As dawn broke the next day, Ethan sat up on the tree branch where he had spent the night, staring blankly at the eastern sunrise for a long while before finally coming to his senses:
He had really transmigrated. Everything that happened yesterday wasn't a dream…
He slapped his cheeks, slid down the trunk to the ground, and—as usual—filled a bottle with river water, lit a campfire, and boiled it. By the time he finished washing up, the water had cooled to a drinkable temperature.
After eating breakfast with the lukewarm water, he began another day of trekking.
With each step, the rushing river grew wider and wider, its boundless flow never slowing.
Finally, on the fourth day at noon—having exhausted all his food supplies—he reached the river's end: a vast, azure sea stretching to the horizon.
The moment he saw it, Ethan unconsciously dropped to his knees, hands pressed to the ground, breathing heavily.
Although he didn't know why, his physical strength and endurance were far greater than they had been on Earth. Still, three consecutive days of heavy-load marching had drained his stamina and willpower. The magnificent seascape shattered what remained of his resolve. Ethan simply lay down on the ground, motionless for a while, until the afternoon sun made his armor uncomfortably hot. Only then did he rise, find shade under a tree, and sit down.
His food was gone. His limbs ached and felt weak from the relentless march. He was mentally exhausted.
Ethan thought for a long time but couldn't find any reason to keep going. He decided to settle at the river mouth for a few days—at least long enough to stockpile some food before continuing his journey.
Once his strength recovered somewhat, Ethan walked upstream along the river mouth for several dozen meters and found a cliff near the bank.
The cliff stood about four meters high on the east side of the river, sheltered from the prevailing sea wind.
Across from it lay a flat riverbank covered in dense woods and grass—convenient for daily activities.
The river below the cliff flowed slowly, about waist-deep, and crystal clear.
Ethan removed his armor and waded to the center of the river. Looking around, he considered whether he could carve a cave into the rock face, then build walls with wood, mud, and stones to create a warm shelter.
The flowing water at his feet could serve as a natural alarm—if any wild animals approached while he slept, the splashing would wake him.
Having decided, Ethan crossed barefoot to the foot of the cliff and examined the rock face. He quickly spotted several weak cracks.
He chose a crack half a person's height above the water level as his work site. He roughly marked the excavation area with stones, then gathered several bundles of dry branches from the riverside forest, stuffed them into the crack to form a pile, and lit it with flint.
A roaring fire licked the rock wall. Just as the flames began to die down, Ethan used his helmet as a container to scoop river water and splashed it onto the scorching surface.
A burst of choking steam rose and dissipated. The charred cracks visibly widened.
Once the rock had cooled completely, Ethan picked up the miner's pickaxe he had carried all this way and struck the heated areas.
The stubborn rock, unable to withstand the alternating heat and cold, crumbled into small pieces under the blows.
After prying off several large chunks, the remaining face grew defiant again, unmoved by his efforts.
Ethan had no choice but to scoop the damp ash into the water and fetch another large stack of firewood to continue burning.
The second round didn't require constant attention. As his shadow gradually shifted beneath his feet, Ethan rubbed his stomach, realizing he hadn't even planned dinner yet. He ventured back into the forest, selected a small tree about two fingers thick, cut it near the ground, peeled the bark, and braided it into thin rope.
The rope stretched over two meters. Ethan tugged it—it felt quite strong—so he tied one end to the top of a wooden pole, crafting a simple fishing rod.
He still needed a hook and bait.
The hook was easy: he sharpened a branch with his dagger and tied it to the line.
Bait wasn't difficult either.
Ethan pried a few snails from the river rocks, cracked their shells with a stone, extracted the meat, and hooked it onto his wooden fishhook.
Making the tools had been the hard part. The real challenge was using them—getting a fish to bite and reeling it in quickly.
Before transmigrating, Ethan had only fished a handful of times as a child with his grandfather at a suburban reservoir; he had little real experience.
But things were different in World of Warcraft.
In the game, certain high-level buff potions required specific fish as key ingredients.
Buying potions outright from alchemists was expensive, but providing the raw materials lowered the cost significantly.
Some low-level alchemists even paid extra for materials to practice and level their skills.
As a heavy potion consumer who lived by "saving is earning," Ethan had learned Fishing as a life skill. When not raiding, he'd often find a scenic spot and fish for hours.
Somehow, that rich in-game experience had transformed into genuine memories, turning him into a fishing expert without him realizing it.
Squatting on the bank, Ethan stared at the unknown fish thrashing in the grass he'd just pulled up and fell into deep thought. If fishing skills could become real abilities, what about Mining? Smelting? Forging? Cooking? First Aid?
These were all life skills he had maxed out in the game, investing considerable time and gold. Ethan decided to experiment immediately.
"Let's start with the most basic: cooking."
He quickly recalled a grilled fish recipe, cleaned the fish's innards, lit a campfire, skewered the fish on a branch, and rotated it slowly over the flames.
Once the aroma filled the air, Ethan tore off a piece, put it in his mouth, and chewed slowly. His heart pounded with excitement—the smooth texture and juicy flavor were beyond anything he could have imagined!
Cooking settled, he moved on. First Aid mainly involved making bandages, but he lacked materials to test it.
Mining involved identifying ores and smelting ingots.
Identifying ores required searching mountains and rivers for veins. It was getting dark—only a madman would head into the hills now—so he'd save that for later.
Smelting and forging required a furnace and ores. Stranded in the wilderness, he had no way to test them yet.
He could build a simple furnace once basic needs were met, or try it later in a human village by borrowing a blacksmith's tools.
Since life skills had imprinted into his mind, what about the Sunwalker's combat skills? Were they imprinted too?
If he could awaken those, he really wouldn't have to worry about survival anymore. Have you ever seen a superhero with extraordinary powers stress over money?
Ethan tried it—and sure enough, he recalled exactly how to use all the Sunwalker's professional abilities. His heart raced fifty times faster!
But after a moment, his mood darkened again:
Being a tool for some mysterious entity powerful enough to implant memories—and granting him so many abilities and knowledge—meant whatever they wanted wasn't simple.
Saving an entire continent? How could he even begin?
With a trace of worry about the future, Ethan picked up a snail from the water, placed it on a stone, extended his right hand toward it, silently mobilized what might be the power of sunlight in his body, and softly shouted, "Ha!"
A cool night breeze blew by. The snail wobbled on the rough stone.
"Ha! Ha!"
After a few quick rolls, the snail plopped into the water with a thud.
"Damn it!"
Enraged, Ethan slammed his fist into the water, sending up a splash.
So this was a low-magic world with no magic at all!
Without the power of the sun, a Sunwalker was just an ordinary warrior.
Fortunately, skills relying purely on physical strength—like two-handed weapons and sword-and-shield techniques—had become second nature, just like cooking.
That offered some consolation amid the disappointment.
With superior martial skills, his tall stature, and top-tier gear brought from Azeroth, surviving in this chaotic world shouldn't be too difficult… right?
With that thought, Ethan resolved to spend several hours each day mastering these martial skills once settled, making them truly his own.
After several more rounds of burning, the rock wall grew even more fragile. Ethan hammered with the pickaxe and finally carved out a groove over two meters long and one meter wide.
Squeezing in, it fit his body just right.
If he didn't mind curling up uncomfortably, he could even store equipment inside.
Ethan certainly didn't like sleeping curled up!
He quickly stowed his gear deeper in the cave, using his body to shield it.
Then, using his backpack as a pillow, he curled into a ball and struggled to fall asleep.
Perhaps because he hadn't slept flat for several days, Ethan slept comfortably that night.
The only regret was the cool river breeze blowing over him all night due to the proximity.
After waking and stretching his stiff body, Ethan planned the day's work:
First, build a wall in the cave to block the wind.
Second, gather vines to weave fish traps, freeing up time from constant fishing.
Third, fire some pottery for everyday use.
The first two tasks required fresh, flexible vines.
Carrying his short sword, Ethan entered the forest and selected vines about the thickness of his little finger twining around thick trunks. After cutting them and stripping leaves, he had strong rope-like material.
The vines were flexible, the branches sturdy.
After gathering a large bundle, he cut thumb-thick branches to elbow length, trimmed them, and planted them one by one in the ground to form a circle.
Using wooden strips as the frame and vines as the "muscles," Ethan wove between the branches, creating a vine cage about twenty centimeters in diameter—round belly, narrow opening.
The cage narrowed at both ends and widened in the middle. Ethan sealed one opening with vines, wove a cone-shaped lid with a fist-sized hole in the center, and attached it—completing the fish trap.
He tested by inserting his fist; when clenched, he couldn't pull it back. Satisfied, he set the first trap aside and started the second.
After making five, Ethan scooped snails from the river, crushed them into paste with a stone, mixed with yellow mud, shaped into small balls, and sprinkled a few into each trap.
Baited and set, he dragged the traps into the water and secured them with large stones. All that remained was checking them at mealtime.
The advantage of traps: unattended hunting, saving time and effort.
By the time he finished setting them, the sun was high. If he didn't hurry, he'd face another cool evening breeze.
So Ethan stopped fishing. Despite his hunger, he began weaving materials for the cave walls.
Logically, felling calf-thick trees, shaping them uniformly, and connecting them would create an excellent insulated log wall.
Wood, being porous, retains warm air well.
But building a proper log cabin required dozens of trees and meticulous processing—not doable in a day.
Ethan needed a wind-blocking wall tonight.
So he chose another plan: weave thin wooden strips into mesh, apply yellow mud, add another mesh layer, apply more mud—forming a wooden-mud wall.
Finally, cover with branches and leaves to turn the cave into a sheltered, insulated refuge.
The key was fine, evenly mixed yellow mud without too many organic impurities; otherwise, it would collapse unevenly.
Ethan dug a deep pit at the forest edge near the riverbank with his pickaxe. After removing topsoil mixed with leaves and weeds, he excavated the underlying yellow soil and mixed it with river water.
To ensure even consistency, he even donned full armor and stomped in the pit, using his weight to tamp the mud.
After several rounds, the wall-filling mud was ready. Next came building using wooden mesh as support.
After an afternoon's work, Ethan lay in the cave, peering through a small pre-made hole at the tranquil scenery outside. Feeling secure in the isolation, he was quite satisfied.
As dusk fell, he retrieved the fish traps. To his disappointment, five traps yielded only seven small fish.
It would barely fill his stomach—no extras for storage.
The trap idea wasn't practical.
Perhaps he should head to the seaside?