Pain was my first instructor in this new life. It wasn't the sudden, bone-shattering crunch of a semi-truck's grill meeting my ribcage, but the sharp, rhythmic slap of a midwife's hand against my backside. I tried to curse—to ask the truck driver if he'd at least enjoyed the view of my demon back before he ended my career—but all that came out was a shrill, pathetic wail.
Then came the light. It wasn't the sterile, fluorescent hum of a hospital room; it was the flickering, smoky orange of a hearth and the dim glow of an oil lamp.
"A boy," a raspy voice whispered through the gloom. "But the mother... she's gone, Old Wei."
I opened my eyes, struggling to focus my infant lenses. My vision was a blurry mess of wooden rafters and a man with a beard so unkempt it looked more like a bunch of pubes. My brain, still wired for macro-tracking and mind-muscle connection, tried to process the reality.
Reincarnation. The word floated through the foggy soup of my newborn consciousness. A new save file.
I tried to reach up to feel my jawline, but my arms were useless, uncoordinated sausages. All I could do was pray for half decent genetics.
'Oh God whichever one or ones there are PLEASE give me a forward facing maxilla'.
I couldn't even feel my chin. This was a nightmare. I was a prisoner in a body that didn't even have the motor skills to hit a front double-bicep.
A few weeks later, the man who was now my father sat by the hearth, cradling me in arms that felt like weathered oak. I looked up at him, and for the first time, I really saw him.
Old Wei was chopped. And I mean chopped, in the way a mountain is chopped by centuries of erosion. His skin was the color of cured leather, mapped with deep, jagged wrinkles and scars that told stories of brutal winters and unyielding soil, and well, also a shitty skincare routine. His hands were massive, calloused paws with thick, yellowed nails—built for the plow, not the pose. His back was hunched, his frame worn down by the sheer weight of existence.
My face dropped. Through all my suffering and hardwork in my past life, I thought perhaps— just perhaps I would be given genetics that gave me a base of 7/10. But no, as the ching-chongs would say "the heavens decided to play me again"
He was the definition of 'peasant genetics' pushed to the absolute limit of survival. There was no symmetry here, only necessity, to plow the damn farm. Looks didn't matter if you slept hungry
"You need a name, little one," he murmured, his voice sounding like gravel grinding together. He looked out the small, square hole that served as a window, staring at the grey, dusty fields of our village. "Your mother... she always wanted something grand. Something that didn't smell of dirt and sweat."
He looked back at me, his eyes softening.
"Wei Wuque," he declared.
I blinked. Wei Wuque. "Wei... for the power we do not have," he whispered. "And Wuque... Flawless. Because in this world of broken things and empty bellies, you are the only thing I've seen that is without lack."
I stared at him. Flawless? In my last life, that word was a myth—a goal chased through thousands of reps and hundreds of dollars in skincare. To this old man, it was a hope. To me, it was a mission statement. He didn't know it yet, but he had just handed me the ultimate aesthetic mandate.
Well— Despite the chopped genetics I had to admit the man sure knew how to give a badass name.
As the months turned into a year, I became a silent observer of my new reality.
The village was a bleak, functional place. Our hut was made of packed mud and straw, smelling of woodsmoke and damp earth. Outside, the world was a palette of browns and greys. The villagers moved with a heavy, rhythmic gait—every movement designed to conserve energy. There were no gyms here. No 'self-improvement' podcasts. Just the crushing gravity of poverty.
I watched the way the village men worked. They had functional strength, sure, but their imbalances were horrifying. One-sided rowing from pulling nets, over-developed right forearms from scythe-swinging, and a total lack of posterior chain engagement. It hurt my soul to watch them.
'No one here understands hypertrophy', I thought, sucking on a piece of boiled root. They're just existing. They're letting the world sculpt them into lopsided shadows.
I looked at my own tiny hands. My skin was pale, my features... well, they were still forming. But even now, I could see the faint outline of my heritage. My nose was a bit too wide. My eyes were a bit too close together. If I did nothing—if I just grew up like a "natural"—I was going to be another chopped peasant with a face like my father. I did NOT want a 'like father like son' moment right now.
The realization hit me harder than a failed PR. In this life, I wasn't starting from a 'solid base.' I was starting from a genetic deficit.
'I can't start the heavy lifting yet', I thought, feeling the soft, pliable bones of my own skull. 'My muscles are just string, and my tendons are like wet noodles. But the foundation... the foundation is still soft.'
I looked at Old Wei... no, dad as he struggled to lift a heavy grain sack, his face contorting into an asymmetrical mess of effort. I wouldn't end up like that. I wouldn't be 'chopped' by the world.
I would be the one making the others look chopped.
The 'Manual-Maxxing' hadn't begun in earnest yet—I needed to be able to sit up without falling over first—but the planning had. Every time I lay in my crib, I wasn't just resting. I was visualizing the hunter eyes development. I was feeling the sutures of my skull.
I was Wei Wuque. And I was going to live up to the name, even if I had to rewrite my own biology to do it.