Consciousness returned like dew settling on a withered leaf—slowly, coldly, sending a faint shiver through his entire body.
Luo Yanxue opened his eyes.
The sky above him was pale, not the sterile white of a hospital ceiling, not the harsh glare of fluorescent lamps. Thin clouds drifted lazily, as if the world itself had nowhere in particular to go. A cool breeze carried the scent of damp earth, wild grass, and rotting wood.
It was unfamiliar.
But it was real.
His stomach cramped violently. The hunger was sharp, savage, far worse than the nausea brought by chemotherapy in his previous life. This was not the weakness of illness. This was the hunger of someone on the edge of starvation.
He swallowed. His throat was dry.
His hand moved slightly. Too light. Too thin. Bones pressed against skin. This was not the body he had known in the hospital—but it was young… and frighteningly frail.
"I'm… not dead?" he murmured.
His voice was hoarse, barely more than the rustle of dry leaves.
He turned his head slowly. Around him stood several small wooden houses, crooked and weather-beaten, their thatched roofs darkened by age. No smoke rose from chimneys. No human voices, no crying children, no crowing roosters.
Only silence.
A silence too vast for a living village.
Fragments of his former life surfaced like distant shadows: a cramped room, the smell of medicine, the soft beeping of machines at night, the exhaustion that never truly left. Doctors speaking in careful tones. His mother forcing a smile through red, swollen eyes.
He remembered clearly—his heart had stopped.
Yet now, cold air filled his lungs.
Now, his stomach screamed for food.
That meant he was alive.
Luo Yanxue drew a slow breath. "Then… the first priority is the same as always," he muttered. "Eat."
He forced himself to sit up. The world spun briefly, but he waited until the dizziness passed. From somewhere nearby came the faint sound of running water.
Leaning on his knees, he stood and staggered toward the sound.
The ground beneath his feet was damp and cold. Wild grass brushed against his calves. The late afternoon air carried a chill. Soon, he reached a narrow stream, clear water flowing gently over pebbles and tangled roots.
He knelt, cupped his hands, and drank.
Cold. Fresh. Alive.
"…Thank you," he whispered without realizing it.
His gaze then fell on the dark, moist soil along the bank. Soft. Loose.
A good place for worms.
He knelt and dug with his fingers. Mud filled his nails. After a few moments, something wriggled.
A thin earthworm surfaced, twisting weakly.
Not much, but enough.
He gathered several, placed them on a broad leaf, then searched for a straight twig. He snapped it, sharpened the end against a stone, and used a thorn as a hook, tying it with dried grass fiber.
Clumsy. Slow. But steady.
He cast the line into the stream and sat on a rock.
Water murmured. Leaves whispered. His stomach clenched.
Time passed.
Then the line trembled.
He held his breath and pulled.
A small fish broke the surface, silver scales flashing in the fading light.
For a long moment, he only stared at it.
"…Dinner," he said quietly.
He built a small fire with trembling hands, coaxing sparks from stone and dry grass. When the flame finally caught, weak but alive, he felt an unexpected sense of victory.
The fish sizzled over the fire. The smell of smoke and roasting flesh filled the air. He ate slowly, carefully, savoring every bite despite the heat.
As the sun sank, the stream darkened, reflecting the last colors of dusk.
That was when he noticed a faint glimmer in the water.
Not a fish.
Not a stone.
Something round.
He crouched and reached in. His fingers closed around cold metal.
A ring.
Dark, ancient, with strange patterns barely visible beneath the grime. It pulsed with a soft, almost living warmth.
"Someone lost this…?" he murmured.
The size fit his finger perfectly.
He slipped it into his pocket, thinking little of it.
Night fell.
Insects sang. The wind grew colder.
Luo Yanxue sat by the dying fire, hugging his knees.
Tomorrow, he would have to find food again. Maybe shelter. Maybe answers.
He did not know this was a world of cultivation.
He did not know of Dao, of spirit energy, of realms and monsters and heavens.
He only knew one thing:
He had survived today.
And in this silent, unfamiliar world, that alone was enough to keep going.