The next Morning
The sun hadn't yet broken over the ridge when Han Li set out with a clay jug slung over his shoulder. The mountain breeze still carried the scent of wet soil and wild ginger. Sleep clung to his eyes, and hunger hollowed out his belly, but the ache in his limbs had dulled to a manageable throb.
A peasant's body, true. But his, now.
As he neared the river, he heard something that didn't belong.
Splash. Then silence.
He paused.
Another splash. Then a panicked squeal—cut short.
His body moved before his mind caught up.
He ran.
The river was swollen from last night's storm. Along the muddy bank, a bundle of cloth floated — small, limp, bobbing in the shallows like a discarded doll.
Han Li's heart dropped.
Without thinking, he plunged into the water, boots filling instantly, mud clutching his feet. He grabbed the child — a boy, no older than five — and hauled him onto the riverbank.
The child wasn't breathing. Face pale, lips blue. No pulse. Water leaked from his nose.
Han Li dropped to his knees.
"Not today," he muttered.
He checked the boy's airway, tilted the head back. The old body complained — his knees popped, arms shaky — but his mind was sharp.
Earth logic. Modern training. CPR.
He locked his fingers and began compressions.
"One… two… three…"
He kept count under his breath, then bent down, sealing his mouth over the child's. Two breaths. Back to compressions.
Mud soaked his knees. Cold water dripped down his back. The boy remained still.
Come on.
Thirty. Two. Thirty. Two.
Then — a gag. A shudder. A violent cough.
The child spewed water, then gasped, eyes fluttering open.
Han Li slumped, chest heaving. Relief washed through him.
Alive.
"Bao! BAO!!"
A scream echoed from the trees.
A woman in a rough tunic burst from the underbrush, barefoot, her long hair wild. She saw the boy — saw Han Li — and collapsed beside them, scooping the child into her arms.
She wept against the boy's shoulder. "My baby…!"
Han Li stood slowly, soaked and shivering.
The woman turned to him, eyes wide. "You… You saved him! I saw you — with your breath — and then he lived!"
"I just gave him air," Han Li said hoarsely. "He swallowed water. I—"
"Don't be modest," she cried. "No healer could've done that. He was gone."
Others were arriving now. Villagers, drawn by her screams.
They saw the boy — the coughing, drenched child.
Then they saw Han Li, standing above them, wet and wild-eyed, the faint sun catching the steam rising from his soaked clothes.
It was too cinematic to be real.
"He called the boy back from the river!"
"His breath carries qi!"
"Is it… a lost healing technique?"
"Could Lin Xun be a hidden cultivator?"
Han Li blinked.
What?
"No, that's not—"
"It must be," someone whispered. "He was sick for years. Then suddenly healed. Now he brings back the dead?"
Eyes widened. Whispers swirled.
The child's mother turned toward him and — to his horror — bowed low, pressing her forehead to the muddy ground.
"From today forward," she said, voice trembling, "my home is yours. My debt is eternal."
Han Li's gut twisted. He tried to lift her up, but she didn't budge.
Others began bowing too. Old Man Yao murmured about 'death-defying spirit techniques.' A teenager whispered something about Lin Xun being 'touched by a celestial.'
Han Li stood frozen.
They weren't mocking him. They weren't calling him a cripple anymore.
They were revering him.
This was power.
And he hadn't lifted a sword.
---
That Night
Han Li sat cross-legged on the rough floor of his hut, staring into a flickering oil lamp. The room smelled of herbs and ash. A fresh basket of steamed buns and red dates sat near the door — a gift from Bao's family.
He'd never had this much food here. Ever.
The glow of the flame shimmered across his tired face. His soaked clothes had dried. His body was sore — but warm. Fed.
Respected.
Still, his mind wasn't at ease.
Because when Bao gasped — when that life surged back into the child's chest — Han Li had felt something.
Not just adrenaline.
Something else.
A pull. A flicker of warmth. A pulse deep in his dantian.
Too faint to be qi.
But real.
He rubbed his chest.
"It came from the emotion," he muttered.
Not from breathing exercises. Not from martial poses.
From that surge of raw will.
He chewed on that thought as he leaned against the wall. No one had taught CPR in this world. No one knew how to revive the drowned.
To them, it looked like divine magic.
He laughed to himself.
Modern logic mistaken for cultivation.
If that's how the game is played…
Then let them believe it.
Let them worship it.
Let them fear it.
Because in this world of swords and spirits — where strength ruled and peasants died nameless — he now had something far more powerful than muscle:
A reputation.
---
Somewhere Outside
In the shadowed treeline, a pair of soft eyes watched the hut from a distance.
Mianhua clutched her cloak tighter around her shoulders. She had come to drop herbs by his door… but found herself lingering.
Whispers had already spread. Lin Xun revived a dead child.
She bit her lip.
The man who once needed help to walk now held death at bay?
She turned before she was seen.
But a question echoed in her chest as she walked into the mist.
What changed him?