The air on the hilltop was cold and sharp with the first light of dawn. Hun Jiang stood at the very summit, his thin clothes no match for the breeze that tugged at them. Below him, Holy Soul Village was just beginning to stir, small trails of smoke rising from breakfast fires.
In his left hand, he held a bow he had made himself over the past week. It was crude, carved from a sturdy, flexible branch he'd found in the woods. The string was made from braided, dried animal sinew. It was a simple tool, but it felt solid and real in his grip.
In his right hand was an arrow. He had spent even longer on this. He had shaped the shaft over and over with a sharp stone until it was straight and smooth. The tip was the real work. He had found a piece of flint and painstakingly chipped and ground it against a rough rock for hours until it formed a sharp, deadly point. That point now caught the early sunlight, gleaming with the proof of his effort.
The golden Divine Earrings fixed to his lobes shone with their own steady, inner light, like two tiny captive suns, but he paid them no mind. They were just a part of him now.
He knocked the arrow, the notch at its end settling against the braided sinew string. He planted his feet firmly on the rocky ground, turned his body sideways, and raised the bow. He drew the string back. The wood of the bow creaked softly, bending. He felt the familiar strain in the muscles of his back, shoulder, and arm. He had been practicing this motion every day without an arrow, building the strength.
About thirty paces away stood an old, thick tree, its bark gnarled and marked. He fixed his eyes on a specific knot in the center of the trunk. His gaze narrowed, blocking out everything else—the chill, the village below, the sound of the wind. There was only the knot, the tip of his arrow, and the line between them.
He took one last, shallow breath, held it, and let his fingers go.
Thwack!
The sound was a clean, hard punch of noise in the quiet morning. The arrow flew in a short, fast arc. There was no graceful flight; it was over in a blink.
Thud.
The arrow struck the tree. Not to the side. Not above or below. It hit the exact center of the knot he had been aiming for, burying the sharp flint tip deep into the wood. The shaft vibrated from the impact, humming for a second before falling still.
Hun Jiang lowered the bow. He stared at the arrow, now a part of the tree. A slow sense of surprise spread through him. He hadn't expected it to be so direct, so accurate. He had only been practicing seriously for a short time.
The reason for his skill was something only he knew. He had been reincarnated into another body. When he was born into this life, he didn't lose memories like others. He remembered who he was before, what he had learned, and how he had lived. This made his thinking clearer and sharper. He could understand things faster and learn new skills more quickly than other people.
In his past life, he might have had some experiences with archery as a kid. Now, those memories helped him without him even trying. When he first picked up a bow, his hands seemed to know what to do. His body moved with balance and precision. His mind calculated the aim without effort. What would take others months of practice, he could grasp in days or even hours.
Hun Jiang walked over to the tree. He wrapped his hand around the shaft of the arrow, just below the fletching, and gave a firm pull. It came free from the wood with a solid pop. He examined the tip. The sharpened flint point was intact, not chipped or cracked at all from the impact. It was still shiny and lethal. He placed the arrow back into the simple quiver he had made from woven reeds, slung across his back.
The problem of his next meal, which had been a constant, gnawing worry for years, was now solved. He had figured it out over the past week. The hills around Holy Soul Village were covered with old, dead trees—dry, hard timber that was no good for firewood but was valuable for construction in the city. He had made a deal with a middleman from a nearby town who passed through the village every few days. Hun Jiang would find and cut down these dead trees. The middleman would take the logs, sell them in the city, and give Hun Jiang a small share of the money in return. It was hard work, but it was honest, and it put coins in his pocket.
Speaking of the work, there was the matter of how he managed it. The logs were heavy. A single section of dry oak was a burden for a grown man to lift, let alone carry down a hill. Yet Hun Jiang could do it. This new strength had everything to do with the changes in his body since the awakening.
After merging with the Divine Earrings, more than just immortality had been granted. His physical form had begun to change. The constant, slight tremor of hunger that had lived in his limbs was gone, replaced by a steady, resilient strength. His muscles, once stringy and thin, now carried a lean, defined power. Even his appearance had shifted. His hair, once a dull, dusty brown, now held streaks of a bright, sun-bleached gold, especially around his temples. His skin had lost the pale, almost greyish tone of chronic malnutrition. It was now a clearer, healthier white, with a faint resilience to it, like polished stone.
In Holy Soul Village, no one made a big scene about it. Awakening a martial soul was known to cause changes. Some children grew an inch overnight. Others found their senses sharpened. For a boy with a shining golden bow and the highest spirit power to also become a little stronger and healthier seemed perfectly normal. It was just part of the miracle.
He slung his homemade bow over his shoulder, the braided string crossing his chest. As he turned to leave, his gaze drifted to the right, farther along the ridge of the hill. There, sitting cross-legged on a flat rock overlooking the valley, was Tang San. The other boy was perfectly still, his eyes closed, deep in meditation. He was likely practicing his Purple Demon Eye skill, honing the perception he had brought from his past life.
Hun Jiang watched him for a moment. He felt no particular hatred for Tang San, nor any burning desire for friendship. This set him apart from the fanfiction stories he remembered from his old world—those fanfiction tales where someone like him would transmigrate and immediately set about bullying the protagonist, stealing his opportunities, and collecting women like trophies.
What confused him even more was what these "heroes" did next. While claiming to enforce justice and fix the world, they would immediately start collecting women. They treated powerful or beautiful female characters like Pokémon, to be gathered and owned. They used force, tricks, or their power to make these women part of a harem.
He just couldn't understand the logic. If your whole point was that someone like Tang San was morally wrong and a schemer, then how did you justify your own actions? How was forcing women to be with you any different? Wasn't that just another form of evil, maybe even worse?
It seemed like a huge contradiction. These people claimed to have modern thinking from their past lives. They talked about justice and fairness. But then they turned around and did something that felt deeply unfair and backward. It wasn't about love, not really. Hua Jiang believed one person could truly only love one other. A harem wasn't about love; it was about desire, ownership, and showing off power. It was about fulfilling a selfish fantasy.
And what happened after? He figured you'd just get bored. Once the desire was met, the excitement would fade. You'd be left with a group of people you had forced into your life, with no real connection. It seemed lonely, and cruel.
To him, it all just felt wrong. It was illogical and hypocritical. It made no sense.
Hun Jiang shook his head slightly, as if to clear the pointless debate from his mind. Thinking about the illogical tropes of fictional worlds was a waste of time.
At that moment, as if sensing his gaze, Tang San opened his eyes. His focus, sharp and clear, instantly found Hun Jiang standing some distance away. Tang San's expression didn't change to a smile, but his eyes held a glint of acknowledgment. He appreciated what he saw in this other boy. Hun Jiang wasn't like the arrogant young masters Tang San had known in his previous life, who grew conceited and lazy at the first sign of praise. Here was someone who, despite having a martial soul that shone like the sun, was still on a lonely hill at dawn, practicing with a crude wooden bow. He understood the value of hard work. He had discipline.
Tang San gave a single, slow nod in Hun Jiang's direction. It wasn't a greeting of friends, but a gesture of respect between two craftsmen who recognize the other's dedication. It said, Good morning. I see you working too.
Hun Jiang understood. He met Tang San's gaze and nodded back once, a mirror of the gesture. No words were needed. Then, without any further ceremony, he turned and began walking down the hill, leaving the protagonist to his meditation and the rising sun to warm the stone where he sat. Their paths, for now, were separate but parallel, each boy focused on forging his own strength in the quiet of the morning.
***