The next six days passed without a ripple.

  Chen Mo became part of the scenery.

  At dawn, before the village truly stirred, he would already be standing in the clearing behind his thatched hut. The same tree. The same distance. The same worn bow that groaned each time he drew it. His body remembered yesterday’s pain too well, and yet it obeyed.

  He did not train long.

  He could not afford to.

  Each session ended before the sun climbed too high, before hunger hollowed his limbs and stole the steadiness from his hands. His fingers split and hardened, blisters giving way to calluses that burned when the bowstring slid across them. His shoulders trembled after only a few draws, sweat soaking through his thin clothes even in the cold morning air.

  Mistakes were common.

  Most arrows missed the mark entirely. Some struck the tree at awkward angles, burying themselves crookedly in the bark. Chen Mo corrected his stance again and again, adjusting the angle of his feet, the set of his shoulders, the rhythm of his breathing.

  Only when everything aligned—posture, breath, intent—did the familiar prompt appear.

  Archery +1

  It never came easily.

  Some days, he managed five correct repetitions. Some days, only four. On the fourth day, driven by impatience, he forced a sixth attempt. The arrow flew true—but the moment it left the string, his vision darkened. He dropped to one knee and retched, his stomach emptying nothing but bitter bile.

  After that, he stopped pushing blindly.

  The panel rewarded correctness, not recklessness.

  He learned to wait. To feel. To release only when his body allowed it.

  On one of those mornings, as Chen Mo retrieved his arrows with shaking hands, he sensed a presence. He looked up to see Chen Tie standing a short distance away, a bundle of traps slung over one shoulder.

  The seasoned hunter said nothing.

  He watched as Chen Mo loosed two arrows.

  The first missed.

  The second struck close to the first mark Chen Mo had hit yesterday.

  Chen Tie’s eyes lingered on the boy’s stance, the way he lowered the bow without hesitation once fatigue set in. Then he turned and walked away, footsteps crunching softly against the frost-hardened ground.

  That evening, Chen Gou reported the day’s work as usual.

  Chen Tie listened, then said only, “Don’t waste daylight. You’re not a child anymore.”

  Chen Gou nodded, a strange restlessness settling in his chest.

  By the fifth day, the village no longer noticed Chen Mo.

  The children passed him on their way to gather herbs, their chatter fading into the distance. Most no longer spared him a glance. Only Chen Gou looked back occasionally, not with mockery, but with a tightening jaw and a growing urgency he did not yet understand.

  Chen Mo trained alone.

  He rationed his food carefully. Thin porridge in the morning. A mouthful of coarse grain at night. Hunger became a constant companion, dull but persistent, sharpening his focus even as it weakened his body.

  By the sixth day, he was at the edge.

  His arms felt hollow. Drawing the bow was no longer painful—it was heavy, as though the air itself resisted him. He considered stopping. He should have stopped.

  Instead, he nocked one final arrow.

  He exhaled.

  Released.

  The arrow struck cleanly.

  The world froze.

  Archery: 100/100

  Archery has broken through!

  Archery: Proficient (0/200)

  In an instant, time collapsed.

  Chen Mo saw himself standing in countless mornings, rain soaking his clothes, snow biting at his fingers. He loosed arrows until his arms failed him, corrected errors without conscious thought, learned to read the wind by instinct rather than reason.

  Years passed in the span of a breath.

  Pain was remembered, not felt.

  When his vision cleared, Chen Mo stood exactly where he had been—but everything was different.

  His feet rested at a natural angle. His shoulders were loose. When he lifted the bow, the motion was smooth, economical, unforced. The weapon felt lighter in his hands, not because it had changed, but because he had.

  He raised the bow again.

  Then stopped.

  A calm understanding settled over him.

  He could hit what he aimed at now.

  But he could still die just as easily if he was careless.

  Lowering the bow, Chen Mo let out a slow breath and returned to his hut. He cooked the last of his grain into thin porridge, ate in silence, and lay down.

  Exhaustion claimed him instantly.

  Tomorrow, he would hunt.

  Dawn had barely touched the rooftops of Chen Village when Chen Mo stepped out. The air was crisp, carrying the faint tang of frost and pine. In his hands, he carried his bow, a quiver of ten arrows, and a small leather bag. A gourd of water swung lightly from his belt. Every piece of his gear was precious; every arrow counted.

  He paused at the village edge, scanning the ridge where the mountains rose like jagged teeth. His eyes traced likely paths, streams where small game might come to drink, clearings where birds fed, thickets that hid hares. With the panel as his reliance, Chen Mo reminded himself: cautious, meticulous, and steady—this is the way to ensure a future without limits.

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  The path he chose wound along a narrow ridge, pine needles muffling his footsteps. Each breath was measured; every crack of a twig beneath a boot was a potential alarm. Chen Mo kept low, moving with the patience of someone who understood that a single misstep could mean going empty-handed.

  An hour passed. The rising sun cut through the mist, casting slanted beams across the forest floor. He spotted movement—a hare nibbling cautiously near a bush. Chen Mo sank to a crouch, nocked an arrow, and waited. His fingers remembered the years of repetition compressed into days. The bow felt like an extension of himself.

  He exhaled slowly, aimed, and released.

  The arrow struck cleanly. Archery +1 appeared faintly in his vision. The hare froze, then collapsed. Chen Mo didn’t celebrate. Carefully, he retrieved the arrow—arrows were reusable, but far too precious to leave behind—and tucked the hare into his bag.

  Another hour, another clearing. A pheasant stirred in the underbrush. Chen Mo stalked quietly, shifting his weight to avoid snapping twigs. The bird moved with sudden alertness. Chen Mo froze, muscles taut, and let the arrow fly. It thudded into the ground nearby. The pheasant fled, unharmed. He cursed softly, retrieved the arrow, and counted it back into the quiver. No shot could be wasted. Patience mattered more than pride.

  By midday, he had a small haul: a hare and two pheasants. Enough to last a few days if rationed, enough to continue training. Each successful shot registered in his panel: +1 for every perfect release. By the end of the day, Chen Mo checked the panel: Archery 10/200. Small, incremental progress—but visible proof that patient repetition worked.

  As he rested on a boulder to drink from his gourd, a lean fox emerged at the edge of the trees, its sharp eyes tracking him. Chen Mo’s instincts flared. A fox’s pelt could fetch five hundred coins in the county city—enough to cover his grain for a month—but it was quick, small, and slippery.

  He nocked an arrow and aimed carefully, but the animal’s movements were too unpredictable. He released—the arrow missed by a hair. The fox bolted into the underbrush, disappearing. Chen Mo retrieved the arrow, examining it with a mix of frustration and resignation. One shot had been wasted, but more importantly, the fox had escaped. Enough for today, he muttered. The hare and pheasants would keep him fed; the fox would have to wait for another day.

  By late afternoon, the mountains were alive with long shadows. Chen Mo packed the game carefully, leaving no trace behind. He followed the stream back toward the village, muscles sore, senses still sharp, and every step a reminder that survival required patience, skill, and careful judgment.

  When the thatched huts of Chen Village came into view, he exhaled for the first time all day. The small bag of game weighed heavier than it should have, a quiet victory earned with sweat, patience, and discipline.

  Inside, he arranged the meat, wiped his brow, and glanced at the panel. The numbers glimmered quietly: Archery 10/200. Every correct repetition, every careful shot, every measured step had been recorded. Chen Mo sat down and murmured, “This is how it begins. Step by step.”

  No fanfare. No applause. Just hunger, skill, and the quiet certainty that the mountains would not forgive carelessness.

  Over the next few days, Chen Mo followed a rigid routine. Each morning, he nursed a small bowl of coarse bran and water, then headed to the edge of the village to train or hunt. With every careful release of an arrow, the panel counted +1, and he could feel his muscles and posture slowly adapting—his shoulders steadier, his draw smoother, his aim sharper. By the fourth day, he noticed his stamina lasting longer, his body less trembling after repeated shots.

  Hunting trips gradually became more efficient. The hares and pheasants he caught provided enough meat not just to survive, but to allow small improvements in his diet. He supplemented his meals with bran from the granary, carefully rationing both to stretch each supply. Occasionally, he would even have a bit of meat leftover, which he began to think of as a tradeable resource. A hare’s pelt could fetch a few coins in the county city, enough to add to his small savings. Pheasant feathers, though low in value, could be collected for arrow fletching or local craftsmen.

  Every evening, after returning to his hut, he meticulously cleaned his bow and arrows, stored the game, and reviewed the panel. By the end of the sixth day, Chen Mo’s archery proficiency had climbed steadily to 70/200, each incremental gain giving him a quiet confidence. He realized that careful planning, disciplined repetition, and steady observation of his environment were slowly transforming him from a fragile boy into someone who could survive, and perhaps thrive, in this harsh mountain life.

  Sitting down with a simple meal of bran and roasted hare, Chen Mo allowed himself a small smile. The path ahead was long, but the first steps were under his control. With the panel guiding his skill and the discipline he forced upon himself, he knew he could reach proficiency, begin hunting more effectively, and start thinking beyond mere survival.