In the days that followed, Alex began to observe his new reality with the cold, meticulous precision of a laboratory scan.
He soon noticed a peculiar behavioral pattern in his "sister," Chen Xiaoyun. Every time she passed the pile of drying herbs in the corner of the courtyard, she would pause, lean in to inhale deeply, and then continue her chores with a faint, knowing nod. To an ordinary child, it might have looked like a simple whim, but Alex observed her repeating this ritual for three consecutive days.
"Sister, what are you smelling?" Alex asked one afternoon.
Xiaoyun was hanging laundry, her back to him. "The herbs are almost ready," she replied without turning. "We can gather them tomorrow."
"How can you tell?"
"I can smell it." She finally turned, wiping sweat from her brow with her sleeve. "Every plant has a different scent. When they dry, the scent changes. Once it shifts to a certain point, they're ready."
Alex watched her, a memory from his life in Boston surfacing. He had a colleague back then who specialized in olfactory genetics. The man claimed that in one out of every ten thousand people, the olfactory receptor genes would undergo a specific mutation, allowing them to distinguish volatile organic compounds that were invisible to the average person. They were the "Super-Smellers" of the human race.
Chen Xiaoyun was clearly a prime biological specimen of this mutation.
"Sister, can you smell which plants grow the best?" Alex inquired.
"Of course," she said matter-of-factly. "There are 'big ones' deep in the mountains, but I've never been. Father used to go, but later..."
She trailed off, and Alex knew she was thinking of their father's death.
"Take me there," Alex said, standing up and patting the dust from his knees. "I want to see these 'big ones' for myself."
The Green Mountain Woods (青山林) lay to the north of the town, past two steep ridges.
Xiaoyun led the way, clutching a rusted wood-chopping blade. Her movements were unnervingly light, her footsteps leaving almost no sound upon the fallen leaves. Occasionally, she would crouch, part the undergrowth to take a breath, shake her head, and move on.
Alex followed, his mind busy mapping the environment. This forest was unlike any ecosystem he had studied on Earth. In certain pockets, trees grew several meters taller than their neighbors, their leaves a deeper, more vibrant emerald. It wasn't a matter of soil quality—the earth looked uniform—but rather something in the air that was accelerating their cellular mitosis.
He thought of the growth boxes in his Boston lab. With specialized LED arrays and precise nutrient solutions, plants could be forced to grow at triple speed. What was the "light" and "nutrient" of this world?
'Qi.' He filed the term away in his mental database.
"This way," Xiaoyun whispered, pointing toward a dense thicket. "I smell the Polygonatum (黄精). A big one."
Alex parted the shrubs and saw it. The root was thicker than his own wrist, its skin a translucent pale yellow that seemed to hum with a faint internal radiance in the dappled sunlight. The surrounding soil was unnaturally pale, as if every scrap of mineral wealth had been sucked dry by the plant.
Twenty years of growth, perhaps more.
Xiaoyun crouched and began to dig, her hands steady as she meticulously cleared the earth to avoid damaging the root. Alex didn't move. His gaze had drifted to a nearby tree trunk. There was a fresh gash in the bark, at the height of his chest. The edges were clean—cut by a blade.
"Sister, stop."
He walked to the tree and touched the sap. It was still tacky. The wood chips were fresh. "Someone was here recently."
As if on cue, a voice drifted from the shadows of the woods.
"Well, if it isn't the Chen family brats."
Alex turned. A boy emerged from behind a massive pine. He looked to be eleven or twelve, wearing a dark blue tunic with a wooden sword tucked into his belt. His face was round, his eyes small, but they carried an arrogance that was far too heavy for his age.
Liang Peng. The son of the Liang Clan leader.
Xiaoyun stood up, instinctively tightening her grip on the rusted blade. "Liang Peng, what are you doing here?"
"Doing?" Liang Peng scoffed. "I should ask you. The Green Mountain Woods are Liang territory. Are you two here to steal from us?"
Alex scanned his memories. There was no such boundary. Both families were vassals to the Guiyun Sect; the woods were public commons. But Liang Peng's posture told a different story—the Liang family had already claimed this "growth box" as their own.
"The woods are public," Xiaoyun's voice wavered, but she didn't retreat. "The Clan Leader said—"
"Your father is dead," Liang Peng snapped. "Your mother is a widow, and your family is held together by a single old man at the second level of Qi Condensation. You have no right to argue with the Liang Clan."
He stepped forward, his thumb brushing the hilt of his wooden sword. Alex watched that hand. With every step Liang Peng took, his left hand gave a tiny, involuntary twitch. It wasn't fear; it was a neuromuscular tremor. On the back of his hand was a faint scar, stretching from the thumb to the wrist—an old injury to the tendons that hadn't healed correctly.
"We dug this Polygonatum first," Alex said, his voice level.
Liang Peng blinked, looking down at the ten-year-old as if noticing him for the first time. "Who are you?"
"Chen Fan. Son of Chen Tianli."
Liang Peng's expression shifted to a mix of contempt and a flicker of something else—perhaps a lingering wariness of Alex's late father. "Ah, the son of a dead man. I heard your father was ripped apart by grey wolves. How pathetic."
Xiaoyun turned pale, her hands shaking. Alex remained still. He was calculating the physics of the situation.
Liang Peng was eleven, a year older and significantly heavier. He had clearly undergone basic martial training. In a fair fight, Alex had zero chance.
But he noticed Liang Peng's left hand.
With every step Liang Peng took, his left hand gave a tiny, involuntary twitch. It wasn't fear; it was a neuromuscular tremor. On the back of his hand was a faint scar, stretching from the thumb to the wrist—an old injury that hadn't healed correctly.
And Liang Peng kept his weight on his right leg, his right hand on his sword. If Alex moved to his left, Liang Peng would have to pivot.
"Are you here alone?" Alex asked, his voice trembling slightly.
Liang Peng's smirk faltered for a millisecond. "Of course not. My father is right behind—"
"Your father isn't here," Alex interrupted, his voice smaller now. "I didn't see anyone else."
The arrogance drained from Liang Peng's face, replaced by surprise and then hot rage. "You—"
"The Polygonatum is ours," Alex said, taking a step back as if to run. "Don't... don't come any closer."
Liang Peng's face flushed deep red. "You little brat! What do you know—"
"My uncle will tell the Elder," Alex said. "You're bullying us."
Liang Peng blinked, then laughed—a jagged, defensive sound. "Fine. Let's see what a dead man's son can do."
He lunged.
Alex didn't retreat. He instinctively stepped to the left, pivoting on the ball of his foot, while simultaneously stooping to grab a handful of dry, silty earth.
But his movements were too slow—his adult consciousness reacted instantly, but his ten-year-old body lagged half a beat behind, still somewhat uncoordinated.
Liang Peng's wooden sword nearly struck his shoulder—
Then, Liang Peng's foot caught on a gnarled root. His momentum carried him forward, his center of gravity completely overextended.
Alex flung the dirt directly into the boy's eyes.
"AAAH!"
Liang Peng screamed, his hands flying to his face. He tumbled headfirst into the dirt. The wooden sword flew from his grip, clattering into the brush.
Alex stood there, breathing heavily. His heart was racing, his hands still shaking.
He had almost been hit.
Liang Peng lay on the ground, blinded and cursing, "You dared hit me! My father will kill you!"
"Your father doesn't know you're here," Alex reminded him, his voice trembling. "You snuck out."
He picked up the wooden sword and tossed it deep into a thicket, then turned back to Xiaoyun. "Sister, dig."
Xiaoyun stared at him as if he were a stranger. "Hurry," Alex urged. "He'll be able to see again in a minute. We need to be gone before then."
Snapped out of her trance, she worked with a feverish speed, prying the glowing root from the earth and shoving it into her basket. "Let's go."
Alex took her hand, and they sprinted back toward the ridges. Behind them, Liang Peng's frustrated roars faded into the rustle of the trees.
Back at the courtyard, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Xiaoyun hid the Polygonatum in a ceramic jar beneath her bed. She collapsed onto the floor, gasping for air, her eyes wide with a mix of shock and adoration.
"Fan-er..."
"Yes?"
"How... how did you know about his hand? How did you know he was alone?"
Alex sat beside her, pulling off his mud-caked shoes and shaking out the dirt. "I observed him."
"But how?"
"His left hand twitched when he walked," Alex explained. "He kept looking behind him, afraid of being caught. His draw was stiff—he doesn't practice regularly."
Xiaoyun listened, her expression shifting from disbelief to pure worship. "Fan-er, you're amazing."
Alex didn't reply. He watched the old locust tree in the yard, its leaves swaying in the evening breeze. He thought of his lab in Boston, the precision instruments, and the days when he explained the universe through data. Back then, he believed that if you had enough data, you could understand anything.
He still believed that. Only the data had changed.
That night, Alex sliced the Polygonatum into thin wafers and brewed a tea using hot water. He didn't offer any to Xiaoyun; she was a girl, and it wouldn't be as useful for her. But he was ten, still growing. If "Qi" truly existed in this world, this was the time to introduce it to his system.
He drank the bitter liquid in one go.
At first, there was nothing. Then, he felt a surge of heat rise from his stomach, crawling up his spine to his cranium before flowing down into his limbs. It wasn't the sensation of blood flow. It was something finer, slower—like invisible threads weaving a conductive net through his flesh.
Alex lay perfectly still, feeling the threads weave.