He finds information, but not from any system or person or otherwise.
He finds it on an unassuming piece of paper, tightly rolled and tucked between two jars on a shelf. He's hesitant to pull it out because of not knowing, but if he's always choosing caution, he won't exactly get anywhere.
"Okay, let's see... Oh!"
Lyan Hollow, son of Lyar Hollow, son of Lyir Hollow
Mother of Hollow: Pya Mason
The rest of the ink reads of when he was given his name, of that which he is to inherit. It's like someone took his birth certificate and mashed his parents' wills on top.
The name, at least, tells him who he likely is. Lyan, of the Hollow family. He doesn't see much to indicate that anyone else lives here, especially with only two stools for the table and the lack of personal effects.
So, if he's able to apply story logic, that means he's likely either disowned or an orphan, which might as well be the same thing, and lives alone in the house his parents once had. He will have enough wealth to scrape by in the start, but he needs to quickly figure out his job situation and where to buy things and who to talk to.
Here's to hoping no one figures out he's not actually Lyan in three seconds. Although he probably also shouldn't go around introducing himself as such, and instead just avoid correcting people. He has no information on who Lyan actually is or what he looks like.
Though, to be entirely fair, he doubts he looks that far off, given he no longer has brown hair and brown eyes but instead black hair and heterochromia. And not even short hair; the ends reach his knees, which means he'll very soon need to put it up. Yeesh, he's not looking forward to combing it out.
Maybe he'll plait it. That shortens the hair significantly, doesn't it? At least enough he won't be sitting on the ends by default.
He sighs deeply, releasing some of the tension building in his chest.
Then he frowns.
Why is his chest so tight?
Even when stressed, he usually doesn't have a knot like this. He feels his stress in the stomach and the throat, not near his heart and lungs. He presses on his chest, using his fist to try and massage at the spot. There's no soreness, no tightness, just an underlying tension to the area.
Does this have to do with the world, too? He's in the middle of a cultivation game, if he's not incredibly mistaken. That means that he's got potential to cultivate, and that means he's got a whole 'nother system in him, seated right next to the first.
Dantians are usually in the stomach, near the navel. He really should've paid more attention to Barek's rambling, because though the guy was a self-proclaimed "weeb", he was also someone who researched extensively into the history of various terms and inspirations.
Cade's focus was more on plants and animals.
What did the guy say about dantians? Lower stomach, storage for qi, but there's more dantians, that's just the... lower? Lower one, he thinks. Which means there very well could be one in his chest, even if that wasn't in the game.
Heck, for all he knows, it is in the game! He didn't exactly go to great lengths to cultivate much more than his home, and that was a passive progression system, not nearly as active as the actual intended major gameplay.
He misses Barek. For all the man accidentally shared things Cade really never needed to know, he's the main person who would agree to go on exploring sessions instead of raids or missions or so on. The only person, really, and someone just as weird as Cade when it comes to knowing too much about what most people don't seem to care about.
Well. No use dwelling. He'll succumb to depression if he goes down that route, so for now, he should focus on living.
He walks around the house he's in, noting every piece of furniture, every jar and box and bag, every tiny detail he notices. He needs them all, because this is a place he'll be staying for the indefinite future. There's another door, which leads out into the little stone-walled area that must be his yard.
There's a small coop, with three chickens wandering around. A few square meters of a garden, mostly culinary and a few for what he presumes is healing - they don't taste very good, most of them.
That tension in his chest builds up more as he stares, mind wandering. He winces, because it feels almost like what he might think a heart attack would.
He starts moving before he can fully realize he has. There's a jar of something rough and dusty, and he throws a few handfuls out near the coop. Then he whistles a few low notes, and suddenly the yard seems to explode into motion.
The chickens are the obvious ones, rushing to the feed as though they were held back by an invisible force his whistling broke. They peck away, each one gentle with each other but clearly with beaks and claws sharp enough to cut through most skin.
But there's also a small wooden container, relatively circular, and his initial thought was a stump to sit on. Now, though, he sees a plethora of small creatures coming out, tiny black things that go straight for the garden.
Bees. He has bees.
He hurries over, and he feels some of the tension fade as he carefully settles next to the hive. It's a section of a tree, cut into a cylindrical container with a small wicker cap at the top. The bees squeeze out of cut holes, and not a single one seems angry.
They're curious about him, of course, but he's always wanted bees. What luck to have them here! He's always wanted to be like the old farmers, telling the daily gossip to the bees and wearing wicker only when getting honey out.
"Hello, little ones. I don't think we know each other, not quite, but I hope to do just as well as he clearly did."
The bees hum around him, landing briefly here and there, but mostly focusing on their work. Not to mention that they surely recognize him. What bee cares about the giant when it's the one they've seen every day prior?
He might not be the luckiest person, but he certainly thinks that this is a sign he's lucky enough.