The shovel was still too heavy.
He stared at the pathetic scrapes he'd managed in the hard earth, his split thumb throbbing where dried blood cracked with each movement.
The graves—if they could be called that—were barely deep enough to discourage scavengers. His parents deserved better, but his body had reached its limits.
His analytical mind processed the failure with brutal efficiency: task incomplete, resources exhausted.
But the sun climbing higher carried more than tactical implications—it brought the scent of warming earth, the promise of exposure, the weight of consequences he could no longer simply calculate away.
He set the shovel aside and studied the shallow depressions. In his previous existence, he would have carved perfect tombs from living stone with a thought.
Now, he had to work within the constraints of flesh and physics. The limitation was... irritating, but not insurmountable.
Water. The same principle that had softened the earth could finish the work.
He fetched the clay jug—nearly empty now—and began the slow process of saturation. Pour, wait, pour again.
Let physics do what his muscles could not. While the earth softened, he turned his attention to a more pressing concern.
Current caloric intake: insufficient. Est. survival: four days.
His stomach cramped with renewed hunger, but the remaining grain needed careful rationing. Every kernel had to count. In his former life, sustenance had been an abstract concept. Now, each grain of rice represented measurable survival time.
He needed knowledge, but accessing it directly had nearly killed him twice. The overwhelming cascade of information was too much for his fragile mortal mind to process. There had to be a more controlled approach.
The solution crystallized with familiar clarity: construct framework before attempting data retrieval.
Yet even this basic conclusion felt different now—not the effortless command of infinite knowledge, but careful reasoning earned through mortal limitation. The mnemonic architecture would have to be rebuilt, stone by painstaking stone.
He'd developed it instinctively in his previous existence when his mind had been vast enough to contain galaxies of information. Now he needed to rebuild it from the foundation up, piece by careful piece.
He sat cross-legged on the dirt floor, ignoring the weakness in his limbs, and began the most crucial cultivation of his new life: organized thought.
Principle: every piece of knowledge requires an address—a specific location for reliable retrieval.
In his mind's eye, he began constructing a modest structure. Not the grand archives of his former self, but a simple dwelling with clearly defined spaces.
He pictured a modest house in his mind—no cathedral, only rooms with clear labels. A kitchen table with three clay jars: food, water, shelter. A window that looked out on the village square where names and faces could be stored. A meditation corner for cultivation techniques small enough for a child's body. Building it felt like carving shelves into stone: slow, precise, and strangely satisfying.
Query: edible plants, local region, minimal preparation required.
He started retrieving the information in small scoops. Most of the data points irrelevant to his current situation were discarded immediately.
The information that is crucial for his survival was being analyzed and categorized.
He felt a controlled trickle of relevant information flow into the kitchen jar. Wild onions with their distinctive sharp scent—safe, nutritious, growing near water sources. Dandelion roots—bitter but packed with nutrients, recognizable by their jagged leaves. Sweet clover flowers—safe for children, mild honey taste.
No blood this time. No crushing cascade of irrelevant data.
Memory palace: ~0.00000000000000000000001%.
Voices from outside interrupted his concentration. Growing closer, familiar in the way distant childhood memories were familiar.
"—hasn't been seen for days now. Old Chen thinks maybe the sickness finally took them."
"Poor little Ming. What's a child supposed to do alone?"
Discovery probability: high. Current deception: unsustainable.
Through the shuttered window he spotted two figures approaching: an elderly man with a gnarled walking stick, a middle-aged woman balancing a covered bowl.
The scents rising from that bowl made his empty stomach clench with desperate need.
His mind cycled through options with mechanical precision. In his previous existence, he would have simply altered their memories or relocated without concern for consequences.
Now, bound by flesh and limited by his fragile cover story, he needed a subtler approach.
Strategy: controlled truth. Minimal deception. Exploit natural sympathy responses.
He quickly splashed water on his face and hands to remove any traces of blood, then positioned himself at the door.
When he opened it, his appearance conveyed exactly what was required: a frightened, malnourished child barely maintaining composure.
"Uncle Chen, Aunt Mei," he said, his voice appropriately small and uncertain. The names surfaced from childhood memory—easier to access because they belonged to this specific timeline.
"Ming! Oh, you poor thing." Aunt Mei stepped forward immediately, her weathered face creasing with genuine concern. She hummed softly under her breath as she moved—a nervous habit he remembered. "We haven't seen you or your parents for days. Where—"
She paused, her nose wrinkling as the scent from within the hut registered.
"They're very sick," he said, the lie flowing smoothly despite the uncomfortable pressure it created in his chest. "Sleeping most of the time. I've been trying to take care of them, but..." He allowed his voice to trail off, letting them draw their own conclusions.
Uncle Chen's expression darkened with understanding. His fingers paused on the half-carved wooden flute protruding from his robes. "The wasting sickness. We've seen it in the outer villages."
The unfinished melody trapped in the wood seemed to echo the unspoken truth. "Child, you can't stay here. It's not safe."
"But they might get better," he protested, adding precisely the right amount of childish hope to sell the performance.
Aunt Mei knelt to his level, pressing the warm bowl into his hands. The heat seeped instantly through his cold skin, a shocking, vital warmth he hadn't realized he was missing.
The porridge was thick with actual vegetable pieces—more nutrition than he'd consumed since his rebirth... A faint, savory steam rose from it, smelling of hearth smoke and root vegetables.
He almost refused—thought of soil still damp with his parents' blood—but the porridge smelled like something beyond calculation. He took the bowl with both hands.
"Sweet boy, when people get that sick... sometimes the kindest thing is to let them rest. You need to think about staying safe now."
Tactical consideration: accept assistance while maintaining operational security.
"You can stay with us tonight," Uncle Chen offered, tucking his carved flute away. "Let your parents rest. In the morning, we'll see how they're doing."
The old man knew. They both knew his parents were already gone. But they were offering him dignity, a way to avoid the shame of admitting the truth directly.
Analysis: local social structure prioritizes face-saving. Community support systems activate automatically for orphaned children.
"Thank you," he said. For the first time since his rebirth, the gratitude contained no calculation—just genuine appreciation from someone discovering what isolation truly meant.
As he followed them away from the hut that had become a tomb, that strange pressure built behind his eyes again. The memory of his mother's off-key humming wouldn't dismiss itself despite being tactically irrelevant.
Observation: emotional responses continue to interfere with optimal processing.
That night, lying on a borrowed sleeping mat with his stomach finally full, he resumed work on his memory palace.
Room by room, address by address, building the foundation that would allow him to safely access his vast knowledge without cognitive overload.
The work was methodical, each piece of knowledge placed with deliberate care. As he catalogued wild onions in the first jar, he paused—surprised by a small flicker of satisfaction when the information settled perfectly into place, easily retrievable.
Hypothesis: scarcity increases perceived value.
Outside, night sounds filled the air—insects, distant animals, the soft breathing of people who had taken in a stranger's child without question.
In his previous existence, he would have catalogued such inefficient resource allocation as a systemic weakness to be exploited.
Now, settling into sleep, he found his analytical mind struggling against an unfamiliar reluctance to categorize their kindness as mere tactical opportunity.
Daily log: survival maintained. Memory palace construction: progressing. Emotional interference: persistent but manageable.
Tomorrow he would return to finish burying his parents—properly this time. Then begin the systematic work of rebuilding his foundation while these new chains remained weak enough to control.
The time will come when even gods will bow their heads in fear and admiration.
The goal that will be achieved. One calculated step at a time.