The village was called Wo Long.
Sleeping Dragon.
A name given long before anyone remembered why—long before roads, before electricity, before the world beyond the mountains mattered. From above, the ridgeline curled like a resting serpent, its head hidden in cloud, its body wrapped in terraces of old fields and stone houses.
Luke had grown up here.
He had once thought the name laughable.
Now, he understood its patience.
Morning in Wo Long began with sound.
The creak of wooden doors.
The cough of elders waking too early.
The distant call of roosters echoing off the slopes.
Luke rose before the sun.
He did not need an alarm anymore.
The fields waited.
His plot lay on the eastern side of the village, soil darker than most, fed by a narrow stream diverted generations ago. Luke worked it methodically—turning earth, checking irrigation channels, tying up young vines with twine he'd cut himself.
Farming was honest.
It did not lie.
It did not bargain.
The System remained dormant while he worked, as if respecting the boundary.
"Xiao Lu."
Grandma Sun leaned on her cane near the path, a basket at her feet. Luke noticed the way her hands trembled slightly in the morning chill.
"I'll carry it," he said, already moving.
She clicked her tongue. "You young people always rushing."
But she let him.
Luke adjusted the weight carefully, matching his steps to hers as they walked back toward her house.
"How's your knee today?" he asked.
"Better," she said. "You fixed the steps like I said."
Luke nodded. "They were loose."
She studied him sideways. "You notice things now."
He smiled. "I have time."
By mid-morning, Luke headed downhill.
The path out of Wo Long was narrow and winding, cut into the rock by decades of feet and wheels. He carried a list folded neatly in his pocket—rice, salt, lamp oil, medicine, needles, fertilizer.
Not his list.
The village's.
The small market town below the mountain was loud, crowded, impatient.
Luke moved through it without hurry.
Shopkeepers greeted him first now.
"Lu-ge."
"Back again?"
"Tell your village the rice shipment's early."
He bargained softly.
Paid fairly.
Remembered who needed what.
When a supplier tried to short him on medicine, Luke simply met his eyes and said nothing.
The man swallowed and corrected the count.
He did not know why.
On the way back, Luke carried more than he should have alone.
Two boys ran ahead to open gates.
An old man insisted on taking a bag but gave up after three steps.
"No need," Luke said gently. "You've already worked today."
The man nodded, embarrassed, grateful.
By afternoon, Wo Long stirred with quiet life.
Luke delivered goods door to door.
Medicine to Auntie Liu.
Oil to Old Zhang.
Salt to the family by the stream.
He fixed a loose roof tile.
Adjusted a broken latch.
Listened more than he spoke.
As the sun dipped low, villagers gathered by habit near the old banyan tree.
Someone mentioned the name again.
"Wo Long," a young man said, laughing. "Sleeping Dragon, huh? Feels like the village's waking up lately."
An elder snorted. "Maybe the dragon's just breathing."
Eyes drifted—briefly, unconsciously—toward Luke.
He was crouched nearby, washing dirt from his hands.
He did not look up.
That night, Luke sat outside his house, sharpening a hoe by lamplight.
The mountains loomed, ancient and unbothered.
The System flickered once, barely noticeable.
World State: StableUser Role: Rooted
Luke set the blade aside.
Wo Long slept.
And for now—
So did the dragon.