In the northern reaches of Hua Kingdom, within Qian Province, a remote corner of Lian County clung to the jagged slopes of the Wulong Mountains. It was the 87th year of the Shengming Era, proclaimed decades earlier by King Hua Zhen, early spring, when the forests slowly stirred to life. Among the scattered settlements of farmers, hunters, and other poor folk scraping out a living, Chen Village was one small, tight-knit clan eking by from the mountains and peaks. On the outskirts, in a modest thatched hut, Chen Mo gasped for air, chest rising and falling in ragged breaths. His mind reeled—this body, this life, this world. Once an ordinary, mediocre man on Earth, felled by a cruel accident, he now found himself reborn in the body of a fourteen-year-old orphan who shared his name.

  No sooner had he taken a shaky breath than a storm erupted in his mind. Images, sensations, and emotions not his own surged like a river breaking its banks—the memories of the original Chen Mo flooding in. The taste of bitter herbal decoctions, the sting of fevered nights, the ache of weak muscles and bruised bones—all of it slammed against his consciousness at once. Chen Mo clutched his head, teeth gritting against the pain, eyes squeezing shut. The world swirled violently around him; the rough straw beneath him seemed to tilt and shift. A low groan escaped his lips before darkness claimed him again, and the boy collapsed back onto the straw, heart hammering, mind drowning in the tangled inheritance of another life.

  Chen Mo awoke again, parched, reaching for a small clay cup of water. As the cool liquid slid down his throat, his eyes finally focused, and a flicker of vitality returned. Yet even as he sat up, he remained in a daze, struggling to grasp the impossible truth: he had joined the ranks of the transmigrators. Sorting through the tangled memories now fully his own, he couldn’t help but mutter under his breath, “What the fuck…”

  In his past life, he had been nothing remarkable, a mediocre man drifting through Earth’s monotony. And now he had taken over the life of a truly unfortunate orphan: Chen Mo, who had lost his parents at seven when a hungry mountain beast descended on the village, leaving him to fend for himself. For years he had worked as a herb gatherer, following an elder with other children to collect the common herbs scattered across the forest floor. But fate had been cruel—one misstep, touching a thorny, toxic herb, had left him bedridden. The elder had carried him back, and despite their best efforts with decoctions and care, the fever never abated. The boy had passed, and in that moment, the new Chen Mo had taken his place.

  As the fevered haze slowly lifted, Chen Mo’s mind delved deeper into the inherited memories, painting a harsh portrait of the life he had stepped into. Poverty clawed at every corner of existence. His frame was thin, muscles weak, skin pale from malnutrition and long days of labor. The thatched hut he now called home was little more than a fragile shelter, barely holding off the cold winds that howled down from the mountains.

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  Apart from the ragged clothes clinging to his body, his only possession of real value was an old bow, weathered and worn, left behind by his father. Even this, he knew, he could barely wield properly, its weight and balance unfamiliar in his untrained hands.

  The village itself was small—no more than three hundred souls scattered across a few dozen huts. Life depended on the rhythm of the seasons: hunting in the colder months when animals descended from the high passes, herb gathering in spring and summer when the forest floor yielded its modest bounty. Yet, even as they labored tirelessly, survival was never guaranteed. The government taxed every coin earned from sold pelts and medicinal herbs, and bandits prowled the forests, demanding their monthly toll under the threat of violence.

  Still, skill and experience mattered. The villagers were proficient hunters and trackers, tempered by generations of living in the mountains. At the center of their fragile society stood the village chief, an elder who commanded respect not by force but by wisdom and knowledge of the forest. It was his guidance that allowed this struggling clan to endure.

  As the weight of his new life settled in, Chen Mo felt the desperation of his situation press down like a boulder. This was no ordinary world—stories from his memories of martial artists, terrifying beasts, and harsh mountains flooded back. Perhaps this transmigration was punishment for the sins of his previous life, he mused bitterly. But… wasn’t this punishment a little extreme?

  Before he could dwell further, he froze. A transparent screen, like text hovering in the air, appeared before him:

  Name: Chen Mo

  Age: 14

  Realm: None

  Martial Arts: None

  Skills: Archery 15/100

  Shock froze him in place. The heavens haven’t abandoned me… he muttered. This was the cheat panel he had used countless times while playing games in his past life. Its function was simple: as long as you trained correctly, success was guaranteed.

  Now, finally, he had something to rely on. Forget martial arts for the moment—he knew from the inherited memories that learning them required attending county martial schools, a fortune he could never hope to afford. Archery, however, was already a skill he possessed, and it could become his way out of this dire situation. A plan began to take shape in his mind, one step at a time.