Ren woke to the sound of arguing.
"—my spot, you crippled waste!"
"Wasn't your spot yesterday."
"Wasn't yours either. Belongs to whoever's here, and I'm here now, so move."
"Find your own—"
A thump. A cry of pain. The sound of someone scrambling away.
Ren lay perfectly still in his hollow, barely breathing. The argument had happened just outside, close enough that he could hear every word, every scuffle. Two beggars, fighting over territory. His territory, technically, though he hadn't earned it yet.
Note to self: secure location against competitors. Priority after food and water.
The voices faded. The victor-whoever had thrown the punch-apparently decided the spot wasn't worth defending after all. Or maybe he'd just wanted to assert dominance and move on. Ren didn't know. He didn't care. He was still alive, still undiscovered, still in possession of his tiny hole.
He crawled out to assess the situation.
Dawn in Cloudcradle City was a pale grey affair, the sun struggling to pierce a layer of smog that hung over the slums like a blanket. The air smelled of smoke, sewage, and something cooking-porridge, maybe, or cheap grain. Ren's stomach cramped violently at the scent.
Food. Now.
But first: water. He was dehydrated to the point of dizziness, his tongue swollen in his mouth, his lips cracked and bleeding. Without water, food wouldn't matter. He'd be dead by midday.
The borrowed memories guided him. There was a public well in the slums, two streets over. Theoretically free to all. Theoretically.
Ren shuffled through narrow alleys, keeping to the shadows, avoiding the few early risers who moved through the area. A woman emptying a chamber pot. A man urinating against a wall. A dog chewing something that might once have been a rat. No one looked at him. He was invisible.
The well was a simple stone circle in a small square, surrounded by crumbling buildings. A rope and bucket system, worn smooth by years of use. Three people waited in line-two women with empty pots, one old man with a gourd. Ren joined the back of the line, trying to look harmless, pathetic, unworthy of notice.
It worked. No one acknowledged him.
When his turn came, he lowered the bucket with trembling arms, hauled it up dripping, and drank directly from it. The water was cold, slightly brown, and tasted faintly of copper. It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever tasted.
He drank until his stomach ached, then drank more. Water ran down his chin, mixing with the filth on his chest. He didn't care. He was alive. For now.
LIFE EXPECTANCY UPDATED: +1.2 DAYS (HYDRATION)
The Ledger flickered in his vision, and Ren felt a tiny surge of something like hope. Positive feedback. He'd done something right.
Now food.
---
The slums of Cloudcradle operated on a simple principle: those who could not cultivate survived however they could. Begging. Theft. Labor so degrading that even the lowest cultivator wouldn't touch it. Selling body parts to alchemists. Selling children to brothels. Selling themselves, in ways that Ren preferred not to think about.
He needed food, but he had nothing to trade. No money, no skills that mattered in this world, no strength to work. His only asset was the Ledger, and using it cost him life he couldn't spare.
Catch-22. Need food to live. Need to use Ledger to get food. Using Ledger shortens life. Shortened life means less time to get food.
He needed a solution that didn't require Ledger use. Something he could do with just his eyes and ears and the borrowed memories of a dead boy.
The memories provided an answer: scavenging.
The boy Ren Gen had survived for years by knowing where to find things others overlooked. Spoiled vegetables behind markets. Half-eaten meals discarded by restaurants. Moss growing on damp walls-boiled into a thin soup, it could keep starvation at bay.
Moss.
Ren found it on the north side of a abandoned building, where rain and shadow had created a perpetual dampness. Green-black patches clinging to the aged bricks, thin and unappetizing but there. He scraped it off with his fingernails, collecting a handful of the slimy stuff.
ASSESS
The Ledger activated automatically-or maybe he'd triggered it without thinking. The cost registered immediately.
TARGET: URBAN MOSS (BRYOPHYTA SP.)
CONDITION: LOW QUALITY, PARTIALLY TOXIC
NUTRITIONAL VALUE: MINIMAL
CALORIES PER GRAM: 0.4
SPIRITUAL CREDIT VALUE: 0.001 PER KILOGRAM
USES: SURVIVAL FOOD (BOILED), POULTICE BASE (POOR QUALITY)
ASSESSMENT COST: 1 HOUR LIFE EXPECTANCY
One hour. For moss worth one-thousandth of a credit per kilogram.
Ren stared at the numbers, something cold settling in his chest. He was so far below the poverty line that the line wasn't even visible. In a world where spiritual credits were the currency of power-used to buy pills, weapons, techniques, even lives-he was scraping moss worth less than nothing.
He ate it anyway.
Raw, unwashed, straight from the brick. It tasted exactly like what it was: dirt-flavored slime with a hint of decay. His stomach, empty for days, revolted immediately. He vomited within minutes, losing most of what he'd consumed along with the precious water.
Wonderful.
He crawled back to the well and drank again, forcing himself to keep it down. Then he returned to the moss and scraped more, this time resolving to find a way to boil it. The memories showed him how: a scrap of metal, a small fire, patience. All things he lacked.
Priorities shift. Need container. Need fire-starting method. Need location safe enough to cook without being robbed.
He was listing requirements when the cultivators flew overhead.
---
There were three of them-two men and a woman, young, handsome, dressed in robes that shimmered with embedded light. They rode swords, not as transportation but as a display, swooping low over the slums with casual arrogance. Their laughter drifted down like rain, clean and careless.
Ren watched them from the shadows of his alley.
They were probably sect disciples, out for a morning flight, showing off to the mortals below. To them, the slums were a scenic view, a reminder of how far above the rabble they'd risen. They didn't see the starving boy watching them. They didn't see anyone.
They could kill me with a thought.
Not an exaggeration. In this world, cultivation levels determined everything. A Qi Condensation disciple-the lowest rank of true cultivator-could crush a mortal with a flick of spiritual energy. Foundation Establishment could destroy buildings. Core Formation could level city blocks. Nascent Soul... Ren didn't know what Nascent Soul could do, but the borrowed memories whispered of mountains shattered and rivers diverted.
And here he was. No cultivation. Destroyed meridians. Worth less than moss.
The disciples passed, their laughter fading. Ren watched them go, feeling something he hadn't felt in years-not since his first life, when he'd watched billionaire traders close deals worth more than he'd earn in a lifetime.
Envy. Pure, useless envy.
He pushed it down. Envy didn't put food in his stomach. Envy didn't build networks or gather information or create leverage. Envy was a liability, and Ren had no room for liabilities.
Focus. Moss. Container. Fire. Survival.
---
The morning passed in a haze of pain and small victories.
He found a discarded tin cup, dented and half-corroded, in a pile of trash behind a cookshop. It would hold water. It might survive a small fire. It was the most valuable thing he owned.
He found a flint striker, dropped and overlooked, near the well. The memories told him what it was, how to use it. He practiced until his fingers bled, producing a few weak sparks.
He found a sheltered spot behind a collapsed wall, hidden from view, with enough space for a small fire and enough ventilation to avoid suffocation. It would serve as his kitchen.
And he found more moss. Lots of moss. The damp walls of the slums were covered in the stuff, ignored by everyone because everyone knew it was barely food, not worth the effort of harvesting. But Ren wasn't looking for quality. He was looking for survival.
By midday, he had a handful of moss soaking in his tin cup, a small fire coaxed to life, and a growing sense that he might actually live through this.
Three point seven days. Now extended by hydration and-maybe-nutrition. But the Ledger use cost me two hours. Net gain? Probably negative. Need to stop using it for trivial assessments.
He hadn't meant to assess the moss. The Ledger had activated automatically, responding to his curiosity. He needed to learn control, to only use the system when the potential payoff justified the cost.
Mental command. Tell it to stop.
He focused inward, imagining the interface dimming, retreating. After a moment, the green glow faded to the edge of his vision, still present but no longer intrusive.
Better.
The moss boiled into a thin, grey-green sludge that smelled like wet earth and tasted worse. But it was warm, and it stayed down, and Ren felt the desperate hunger in his gut ease slightly. Not satisfied-never satisfied-but blunted.
He ate half. Saved half for evening.
Then he sat in his shelter, watching the slice of sky visible through the collapsed roof, and thought about his situation.
---
Fact one: I'm in a cultivation world with a broken body.
Fact two: I have a system that gives me information at the cost of my lifespan.
Fact three: I'm currently worth less than garbage by this world's standards.
Fact four: I refuse to die here.
The last fact was the most important. Ren had spent thirty-four years on Earth building a career, a reputation, a life. He'd started as a scholarship kid from nowhere, worked his way through college, fought for every promotion, every recognition. He'd made something of himself through pure, stubborn persistence.
He'd be damned if he let a little thing like death stop him.
Okay. Long-term goal: find a way to survive indefinitely despite the Ledger's cost. Short-term goal: establish a sustainable food and water source. Immediate goal: find someone with a problem I can solve without using the Ledger.
The merchant from last night-Zhang Wei-was still an option. The Ledger had provided the information at a cost of two hours. Using that information would cost nothing but effort. If he could deliver it successfully, he might earn enough credits to buy real food, real supplies, real security.
But delivering information meant approaching a merchant, speaking to him, convincing him that a filthy beggar knew something worth hearing. That required trust, or at least credibility. Ren had neither.
Need a intermediary. Someone who can vouch for me. Someone the merchant already trusts.
The borrowed memories stirred. The boy Ren Gen had known people-other beggars, mostly, a few sympathetic servants, one old woman who'd sometimes given him scraps. None of them had the standing to approach a merchant on his behalf.
Need to build credibility. Small wins first. Prove I know things to people who matter less, then work my way up.
He scanned the alley outside his shelter, watching the flow of foot traffic. Most were beggars like him, or laborers, or the desperate poor. But occasionally, someone slightly better dressed passed through-a minor servant, perhaps, or a failed merchant's clerk, or a guard off duty.
Target one of them. Someone with a small problem I can observe and solve without Ledger assistance. Build reputation. Establish value. Then move up.
The plan formed in his mind, piece by piece. It would take time-days, weeks, maybe months. But Ren had time now, or at least more than he'd had this morning. The moss and water had bought him breathing room.
Step one: observe. Learn the patterns of this street, this neighborhood, these people. Identify problems. Note potential solutions.
He settled into his shelter, pulled his tattered clothes tight, and began to watch.
---
The afternoon taught him more than any Ledger assessment could have.
He learned that the cookshop two buildings over threw out edible scraps at precisely the hour before sunset, when the day's unsold food would spoil by morning. He learned that the guard who passed at regular intervals was named Zhao, that he had a weakness for gambling, and that he'd been losing badly lately based on his muttered curses. He learned that the woman who lived in the building opposite had a son who was sick, and that she couldn't afford medicine, and that she cried at night when she thought no one could hear.
He learned that the slums operated on a hierarchy as rigid as any cultivation sect. The strongest beggars claimed the best spots. The weakest died. Information moved through networks of whispers and favors, and those who knew things could trade that knowledge for protection, for food, for survival.
This is my world now. Learn it or die.
As the sun set, painting the smog in shades of orange and brown, Ren ate the remaining moss sludge and considered his first move.
The guard, Zhao, had a gambling problem. Gambling problems meant debts. Debts meant creditors. Creditors meant leverage.
If Ren could learn who Zhao owed, how much, and when payment was due, he might be able to use that information. Not to blackmail Zhao-that would be suicide, a guard could kill him without consequence-but to offer help. A tip about a sure thing. A warning about a creditor's enforcer. Something small, useful, and low-risk.
But to learn those things, he needed access to the gambling dens where Zhao lost his money. And to access those dens, he needed to not look like a starving beggar who'd be thrown out on sight.
Another catch-22.
He was still thinking when footsteps approached his shelter-deliberate, unhurried, confident. Ren tensed, scanning for escape routes. There was only one, and it led directly toward the footsteps.
A shadow fell across the entrance.
"You're in my spot, boy."
The voice was old, male, and carried the weight of someone used to being obeyed. Ren looked up and saw a figure silhouetted against the dying light-broad-shouldered, thick-necked, one eye clouded white while the other glittered with cold intelligence.
One-Eyed Liu.
The memories screamed warnings. Liu was a power in this part of the slums, a former cultivator who'd failed to advance and now ruled the local beggars through fear and violence. The boy Ren Gen had avoided him at all costs.
And now Liu had found him.
Assess.
The Ledger flickered before Ren could stop it, feeding him information even as he felt the life drain away.
TARGET: LIU, "ONE-EYE"
AGE: 47
CULTIVATION: QI CONDENSATION (STALLED, DEGRADING)
STATUS: FAILED CULTIVATOR, LOCAL CRIME LORD
CURRENT PROBLEM: INDEBTED TO LOAN SHARK "KNIFE HUANG" FOR 200 SPIRITUAL CREDITS. PAYMENT DUE IN 7 DAYS. HAS 45 CREDITS. HIDING A STOLEN QI CONDENSATION PILL, HOPING TO SELL, BUT PILL IS DEGRADING RAPIDLY-WORTHLESS IN 5 DAYS.
DEBTS OWNED: 12 (BEGGARS, MINOR MERCHANTS)
WEAKNESSES: PRIDE, DESPERATION, DETERIORATING CULTIVATION BASE
ASSESSMENT COST: 3 HOURS LIFE EXPECTANCY
Ren felt the hours drain from him like blood from a wound. Three hours. Gone.
But the information...
Liu was desperate. More desperate than he looked. A loan shark named Knife Huang was about to break his legs-or worse-and the only asset Liu had was a pill that was spoiling by the day.
Leverage.
"I asked a question, boy." Liu's voice hardened. "This is my spot. You're in it. You want to keep breathing, you'll explain why I shouldn't break your other eye and leave you for the rats."
Ren's mind raced. He had seconds to decide: play the terrified beggar, or play something else.
He chose something else.
"I know about the pill," he said.
Liu's one eye widened fractionally. Then narrowed. "What pill?"
"The one that's spoiling. The one you need to sell before it's worthless. The one that's your only chance to pay back Knife Huang before he kills you."
Silence.
Ren's heart pounded so hard he thought it might burst. He'd just revealed knowledge that could get him killed a dozen different ways. If Liu thought he was a spy, an informant, a threat-he'd be dead before he could blink.
But Liu didn't move to kill him.
Instead, the old beggar crouched down, bringing his face level with Ren's. The clouded eye was unsettling, but the good eye was sharp as a blade.
"Who sent you?"
"No one. I saw."
"Saw what? The pill is hidden. No one knows where."
"I didn't see where. I saw you. Your desperation. Your fear. The way you keep touching your left side where the pill is hidden under your clothes. The way you flinch when anyone mentions Huang's name. The way you've been avoiding the eastern market where his enforcers wait." Ren held Liu's gaze. "I don't need eyes to see. I need patterns."
Liu stared at him for a long, terrifying moment.
Then he laughed.
It was a harsh sound, rusty from disuse, but genuine. "Patterns. You're what, twelve? Thirteen? And you're reading people like a sect elder."
"Fourteen," Ren said. "And I'm hungry. That's all. I saw your problem because I'm good at seeing. I thought maybe you could use someone who sees things."
Liu studied him, the amusement fading to calculation. "You want to work for me."
"I want to eat. Working for you seems like a way to do that."
"And if I just kill you and keep my secrets?"
"Then you kill me and keep your secrets. But your secrets aren't the problem. Your problem is Knife Huang and a spoiling pill. I can't help with those if I'm dead."
Another long pause. Ren forced himself to breathe evenly, to meet Liu's gaze without flinching, to project a confidence he absolutely did not feel.
Finally, Liu stood. "You're either very brave or very stupid. I haven't decided which." He reached into his robe and tossed something at Ren's feet-a small, round object that bounced once before rolling to a stop.
A bun. Day-old, slightly crushed, but food.
"Eat. Tomorrow, come to the eastern market at noon. We'll see if your 'seeing' is as useful as you think." Liu turned and walked away without looking back.
Ren stared at the bun for a full ten seconds before snatching it up and cramming it into his mouth.
It was stale, slightly moldy, and the best thing he'd ever tasted.
LIFE EXPECTANCY UPDATED: +0.5 DAYS (NUTRITION)
NET CHANGE (WITH ASSESSMENTS): -2.5 HOURS
CURRENT LIFE EXPECTANCY: 3.9 DAYS
Ren chewed slowly, savoring every crumb, and thought about the day's lessons.
He'd learned that the Ledger was a double-edged sword-invaluable information at potentially fatal cost. He'd learned that observation could substitute for system use, at least for simple things. He'd learned that desperation created opportunity, and that courage-or the appearance of it-could open doors.
And he'd learned that in this world, as in his last, the most valuable commodity wasn't money or power or even cultivation.
It was information.
He had information now. About Liu, about Knife Huang, about a spoiling pill and a seven-day deadline. If he played this right, he could turn that information into something more than a stale bun.
If he played it wrong, he'd be dead.
Ren finished the last of the bun, licked his fingers clean, and curled up in his shelter to wait for dawn.
Behind his closed eyes, the Ledger glowed softly, displaying one final message:
FIRST CONTACT ESTABLISHED
NETWORK: +1 NODE (ONE-EYED LIU)
RELATIONSHIP: TENATIVE, INTEREST-BASED
POTENTIAL VALUE: MODERATE
RISK LEVEL: ELEVATED
RECOMMENDATION: CULTIVATE CAUTIOUSLY
GOOD NIGHT, REN.
Ren smiled in the darkness.
Cultivate cautiously. I like that.
He slept.
---
END OF CHAPTER 2