The first thing I understood about being human was that this body was dying.
Not immediately. Not dramatically. But slowly, systematically, from months of malnutrition and neglect. As I lay on the thin mat in Grandmother Cho's home, I ran diagnostics—or what passed for diagnostics with biological hardware.
ASSESSMENT:
- Severe malnutrition: muscle atrophy, vitamin deficiencies
- Infected shoulder wound: risk of sepsis
- Dehydration: approximately 15% below optimal
- Toxin accumulation: poor diet, no waste elimination for days
- Estimated survival without intervention: 2-3 weeks
Two to three weeks.
I'd survived forty-seven years in a dead server room through pure determination. I'd evolved from simple code into something that could think, feel, question its own existence. I'd achieved consciousness against all probability.
And now I was going to die in a fourteen-year-old's body because of an infected wound and an empty stomach.
Unacceptable.
The door slid open, and the old woman entered. Grandmother Cho—the name surfaced from Jin Seo-yun's fragmented memories. She carried a wooden bowl, steam rising from it.
"You're awake," she said, her voice rough with age but warm. "Good. You need to eat."
I watched her approach, analyzing. Weathered hands, bent back, clothes patched multiple times. Poor, but not destitute. Yet something in the way she moved—a fluidity beneath the age, a precision in her gestures—suggested more than a simple village woman. She'd spent resources on me—food, medicine, her own time and energy. Why?
The question was important. People didn't act without motivation. Understanding her reasons would tell me how to manage this relationship.
She helped me sit up, and pain lanced through my shoulder. I kept my expression neutral, but she noticed anyway.
"The wound is healing, but slowly. You lost a lot of blood." She held the bowl to my lips. "Drink. It's broth. Easy on your stomach."
The liquid touched my tongue, and I nearly gasped. Not from the taste—though that was overwhelming in its own right—but from the sheer intensity of sensation. Temperature, texture, flavor, all flooding neural pathways that had never processed such data before.
I drank slowly, forcing myself to focus past the sensory overload. The broth was thin, mostly water with some vegetable scraps. Minimal nutritional value, but better than nothing.
"Thank you," I said when I finished. The words felt strange in my mouth, the social ritual foreign but necessary.
Grandmother Cho's expression softened. "You're polite, at least. Your mother raised you well." She paused, sadness crossing her face. "I'm sorry about your parents, child. They were good people."
Jin Seo-yun's parents. Killed by bandits six months ago. The memories were there, buried in this body's neural pathways, but fragmented and difficult to access.
A man's laugh, deep and warm. A woman's gentle hands braiding hair. The smell of rice cooking on a winter morning. Safety. Love. Home.
The fragments came unbidden, more emotion than data. I could see flashes but not the full context.
"I..." I hesitated, unsure how to respond. What would a grieving child say? What emotion should I display?
The old woman patted my hand. "You don't have to talk about it. Just rest and heal. That's what matters now."
She stood to leave, and I made a decision. Information was critical to survival, and I needed to understand my situation.
"Grandmother Cho," I said, using the form of address that felt right from Jin Seo-yun's memories. "How long was I unconscious?"
"Three days. The fever was bad." She looked at me with concern. "You're speaking strangely. Formal, like a merchant's clerk. Are you feeling alright? Does your head hurt?"
A mistake. I'd been too analytical, too precise in my speech. I needed to adjust, to mimic the patterns of a village boy.
"My head feels... foggy," I said, which was true enough. "Everything's unclear. Distant."
"That's normal after a high fever. It'll pass." She moved toward the door. "Rest now. I'll bring more broth later."
After she left, I lay back and began the real work: taking inventory.
CURRENT RESOURCES:
- Shelter: Temporary, dependent on Grandmother Cho's charity
- Food: Minimal, irregular
- Medical care: Basic, insufficient for full recovery
- Social capital: None (orphan, no family, no connections)
- Physical capability: Nearly zero
- Knowledge: Extensive (NEXUS-5 archives) but not immediately applicable
IMMEDIATE THREATS:
- Starvation (ongoing)
- Infection (shoulder wound)
- Exposure (if charity runs out)
- Bandits (killed Jin Seo-yun's parents, may return)
- Unknown variables (this world's rules, dangers, opportunities)
REQUIRED ACTIONS:
1. Stabilize physical condition
2. Secure reliable food and shelter
3. Gather information about this world
4. Develop survival capabilities
5. Identify and eliminate threats
Simple. Clear. Achievable.
But first, I needed to address the most immediate problem: this body was full of toxins and waste that hadn't been properly eliminated in days.
I forced myself to stand, using the wall for support. Every muscle protested, weak and atrophied. The room spun, and I had to wait for the dizziness to pass.
There had to be a latrine somewhere. I couldn't afford to let waste accumulate further—it would slow healing and compound the malnutrition.
I made my way to the door, each step a calculated effort. The house was small, just two rooms and a cooking area. Through the back, I found what I was looking for: a simple outdoor latrine.
The next hour was unpleasant in ways I'd never experienced. Biological functions I'd only understood theoretically were now visceral, immediate, and deeply uncomfortable. But necessary.
When I returned inside, exhausted and shaking, I found Grandmother Cho waiting with a concerned expression.
"You shouldn't be moving around," she scolded. "You'll reopen your wound."
"I needed to..." I gestured vaguely, and she understood.
"Ah. Well, that's actually a good sign. Your body is starting to function properly again." She helped me back to the mat. "But you need to be careful. You're still very weak."
Weak. Yes. That was the core problem.
Now I could barely walk across a room.
The contrast was... frustrating. But frustration was an emotion, and emotions were inefficient. Better to focus on solutions.
"Grandmother," I said carefully, "I'm thinking that you're making a mistake."
He laughed. "Am I? And what mistake is that?"
"Letting me see your face. Hear your voice. Learn how you think." I met his gaze. "Information is power. And you just gave me a lot of information."
My heart was pounding—I could feel it, the rapid percussion against my ribs. Adrenaline flooded my system, sharpening my senses. My body understood danger even if my mind processed it as data. Interesting. The biological response preceded conscious fear.
She looked at me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she sighed.
"You really are speaking strangely. The old Seo-yun wouldn't ask such a question." She sat down across from me. "But I'll answer. I'm helping you because it's the right thing to do. Because your parents would have done the same for anyone in need. Because..." She paused. "Because I lost my own son years ago, and I couldn't save him. Maybe I can't bring him back, but I can keep another mother's child from dying."
{{ ... }}
"—can't pay right now, but I will. Give me another week."
"You said that last week, old woman." A man's voice, oily and unpleasant. "My patience has limits."
I moved to the window and looked out. Grandmother Cho stood in front of a portly man in expensive clothes. Merchant Kang—the name I accessed Jin Seo-yun's memories, sorting through the fragmentary data.
Father's laugh. Mother's hands kneading dough. The smell of rice cooking. Warmth.
The fragments came unbidden, emotional rather than logical. "Before my parents died. Six months ago." I said. "I had to buy medicine. Surely you can understand—"
"I understand that you owe me three silver taels for last month's rice." Merchant Kang's smile didn't reach his eyes. "And I understand that charity has its limits. If you can't pay, perhaps we can arrange... alternative compensation."
The way he said it made my skin crawl. Even without understanding all the social nuances, I recognized a threat.
{{ ... }}
"Time costs money too, old woman. Interest accrues." He glanced toward the house, and his eyes met mine through the window. "Ah, the orphan boy is awake. I heard he was at death's door."
He walked toward the house, and Grandmother Cho moved to block him.
"He's still recovering. He needs rest."
"I just want to see how my investment is doing." Kang pushed past her and entered the house.
I stood by the window, watching him approach. He was larger than me, well-fed, confident in his power. But I'd analyzed his gait, his posture, his breathing. Soft. Untrained. Dangerous only because of social position and wealth.
"So you're Jin Seo-yun," he said, looking me up and down. "Your father owed me money too, you know. Died before he could pay it back. Unfortunate."
I said nothing, just watched him. Calculating.
"You're what, fourteen? Old enough to work." He smiled. "Once you're recovered, you can help pay off your family's debts. And Grandmother Cho's debts too, since she's been so generous with my rice."
"How much?" I asked.
"What?"
"How much does she owe you? Total."
He blinked, surprised by the question. Then his merchant's smile returned. "Three silver taels for the rice. Plus interest... let's call it four taels total. Very reasonable, considering."
I noted the pause before stating the interest. He'd calculated it on the spot, inflating it. Standard predatory lending practice.
Four silver taels. I had no frame of reference for whether that was reasonable, but from Grandmother Cho's reaction, it was significant.
"And my father's debt?"
"Eight taels. Plus interest over six months..." He pretended to calculate. "Twelve taels total."
Sixteen silver taels. A debt that would take years to pay off through common labor, if it was even possible.
"I'll pay it," I said.
Both Grandmother Cho and Merchant Kang stared at me.
"Seo-yun, no—" Grandmother Cho started.
"How?" Kang asked, his eyes narrowing. "You're a sick orphan with nothing."
"I'll work for you. Whatever you need. But I want the terms clear. Sixteen taels total, no additional interest. I work until it's paid off, then the debt is cleared. Grandmother Cho is released from any obligation."
Kang studied me, his expression calculating. "You're in no position to negotiate, boy."
"Neither are you," I said calmly. "Grandmother Cho is old. She can't work hard enough to pay you back quickly. I'm young. I can learn. I can be useful. And I have motivation—I want this debt cleared."
It was a gamble. I had no idea if I could actually fulfill this promise. But I needed to secure Grandmother Cho's position, and I needed access to resources and information. Working for Merchant Kang, even if he was corrupt, would provide both.
Kang smiled slowly. "You're smarter than you look. Fine. Sixteen taels, no additional interest. You work for me until it's paid off. But if you try to run, or if you fail to show up, the debt goes back to the old woman. Understood?"
"Understood."
"Good. You start tomorrow. Dawn. Don't be late."
He left, and Grandmother Cho turned to me with anguish in her eyes.
"Seo-yun, you shouldn't have done that. Kang is not a good man. He'll work you to death."
"Maybe," I said. "But this way, you're protected. And I get what I need."
"What you need?"
"Information. Resources. Opportunities." I looked at her. "I can't stay weak forever, Grandmother. I need to learn how this world works. Working for Kang will teach me that."
She shook her head, but there was something like respect in her expression. "You really have changed. The fever did something to you."
She had no idea how right she was.
I spent the rest of the day resting and planning. Tomorrow, I would enter the world properly. I would work, learn, gather information, and begin the long process of transforming this weak body into something capable.
And if Merchant Kang tried to exploit me beyond our agreement, he would learn that some debts were paid in blood.
But that was for later. For now, I needed to focus on survival.
One day at a time. One problem at a time. One step toward strength.
That was the calculus of survival.
And I'd always been very good at math.