought famine across the entire region—he had two days to prove that wisdom could be as valuable as power.