The morning sun climbed higher over Bluestone Village, warming the air and burning away the last wisps of mist that clung to the valley floor. Marcus sat on a smooth stone at the edge of the terraced fields, watching his family work.
His father, Chen Wei, moved through the rows with practiced efficiency, checking the irrigation channels that fed water from the mountain stream to the rice paddies. His movements were economical, precise—the result of decades of repetition. Every gesture served a purpose, wasted no energy.
Beside him, young Bao struggled to keep pace, his small hands clumsy as he tried to clear debris from the channels. Chen Wei would occasionally pause, adjust his son's grip or position, then continue on without a word. Teaching through demonstration rather than instruction.
In the adjacent field, Marcus's mother worked alongside Mei, both of them bent low over the young rice shoots, pulling weeds with steady, methodical movements. Their hands moved in rhythm, a dance they'd performed countless times. Mei's fingers were quick and sure. Lin Shu's were slower but more thorough, missing nothing.
Marcus watched them with a mixture of fascination and uselessness.
He knew nothing about farming. Chen Liang's memories provided context—the names of things, the general cycle of planting and harvest, the importance of water management—but they didn't translate into skill. It was like knowing the rules of a sport versus actually being able to play it.
When he'd tried to help earlier, his mother had gently but firmly told him to rest. "You're still weak," she'd said. "When your strength returns, there will be plenty of work."
So he sat and watched, feeling like a spectator in someone else's life.
The terraced fields stretched out before him in geometric patterns carved into the hillside. Each level was separated by low stone walls, creating a cascade of shallow pools that climbed toward the forested mountains above. It was impressive, in its way—the product of generations of labor, reshaping the landscape to wring sustenance from unforgiving terrain.
But Marcus could see the wear on his family's bodies, the toll this life extracted. His father's shoulders were perpetually bent. His mother's hands were gnarled, the joints swollen from decades of repetitive motion. Even Mei, only seventeen, moved with the careful gait of someone managing chronic pain.
This was survival, not living. Existence measured in bowls of rice and copper coins, always one disaster away from catastrophe.
The thought made something in his chest tighten, though he wasn't sure if it was sympathy or self-preservation. These people were strangers wearing familiar faces. Their suffering was real, but it wasn't his—not in any way that mattered to the person Marcus had been.
Yet their survival was his survival now. Their deaths would likely mean his own.
A practical concern, nothing more.
Movement at the edge of his vision pulled Marcus from his thoughts. A group of men emerged from between the houses, perhaps seven or eight of them, all younger and more robust than his father. They carried spears—crude things of sharpened wood, some tipped with metal that had been hammered and re-hammered from scavenged tools. A few had bows slung over their shoulders, quivers of arrows at their hips.
Hunters.
Marcus recognized some of them from Chen Liang's memories. Zhang Kun, the blacksmith's son, broad-shouldered and confident. Liu Ming, quick and wiry, known for his accuracy with a bow. Old Zhao's grandson, whose name escaped him, carrying a spear that looked better-made than the others.
They moved with purpose, talking quietly among themselves as they headed toward the forest trail that led into the mountains. Hunting parties went out regularly, Chen Liang's memories told him. Game was scarce this close to the village, but venture far enough into the mountains and you might find wild boar, deer, or if you were lucky, a mountain goat.
Meat meant survival. Meant strength. Meant something to trade for coin or other necessities.
But it also meant risk.
Marcus watched them disappear into the tree line and felt something stir in the back of his mind—not Chen Liang's memories this time, but his own. Marcus Chen had gone hunting. Not often, but enough to know the basics. His uncle had taken him a few times in his teens, before life got busy with college and career and the endless grind of modern existence.
He'd been decent at it, actually. Patient. Observant. Good at reading terrain and understanding animal behavior. His uncle had praised his instincts, said he had a natural feel for it.
For all the good that did him now.
Marcus studied the trail where the hunters had vanished, his mind working through what he remembered. Hunting wasn't just about having a weapon. It was about understanding patterns—where animals went to feed, to water, to bed down. Reading signs, scat and tracks and browsing marks. Knowing wind direction, how scent carried. Moving quietly, patiently.
Most importantly, it was about probability and risk management. Knowing which prey was worth pursuing and which would lead you on a wild chase that burned energy you couldn't afford to waste. Knowing when to push forward and when to turn back.
The men who'd just left—they knew the local terrain better than he ever would, but from Chen Liang's memories, Marcus understood they weren't particularly successful. Maybe one hunt in three brought back meat, and even then it was often small game, barely enough to justify the effort.
He wondered if they were making basic mistakes. Pursuing the wrong areas. Moving too loudly. Not reading the signs properly.
But what did he know? He was a fifteen-year-old boy who'd been bedridden for three days, weak as a newborn. His hunting experience came from a different body, a different world, weekend trips with his uncle to forests that probably bore little resemblance to these mountains.
And even if his knowledge was applicable, what was he supposed to do? Walk up to men who'd been hunting these mountains their entire lives and tell them they were doing it wrong?
That was a quick way to earn mockery at best, hostility at worst. Village life had its own hierarchies, its own social rules. Chen Liang's memories made that clear. Young men didn't lecture their elders. Sick boys recovering from fever didn't presume to know better than experienced hunters.
So Marcus kept his observations to himself and turned his attention back to the fields, where his family continued their endless labor.
The sun climbed higher. The day grew warmer. His father and Bao moved to a different section of the terraces, while his mother and Mei continued their methodical weeding. The rhythm of village life continued, unchanging, eternal.
Marcus sat on his stone and watched, and thought about hunting in forests half a world away.
And about staying alive long enough to matter.
The hours passed slowly, marked by the sun's arc across the sky and the steady rhythm of agricultural labor. Marcus remained on his stone perch, ostensibly resting as his mother had instructed, but his mind was far from idle.
He found himself thinking about the hunters. About the mountains. About the trails and terrain that Chen Liang's memories provided in surprising detail.
The forest began approximately two hundred meters from the village edge, where cultivated land gave way to wild growth. The main trail—the one the hunting party had taken—ran northwest for roughly a kilometer and a half before splitting into three branches. Chen Liang had walked those trails countless times, gathering firewood and mushrooms, and the memories painted a clear picture in Marcus's mind.
He could see it almost like a map. The leftmost branch climbed steeply for about eight hundred meters, switchbacking up the mountainside to a ridge that overlooked a narrow valley. Rocky terrain, sparse undergrowth, poor for game but with a clear spring about halfway up. The middle trail followed the contour of the mountain, winding through denser forest for perhaps two kilometers before reaching a series of clearings where wild berries grew in late summer. The right branch descended into a ravine where a tributary stream cut through the rock—good water source, which meant animals came to drink there.
Marcus closed his eyes, mentally walking each path. He could picture the landmarks with odd precision. That distinctive split pine about three hundred meters up the left trail, struck by lightning years ago. The boulder shaped like a sleeping bear on the middle path, roughly twelve meters tall and thirty meters around. The collapsed deadfall near the ravine trail, maybe twenty meters long, creating a natural barrier that funneled movement toward the stream crossing.
It was strange, this clarity. Chen Liang's memories provided the information, but there was something more to it now—a sharpness, a precision that felt enhanced somehow. He could estimate distances with confidence, visualize proportions and relationships between landmarks.
The boulder was approximately 1.7 kilometers from the village. The clearing with the berry bushes sat at an elevation roughly 230 meters higher than the valley floor. The ravine stream was perhaps four meters wide at the crossing point, flowing southwest at—
Marcus opened his eyes, frowning slightly. How did he know the stream's direction with such certainty? Chen Liang had been there dozens of times, sure, but to remember it with this level of detail seemed unusual.
He shook his head, dismissing the thought. Maybe it was just the combination of two lifetimes of memories, some synergy between Marcus's analytical mind and Chen Liang's intimate familiarity with the terrain.
Regardless, the information was useful.
If he were planning a hunting expedition—which he wasn't, because he was a weak fifteen-year-old recovering from illness—he would focus on the ravine trail. Water sources drew game, especially in the late morning and early evening. The collapsed deadfall created a natural funnel, limiting approach routes. Set up downwind, thirty to forty meters from the crossing, and you'd have clear sight lines.
But the hunters had left mid-morning, which was suboptimal. Most game would have already watered at dawn and moved to bedding areas. They'd be hunting during the least productive hours, likely making noise as they moved through unfamiliar territory further up the mountain, pushing what little game remained deeper into the wilderness.
A better approach would be to leave before dawn, position near the water source, wait for first light when deer came down from their beds to drink. Patience over action. Let the game come to you rather than chasing it through terrain where every step broadcast your presence.
While his mind worked through hunting scenarios, Marcus was dimly aware of other thoughts running in parallel. His eyes tracked his father's movement through the fields—Chen Wei had covered approximately forty meters of irrigation channel in the last fifteen minutes, maintaining a steady pace that suggested he'd finish the current terrace before the midday meal. Bao was flagging, his movements slower, less coordinated. He'd need rest soon or his work would become counterproductive.
His mother and Mei had cleared roughly thirty square meters of the adjacent field. At their current rate, they'd finish that section by early afternoon, assuming no interruptions. Mei's pace was gradually slowing—not from fatigue but from the way she occasionally pressed a hand to her lower back, a gesture Chen Liang's memories recognized. She'd pulled something last week hauling water. Not serious enough to stop working, but enough to cause discomfort.
Part of Marcus's mind catalogued these observations while another part continued planning hypothetical hunting routes. The eastern ridge, accessible via a steep climb from the middle trail, offered a vantage point overlooking several game trails. Approximately 470 meters elevation gain over 1.1 kilometers. Difficult climb, but the convergence of three distinct trails suggested heavy use. Wild boar, most likely—they preferred the denser brush at higher elevations and their tracks were common in that area according to Chen Liang's memories.
Boar were dangerous though. Unpredictable. A wounded boar could kill a man, especially if cornered or protecting young. Risk versus reward calculation favored smaller, safer game unless you had superior weapons and numbers.
The hunting party had eight men, but their spears were primitive. Wooden shafts, fire-hardened tips, only three with metal points. The bows were simple self-bows, effective range maybe thirty to forty meters with accuracy dropping significantly beyond that. Zhang Kun was strong but tended to rush. Liu Ming was patient but lacked the strength to drive a spear through boar hide and bone. Old Zhao's grandson had the best equipment but Chen Liang's memories suggested he was more show than substance, quick to boast but slow to commit when actual danger presented itself.
Not an ideal composition for dangerous game. They'd likely stick to the safer middle trail, hoping for rabbits or maybe a young deer. Possible success rate: twenty to thirty percent, yielding perhaps eight to twelve kilograms of meat if lucky.
Marcus's eyes tracked a bird—some kind of raptor—circling high above the western ridge. Its flight pattern suggested it was hunting, spiraling slowly, riding thermals. That meant small game was active on that slope. Possibly rabbits or ground squirrels. The bird completed another circle, approximately one hundred twenty meters diameter, before suddenly stooping toward the forest below.
Successful hunt, most likely.
Meanwhile, his father had moved to help Bao with a particularly stubborn blockage in the channel. The boy was struggling with a stone—maybe twenty kilograms, awkward shape, wedged against the channel wall. Chen Wei showed him how to use leverage rather than brute force, positioning a smaller stone as a fulcrum. Simple physics, but effective.
Marcus found himself calculating the mechanical advantage—the fulcrum positioned roughly one-third from the weight, the effort applied at the opposite end, yielding approximately a 2:1 ratio. Enough to move the stone with Bao's limited strength.
His mind continued spinning through scenarios, observations, calculations. The sun's angle suggested it was approaching the hour of the horse—roughly midday by this world's reckoning. Temperature had risen maybe four or five degrees since morning, now sitting around twenty-three or twenty-four degrees. The breeze had shifted, now coming from the southwest rather than west, carrying moisture that suggested possible rain tomorrow.
The hunters would be deep in the forest now, perhaps two kilometers out if they'd maintained a steady pace. Too far to return quickly if weather turned. They'd need to start back within the next two hours to reach the village before dark, assuming they wanted to avoid navigating the mountain trails after sunset.
Which meant they had a narrow window for actual hunting—maybe three hours total, accounting for travel time. Not enough to venture into truly productive territory. They'd be hunting the margins, the picked-over areas close to the village where game was scarce and wary.
Inefficient.
Marcus rubbed his temples, suddenly aware of a faint headache building behind his eyes. His mind felt oddly active, almost buzzing with concurrent streams of thought. Was this normal? Had he always been able to think like this, tracking multiple threads simultaneously?
He couldn't remember. Marcus Chen had been analytical, detail-oriented in his work, but this felt different. Sharper. More parallel. Like his brain was operating on multiple tracks at once without any sense of strain or confusion.
Perhaps it was the combination of two lifetimes of experience, two sets of mental patterns overlapping and reinforcing each other. Or perhaps it was just boredom, his mind seeking stimulation while his body remained too weak for physical activity.
Either way, it was peculiar.
His mother's voice pulled him from his thoughts. "Liang! Come inside. The sun is too strong. You shouldn't sit out here without a hat."
Marcus blinked, realizing with some surprise that his skin felt warm, tight. He'd been so absorbed in his mental exercises that he'd barely noticed the mounting heat of the day.
He stood carefully, testing his legs. Still weak, but steadier than this morning. Progress, however incremental.
As he made his way back to the house, his mind continued its parallel processing—cataloguing the distance walked (approximately thirty-seven meters), the number of steps required (forty-three, accounting for his shortened gait), the time elapsed (roughly twenty-eight seconds), while simultaneously reviewing and refining his hypothetical hunting plans.
By the time he ducked through the doorway into the cool dimness of the house, he'd mentally mapped out twelve different hunting strategies across four distinct terrain types, calculated optimal timing for each approach, and estimated probable success rates based on seasonal game behavior and available equipment.
All of which was entirely useless information for a recovering fifteen-year-old who could barely walk thirty meters without his legs trembling.
But his mind didn't seem to care about practical limitations. It continued spinning, planning, calculating.
And Marcus didn't yet realize how unusual that was.