Sleep wouldn't come.
Marcus lay on his thin mat in the darkness, listening to the sounds of his family sleeping around him. His father's deep snores rumbled from across the room. Bao's lighter breathing whispered nearby. Beyond the cloth partition, he could hear the occasional rustle as Mei or his mother shifted in their sleep.
But his own mind refused to quiet.
It spun endlessly, cycling through the same calculations and observations he'd been running all day. Terrain maps unfolded behind his closed eyes. Distance measurements scrolled past. Wind patterns. Game trails. Optimal positioning. Success probabilities.
And beneath it all, constant and insistent, was the hunger.
Dinner had been the same thin rice porridge as breakfast, perhaps even thinner. His mother had ladled out portions with careful precision—more for his father and Bao who'd worked the fields all day, less for herself and Mei, barely a bowl for Marcus who'd done nothing but sit and watch. He'd eaten slowly, trying to make it last, but it had done little to fill the emptiness in his belly.
Now, hours later, his stomach cramped with want. Not the sharp pain of starvation—not yet—but the constant, gnawing ache of insufficient food. His body was eating itself, burning through what little reserves remained to fuel basic function and recovery.
Chen Liang's memories told him this was normal. This was life. You were always a little hungry, always wanting more. You learned to ignore it, to function despite it, because there was no alternative.
But Marcus had never experienced this before. In his previous life, hunger had been an inconvenience, easily solved. A missed lunch, a delayed dinner, nothing that couldn't be remedied with a quick trip to a restaurant or convenience store. This slow, grinding deprivation was something else entirely.
It made his active mind worse. Instead of counting sheep or drifting into pleasant thoughts, his brain fixated on the problem. Food. Meat. Protein and fat and sustenance.
Hunting.
The hunters had returned at dusk, empty-handed and exhausted. Marcus had watched them trudge back into the village, their spears still clean, their expressions tired and frustrated. Zhang Kun had been arguing with Liu Ming about which trail they should have taken. Old Zhao's grandson looked sullen, his expensive spear unused.
Another failed hunt. Another day without meat.
Winter was coming. Chen Liang's memories understood this with bone-deep certainty. Already the nights were growing colder, the morning frost lasting longer before the sun burned it away. In another month, maybe two, the first snow would fall. Game would become scarce, moving to lower elevations or bedding down in sheltered areas. The village's stored grain would have to last until spring planting, and even in good years that was a near thing.
This was not a good year.
The harvest had been poor—late rains and an early dry spell had reduced yields across the valley. The landlord would still demand his rent. The tax collector would still expect his due. What remained would be stretched thin, rationed carefully, and still it might not be enough.
People died in winter. The old, the weak, the sick. Chen Liang's memories held images of small graves dug in frozen ground, of families with one less mouth to feed come spring.
Marcus's hands clenched involuntarily. His heart rate picked up, that cold fear from the previous night returning. He couldn't die again. Wouldn't. Not to starvation, not to winter, not to the slow grinding poverty of this existence.
But what could he do? He was a fifteen-year-old boy, weak from illness, with no particular skills beyond the borrowed knowledge of a life that no longer existed.
Except.
His mind called up the hunting plans again, unbidden. Twelve different scenarios, mapped and calculated and optimized. He'd spent the entire day refining them, running simulations, considering variables.
Most of them required equipment he didn't have, physical strength he hadn't recovered, or daylight conditions that were hours away. But one...
His eyes opened in the darkness, fixing on the far corner of the room where his father kept his old hunting gear. Chen Wei had been a hunter in his youth, before age and injury had relegated him to safer farmwork. The equipment remained—a spear, a knife, a small pack—stored away but maintained out of habit or sentiment.
Marcus's mind was already working through the logistics.
Current time: approximately the hour of the rat, perhaps two hours past midnight. Temperature outside would be around twelve to fourteen degrees, cold but manageable. No moon tonight—Chen Liang's memories knew the lunar cycle—which meant darkness would provide cover but also make travel more dangerous.
His physical condition: weak but functional. He'd managed the walk to and from the house earlier without collapsing. Range of motion seemed adequate. Coordination was returning. Not ideal, but sufficient for careful movement.
Available equipment: his father's spear—wooden shaft, approximately 1.8 meters long, metal tip secured with cord bindings. The knife—simple iron blade, maybe fifteen centimeters, decent edge. Worn but serviceable.
Target: not boar, too dangerous. Not deer, too fast and alert for his current state. Rabbits were possible but unreliable, too much chance involved.
But there was another option.
The ravine trail, the one with the collapsed deadfall. Chen Liang's memories included something the daytime hunters never bothered with—night activity. Specifically, wild pigs. Not the massive, dangerous boars that could gut a man, but the smaller females and juveniles that came to the stream after dark when the area was quiet. They were more cautious than their larger counterparts, but also less dangerous. Thirty to forty kilograms, manageable prey if approached correctly.
The collapsed deadfall created a natural blind. Position downwind, wait near the water crossing, strike when the target was distracted drinking. The darkness would hide his approach. The sound of the stream would mask minor noise. Pigs had poor eyesight but excellent hearing and smell—the wind and water would mitigate those advantages.
Success probability: maybe forty percent. Better odds than the daytime hunters had managed.
Risk: significant. Moving through the forest at night while weak and inexperienced. A spear thrust that failed to kill cleanly would mean a wounded, angry pig. Getting lost in the darkness. Injury from a fall or misstep. Not returning before dawn and having to explain where he'd been and why.
Marcus lay there weighing the options, his mind running calculations with that same odd efficiency. Distance to the ravine: approximately 2.4 kilometers via the trail, call it ninety minutes of careful walking in his current condition. Setup time: thirty minutes to position properly. Hunting window: maybe two hours before he'd need to start back to reach the village before sunrise. Total time commitment: four to five hours.
The alternative was lying here, hungry, while his body continued to weaken and winter drew closer.
It was a stupid risk. Reckless. The kind of decision that got people killed.
But Marcus had already died once, and the memory of that void terrified him more than any pig.
He sat up slowly, carefully, listening for any change in the breathing patterns around him. His father's snores continued undisturbed. Bao mumbled something in his sleep but didn't wake. Beyond the partition, silence.
Marcus rose to his feet, testing his balance in the darkness. His legs held, trembling slightly but functional. He moved toward the corner where the hunting gear was stored, each step placed with deliberate care. The packed earth floor was smooth, unlikely to creak, but he kept his weight distributed and his movements slow.
His hands found the spear first, propped against the wall. The wood was smooth under his fingers, worn by years of use. He lifted it carefully, feeling the weight—maybe two kilograms, balanced roughly one-third from the butt end. Manageable.
The knife hung in a simple leather sheath on a peg. He unhooked it, tied it to his own cloth belt. The pack was empty but would serve to carry back any kill. He slung it over his shoulder.
For a long moment, Marcus stood there in the darkness, fully equipped, on the verge of doing something profoundly foolish.
Chen Liang's memories screamed warnings. His family would be furious if they discovered this. His mother would be terrified. His father would likely beat him for taking his hunting gear without permission, for risking himself while still recovering, for the sheer stupidity of hunting alone at night.
But Chen Liang was dead, and Marcus was merely borrowing his body.
He moved to the door, easing it open with infinite patience. The wooden hinges creaked softly, a sound that seemed thunderous in the quiet house, but no one stirred. He slipped through the gap and closed the door behind him, then stood in the cold night air, breathing the sharp scent of approaching winter.
The village was silent, dark except for the stars overhead and the faint red glow of banked fires visible through cracks in houses. No one moved. No dogs barked. Everyone was asleep, as he should be.
Marcus adjusted his grip on the spear and began walking toward the forest trail.
His mind was already running through the route, calculating times and distances, refining his approach. The hunger in his belly drove him forward. The fear of death pushed from behind.
And somewhere in the back of his consciousness, a small voice that might have been reason or self-preservation whispered that this was insane.
He ignored it and kept walking.