The descent from the mountain was a lesson in thermodynamics.
Lin Feng—or rather, the shivering biological vessel he now commanded—stumbled down the winding goat path. His mind, still operating on the high-frequency clock speed of a senior analyst, automatically began breaking down his survival into a series of variables.
Variable A: Ambient temperature is approximately -15°C. Variable B: Clothing insulation is negligible (R-value near zero). Variable C: Caloric deficit suggests imminent hypoglycemic shock.
Conclusion: I should be dead.
Yet, he wasn't.
Every time his freezing legs threatened to buckle, a strange, warm hum vibrated through his muscle fibers. It felt like a shot of caffeine mixed with a high-grade painkiller.
The blue window flickered in the lower left corner of his vision, translucent against the grey snow.
AUTONOMIC REGULATION: ACTIVE. GAIT ANALYSIS: UNEVEN. CORRECTIVE ACTION: MICRO-ADJUSTING TENDON TENSION.
Lin Feng's foot slipped on a patch of black ice. Instinctively, his left leg snapped out at an impossible angle, finding purchase on a rock he hadn't even seen, stabilizing his weight with the grace of a gymnast.
He blinked. That wasn't him. He was a man who tripped over printer cables.
"Muscle memory," Lin Feng muttered, his breath puffing out in white clouds. "The previous owner... this woodcutter... he must have had incredible balance. It's the only explanation."
He refused to entertain the alternative. If he started believing a floating blue menu was actually controlling his body, he'd have to admit he was insane. And in a survival situation, sanity was a resource he couldn't afford to lose.
He reached the treeline as the moon began to rise. Below him lay the Village of Northern Creek.
It was a miserable collection of mud-brick huts huddled together like frightened animals in a storm. Smoke wisped lazily from thatched roofs, smelling of wet pine and dung. It looked like a historical movie set, but the smell was too real, too pungent.
Home sweet home, he thought grimly.
Memories that weren't his own surfaced—a blur of misery, orphanhood, and the constant, crushing fear of the "collectors." He knew which hut was his. The one furthest from the communal well. The one with the hole in the roof.
He dragged his bundle of wood to the door. It was heavy, wet pine. Not worth much, but enough to maybe trade for a bowl of rice gruel.
He was about to push the rotting wooden door open when a shadow detached itself from the mud wall of the neighbor's house.
"You're late, wood-rat."
Lin Feng froze. The voice was thick, arrogant, and smelled of cheap grain alcohol.
A man stepped into the moonlight. He was huge by the standards of this malnourished village—broad-shouldered, with a greasy leather vest stretching over a paunch that spoke of stolen meals.
The memories supplied a name: Dog-Tooth Zhang. The local enforcer for the village headman. A bully who broke fingers for fun.
In Lin Feng's modern eyes, he looked like a low-level middle manager with anger issues. But to the woodcutter's body, he was a predator. Lin Feng felt his heart rate spike—a Pavlovian response of pure terror.
Cortisol spike detected, Lin Feng noted clinically. Ignore it.
"I asked you a question," Zhang sneered, kicking the bundle of firewood Lin Feng had dropped. "Where is the headman's share? This wood is wet. It's garbage."
Lin Feng stared at him. The old fear of the woodcutter screamed at him to kneel, to beg, to offer his own rations as compensation. But Lin Feng was too tired, and too cold, to beg.
"I almost died up there," Lin Feng said. His voice was flat, devoid of the trembling subservience Zhang was used to. "I don't have the share today. Put it on my tab."
Zhang blinked. The silence that followed was heavy.
"Your... tab?" Zhang repeated, confused by the strange word. Then, his face darkened. The confusion was replaced by a cruel, eager grin. He cracked his knuckles. "You've got a mouth on you today, rat. Did the frost freeze your brain?"
Zhang stepped forward, looming over him. "If you don't have the wood, I'll take payment out of your hide. Maybe a broken rib will teach you respect."
He didn't wait for a response. Zhang pulled back a heavy, calloused fist and swung a haymaker straight at Lin Feng's temple.
It was a clumsy blow. Telegraphed. Slow. In a modern boxing ring, it would have been laughable. But here, backed by the brute strength of a well-fed thug against a starving twig, it was a killing blow.
I can't dodge, Lin Feng realized. Muscles too atrophied. Reaction time too slow.
He braced for the impact, expecting the darkness to return. At least it will be warm in the void.
[ PING ]
The blue screen flashed red, expanding to fill his vision.
THREAT DETECTED: HIGH-VELOCITY KINETIC IMPACT. TRAJECTORY: TEMPORAL LOBE. PROBABILITY OF FATALITY: 88%. INITIATING EMERGENCY DEFENSE PROTOCOL.
Time seemed to slow down. Lin Feng watched the fist inch toward his face.
ACTION: OSTEAL REINFORCEMENT. CALCIUM DENSITY: INCREASED 400% (LOCALIZED). PAIN GATING: ENABLED.
CRACK.
The sound was wet and sickening, like a branch snapping under a boot.
Lin Feng stumbled back two steps, the force of the blow knocking him off balance. He fell into the snow. He touched his temple. It throbbed with a dull ache, but... his skull was intact. He wasn't unconscious.
On the other hand, Dog-Tooth Zhang was clutching his right hand, howling in agony.
"AAAAH! Mother! My hand!"
Zhang fell to his knees, cradling his wrist. His fingers were bent at unnatural angles. He stared at his swollen knuckles, then up at Lin Feng, his eyes wide with superstitious terror.
"You..." Zhang wheezed, backing away. "Your head... it's made of iron! You're... you're a demon!"
Lin Feng sat in the snow, blinking. He looked at the blue text hovering over the sobbing thug.
IMPACT ABSORBED. DAMAGE SUSTAINED: 2% (SURFACE BRUISING). OPPONENT STATUS: METACARPAL FRACTURE (MULTIPLE). COMBAT ANALYSIS: SUCCESSFUL.
"Physics," Lin Feng whispered, his voice shaking slightly. He stood up, dusting off the snow. He needed to rationalize this. He needed to.
"Newton's Third Law," he said aloud, staring at the terrified bully. "For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. You hit a curved surface at a bad angle. The force reflected back into your smaller finger bones. It's... it's just mechanics."
Zhang didn't know who Newton was. He just knew that he had punched the village weakling and his hand had shattered.
"Demon!" Zhang screamed, scrambling backward through the slush. "Stay away from me! I'll tell the Headman! You're cursed!"
The thug turned and ran, slipping on the icy mud in his haste to escape the "monster."
Lin Feng stood alone in the dark. The adrenaline was fading, leaving him shaking.
"Cellular reinforcement," he muttered, looking at the retreating figure. "The interface... it hardened my bone density on impact? Like a non-Newtonian fluid?"
He shook his head. Focus on the objective. Survival.
He pushed open the door to his hut.
Inside, it was barely warmer than outside. A single straw mat lay on the dirt floor. There was no furniture. No food.
He collapsed onto the mat, fully clothed.
TASK COMPLETE: SURVIVE THE ENCOUNTER. REWARD ISSUED: VITALITY +0.2. CURRENT STATUS: EXHAUSTION. ENTERING SLEEP MODE.
As his eyes closed, the blue light faded.
[Meanwhile: The Imperial Palace]
A thousand miles south, where the winter was mild and the air smelled of jasmine, Empress Su Qingyue gasped.
She was sitting in her private study, reviewing a scroll on the southern harvest tax. The room was silent, lit by pearls that glowed with soft light—artifacts she believed were just "high-quality phosphorescence."
Suddenly, a sharp pain spiked in her right temple.
"Ah!"
She dropped her brush, ink splattering across the pristine paper. Her hand flew to her head.
"Your Majesty?"
A shadow moved in the corner. It was Commander Wei, her personal bodyguard. He was at her side in an instant, hand on the hilt of his sword. "Assassin?"
Su Qingyue massaged her temple. The pain was fading as quickly as it had come, replaced by a strange, dull throb... and a flicker of emotion.
Fear. Triumph. Confusion.
The emotions weren't hers.
"No," she whispered, composing herself. She was the Iron Empress; she could not show weakness. "Just... a migraine. The weather is changing."
Commander Wei relaxed slightly, though his eyes still scanned the room. "Shall I summon the Physician?"
"No." Su Qingyue looked down at her hand. For a split second, she had felt a sensation of... impact. Of bone striking bone.
Am I going mad? she wondered. First the dreams of the freezing forest, and now phantom pains?
She looked at the ink stain on the tax report. It looked like a bruised flower.
"It is nothing," she said, her voice turning cold again. "Leave me. I have work to do."
As the guard retreated, Su Qingyue touched her temple again. Unbeknownst to her, a faint, golden light glimmered beneath her skin for a fraction of a second, repairing a microscopic bruise that shouldn't have been there.
Far away in the snow, Lin Feng slept, and the invisible red thread of fate tightened just a fraction more.