The weight of the day’s hunt hung heavily over Lin Guanglin’s shoulders—both in the spoils he carried and the thoughts that clouded his mind. As he neared home, he adjusted his grip on the wolf pelt and bundle of lean meat, his other hand brushing absently against his armguard. Deep bite marks from the wolf’s fangs stood out clearly—a reminder of the earlier battle. Rotating his wrist, he inspected the jagged indentations and ran his fingers along their serrated edges. They hadn’t worked as well as expected. Maybe the positioning was wrong. Or perhaps he needed a sharper angle. Something to consider for the next outing.
Stepping onto the worn wooden porch of their family home, he was greeted by the aroma of cooked grains and the comforting sight of his mother, Lin Meiyun, tending the fire pit. She turned at the sound of his footsteps, a soft smile forming. “You’re back. No trouble, I assume?”
“Nothing too serious,” Guanglin replied, setting the bundle down. “Here’s the lean meat. And the liver—make sure to set that aside. It’s nutrient-dense, so just stir-fry it lightly. Also, keep a portion for Jiehao—he won’t ask for it, but he needs it. Most folks don’t like it, but it’s good for him.”
She raised a brow but nodded. “I’ll make sure he eats it.”
Before Guanglin could head inside, a small figure barreled toward him—his little sister, Lin Meirong, eyes sparkling with delight. “Big brother! What did you hunt? Was it a big fight? Did you wrestle a bear?”
He chuckled, ruffling her hair. “I’ll tell you after I bathe.”
“But—”
Before she could pester him further, their elder sister Lin Xinglan intervened. “Enough, Meirong. He’s covered in dirt and blood. Let him clean up.” She gave Guanglin a knowing look. “And don’t take too long, or she’ll pester the rest of us.”
Smirking, Guanglin made no argument.
Inside, he stripped down and examined his reflection in the water before stepping into the basin. The scratches and bruises didn’t worry him, but he took a moment to focus inward, letting the Gift from The Stranger look for deeper damage. No hidden injuries, no toxins. Still, he nudged the healing along, ensuring a quick recovery. Leaning back, he pondered—what truly were the full capabilities of whatever the stranger had gifted him? The surface benefits were clear, but what lay beneath? Could he tap into it and find something new? Could he regenerate beyond normal limits? Would there be any consequences? The thought itched at him.
At dinner, Guanglin entertained the family with a theatrical retelling of the hunt. Rising from his seat, he gestured dramatically. “So there I was,” he began, “face-to-face with a battle-scarred wolf, golden eyes gleaming from the shadows!”
Meirong gasped, eyes wide. “What did you do?!”
“I threw the deer at it—bam! Right in the chest!”
She squealed in delight. “And then?!”
Guanglin crouched, mimicking the wolf’s posture. “It circled me like this, then lunged for my arm—chomp! But I had my armguard, and we wrestled!” He flexed, growling playfully.
Meirong shrieked with laughter. “It sounded like Old Bo when he’s mad!”
Their father, Lin Zhiqiang, chuckled over his tea. “I think the wolf had more dignity than that pig.”
“Maybe,” Guanglin grinned, scooping Meirong up and spinning her around. “But I locked it in a chokehold—like this! And snap! Down it went!”
“Big brother is the strongest!” Meirong clapped.
Xinglan rolled her eyes. “And somehow, he’s still a big kid.”
Settling back into his seat, Guanglin said with mock solemnity, “Well, dinner wasn’t late tonight thanks to that hunt. I saved you all.”
Their father laughed heartily. “Just don’t wrestle every beast you see.”
“Still,” Xinglan added, growing serious, “Be careful. Overconfidence always comes to bite back.”
Guanglin nodded. “I won’t take unnecessary risks.”
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Dinner turned to village matters—fields to be cultivated, stable conditions, and the approaching martial assessment. Excitement crackled among the youth. Groups were forming, alliances whispered. Everyone hoped for a better standing, some even dreaming of recruitment into traveling sects or greater clans.
Lin Zhiqiang stroked his beard. “The village is livelier than usual. More merchants are passing through—finer fabrics, iron tools, exotic spices. But they’re not here just for trade.” He glanced at Jiehao and Guanglin. “Some are scouting for talent. Offering training and escape from village life.”
Jiehao scoffed. “Trying to snatch future experts early. Promises like that rarely mean much.”
“The vagabond warriors are the ones to watch,” their father continued. “Men with worn weapons and weary eyes. Some might serve sects or clans. Some might just be watching.” He tapped the table. “And Zhang Baolin’s been sniffing around them more than anyone.”
Jiehao laughed. “He’s been strutting around, trying to impress some swordsman yesterday. He’s definitely up to something.”
“Let him play his games,” their father said. “The assessment will reveal who’s real and who’s not.”
Guanglin tucked the thought away. Victory wasn’t just about skill—it was about stacking the odds in your favor, watching the board while others fixated on the dice.
Lin Meiyun placed a steaming bowl in front of Jiehao, who frowned at the liver.
“What’s this?” he asked, glancing at their mother, then Guanglin.
“A good tonic,” Guanglin said. “You’ll need it.”
Jiehao didn’t argue. Their father sipped his tea. “I don’t want either of you hurt. Strength is good, but caution is better.”
Both nodded in agreement, the weight of the coming days beginning to settle in their bones.
As the evening wound down, Lin Zhiqiang added with a sigh, “And Chen, that would-be suitor of your sister, will be visiting soon.”
Xinglan groaned. “Not this again…”
The conversation faded, and the family retired one by one.
At dawn, Guanglin worked the fields alongside the bull, matching its pace with ease. The steady rhythm of hooves and hoe was meditative. Xinglan passed by and scoffed. “You really are a bull.”
Guanglin only smirked, wiping sweat from his brow.
After chores, he visited Xia Ling. The check-up was partly out of courtesy, a polite gesture after recent events—but it was also driven by a deeper, gnawing curiosity. Guanglin wasn’t just interested in how her herbs worked; he wanted to understand them, layer by layer, and see how they could fit into the larger framework of recovery, training, and perhaps even enhancement. He thought about the liver he'd insisted Meiyun prepare, mostly for Jiehao. Guanglin himself didn’t need such nutrient-rich fare quite as much, but knowing how to use every edge—even culinary ones—might one day prove vital. And if he understood the properties of what Xia Ling cultivated, he could cross-reference them with what the Stranger's Gift allowed, which he is thinking of giving a name. as of now. Maybe there was more synergy waiting to be discovered, hidden potential in the stranger's offering that he hadn't yet unlocked.
Xia Ling inspected a scratch on his arm, frowning. “These should still be raw,” she murmured. “But they’re already closing. You heal fast—its not just vitality. Something else, isn’t it?”
He only smirked, offering no answers.
She clicked her tongue. “Whatever it is, don’t get reckless.”
Guanglin asked, “Planning to take the assesment?”
She shook her head. "Not, every body is as strong as you. I'm aiming to apprentice under the clan doctors. They offer Verdant Vitality Fist training—meant to boost body resilience and longevity. Even with weak roots, it's still a path worth walking. It's not just about fighting; there's more to the world than clashing blades and power struggles. Learning how to heal, how to sustain, how to preserve life—that's its own kind of strength."
She glanced toward the hills in the distance, where mist clung to treetops. "Maybe I won’t ever be the strongest in a fight. But I can help others survive theirs. And in time, who knows? There might be more to it than they teach on the surface. Techniques like that... they’re not passed down without reason."
They talked a while longer before Guanglin departed to meet Yan Shun.
Yan was waiting at the village edge, fiddling with his bowstring and scanning the woods.
“Finally,” he said. “Thought you’d never show.”
Guanglin leaned against a tree. “Ready for the assessment?”
“Sure. Confident? Not really. I’ll pass combat, but spirit roots? Who knows.”
“Even if you don’t have the best roots,” Guanglin said, “you can still become a High Class Warrior. Maybe slower.”
Yan frowned. “And what if it’s impossible?”
“There is always a way,” Guanglin replied. “Guren Bing, the lord of Plum City, started with weak roots. But with unwavering willpower and precise methods, he matched elites. It’s not impossible.”
Yan let out a low whistle. “Claw your way up from nothing? That’s insane. You really think someone like us could stand against them?”
Guanglin nodded. “The path’s there. It’s just harder. But not closed.”
Yan grinned. “Well, if anyone’s crazy enough to try, it’s you.”
Guanglin laughed. “Maybe.”
Suddenly, a commotion erupted deeper in the village. Shouts, hurried footsteps, and anxious murmurs cut through the quiet morning.
Villagers rushed past. Guanglin’s sharp eyes spotted someone stumbling forward—Zhang Baolin, usually arrogant and boastful, now limping and bloodied. His clothes were torn, wounds fresh and jagged. He staggered, then collapsed onto the road.
Yan cursed. “What the hell happened?”
They rushed forward, weaving through the crowd. Unease gripped the air as villagers gathered in hushed tones. Zhang lay crumpled on the dirt road, groaning in pain. Murmurs swirled—questions without answers. Eyes turned toward the forest, whispers of monsters, bandits, or worse.
Whatever had happened, it had already begun to shift the peaceful life of the village into something far more uncertain.
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