The road curved away from the village before the sun had fully risen.

  Shen An did not stay.

  Temporary labor meant temporary tolerance. Once his usefulness ended, so did welcome. He had learned that quickly.

  The frost on the grass had not yet melted when he stepped back into the forested stretch between settlements. His breath came in thin white strands. The blisters on his heels had hardened overnight, but each step still pressed against raw flesh beneath.

  Hunger returned sooner this time.

  Porridge sustained for a few hours. Nothing more.

  He scanned the underbrush as he walked.

  When one no longer possessed qi, survival became a matter of observation.

  He noticed movement near a cluster of low shrubs just past midday.

  A rabbit.

  Gray fur, alert ears, thin but sufficient.

  He stopped immediately.

  Did not rush.

  He crouched carefully, shifting weight slowly to avoid snapping twigs beneath his feet.

  In the sect, he had practiced footwork techniques capable of silencing entire movements. Now he relied only on balance and patience.

  The rabbit twitched its nose.

  He took one step.

  Another.

  It bolted.

  He lunged instinctively—

  And his foot slipped on loose leaves.

  He fell hard against exposed roots, shoulder striking first, chin slamming into dirt.

  By the time he pushed himself upright, the rabbit had vanished.

  He sat there for a moment, tasting soil.

  He spat.

  His shoulder throbbed sharply.

  “I was too direct,” he muttered quietly.

  The forest did not respond.

  He stood again.

  Hunting without qi was not pursuit.

  It was planning.

  He moved deeper into brush, studying the ground. Small prints. Droppings. Narrow pathways through grass.

  He fashioned a crude snare from a torn strip of inner robe and thin branch fibers twisted together. His fingers worked slower than they once would have, but steadier than yesterday.

  It took time.

  He set the loop carefully at a narrow gap between two stones where tracks were dense.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Then he waited.

  Waiting was colder than walking.

  Wind passed through the trees in uneven breaths. His stomach tightened again.

  He attempted to regulate breathing to conserve strength.

  No qi flowed.

  Only air.

  An hour passed.

  Then another.

  The forest remained still.

  He began to suspect failure.

  Then—

  A sharp rustle.

  A violent thrashing.

  He rose too quickly, nearly losing balance, and rushed forward.

  The snare held.

  The rabbit struggled, hind leg caught tight in cloth loop.

  It screamed—a thin, high sound that pierced the quiet.

  Shen An hesitated only briefly before grasping it firmly.

  The body was warm.

  Fragile.

  Alive.

  He ended it quickly, pressing down and twisting sharply.

  Silence returned.

  He remained kneeling for several breaths, staring at the still form in his hands.

  When he had been a disciple, meat had arrived cooked in bowls. No one thought of the hands that prepared it.

  Now he understood.

  He carried it to a small clearing.

  Fire came next.

  That proved more difficult than the trap.

  He gathered dry twigs. Scraped bark. Struck stone against stone repeatedly until sparks caught thin fibers.

  The first attempt died.

  The second sputtered out.

  The third caught faintly, smoke rising before flame followed.

  His eyes stung as he fed it carefully.

  By the time a steady flame formed, sweat mixed with soot along his temples.

  He sat back, breathing hard.

  So simple.

  So exhausting.

  He began skinning the rabbit.

  This part tested him more than the fall.

  The blade he carried was small, duller than ideal. He cut carefully along the belly.

  The first slice was uneven.

  He adjusted grip.

  His hands were not as steady as he wished.

  He pulled the hide slowly—

  The blade slipped.

  A sharp sting lanced through his left index finger.

  He inhaled sharply.

  Blood welled immediately, bright and thick.

  He frowned slightly.

  Careless.

  He pressed the wound briefly against his robe, then returned to work.

  Several drops fell unnoticed.

  Not onto the ground.

  Onto the cracked bowl he had placed nearby to collect water earlier.

  Clear water turned faintly tinted.

  He did not look at it.

  The iron staples along the bowl’s fractured seam darkened—just slightly—for a single breath.

  No glow.

  No light.

  No sound.

  Then stillness.

  He finished preparing the meat with deliberate slowness.

  He skewered it with a thin branch and held it above flame.

  The smell of roasting flesh filled the clearing.

  His stomach tightened painfully at the scent.

  He waited.

  Too long on one side.

  The outer layer charred slightly.

  He adjusted.

  Turned it.

  When he finally tore off a piece and tasted it, it was undercooked near bone and burnt at edges.

  He chewed anyway.

  It was the best thing he had eaten in days.

  After eating, he poured some of the boiled broth into the cracked bowl.

  The water inside, mixed faintly with earlier blood, had been heated by the fire.

  He lifted it to his lips.

  Drank.

  Warmth spread down his throat into chest.

  He closed his eyes briefly.

  It was not qi.

  There was no circulation.

  No internal current responding.

  But something settled.

  The trembling in his hands eased faster than expected.

  The tight ache in his stomach softened without lingering cramp.

  He exhaled slowly.

  Food.

  That was all.

  He told himself that.

  He finished the broth and set the bowl down beside him.

  The iron staples remained darker than before.

  He did not notice.

  Night fell more gently this time.

  He built the fire lower to conserve wood.

  The forest seemed less hostile with food in his body.

  He leaned back against a tree trunk, exhaustion pressing heavy behind his eyes.

  His shoulder still throbbed from the fall.

  His finger pulsed with dull ache.

  He examined it briefly.

  The cut was shallow.

  Manageable.

  He wrapped it with a strip torn from inner sleeve.

  He lay down on his side, using his bundle as pillow.

  The cracked bowl rested near his hand.

  Wind moved through leaves overhead.

  He listened.

  When he had been in the sect, nights were filled with subtle sounds—distant training strikes, murmured recitations, faint hum of formations stabilizing spiritual currents.

  Out here—

  Only insects.

  Only branches shifting.

  Only his own breathing.

  He realized something quietly.

  Today, he had failed.

  Fallen.

  Burned meat.

  Cut himself.

  Yet he had also succeeded.

  He had eaten because of his own effort.

  No sect kitchen.

  No assigned rations.

  No borrowed qi.

  Just labor.

  The thought was not triumphant.

  It was steady.

  His eyelids grew heavy.

  Sleep took him more quickly than the night before.

  Deep.

  Unbroken.

  And somewhere in the silence between breaths—

  Something shifted faintly within him.

  Not qi.

  Not awakening.

  Just… alignment.

  He did not dream.

  Not yet.

  The fire dimmed slowly to embers.

  And Shen An slept like a mortal beneath open sky.