The fire was low.
Not dead. Not raging. Just breathing—like it knew what was coming.
Lai Ming sat beside it with his spear across his lap. The shaft had been sanded smooth with riverstone. The point? Hardened over flame. Sharpened by the same rock that bruised his thigh two days ago.
It was still crooked. Still ugly.
But it was his.
He ran the edge of a bone shard down the spear's point—one last time. The scrape echoed in the clearing, soft and sharp, like a whisper from a better version of himself.
Across from him, Elder Munch watched in silence. No fart. No grass. Just those wide, sheep eyes. Judging.
Lai Ming didn't speak.
Didn't joke.
He just nodded once. Then reached toward the rock beside him.
The Heaven-Smothering Cloud sat there, innocent and obscene—absurdly fluffy, absolutely unearned. A divine pillow born from naps and madness.
He stared at it.
Then exhaled. Slow. Steady.
"Not today," he muttered.
He tapped it once.
Shhhhp.
The pillow vanished in a puff of soft white light. A faint chime echoed in the back of his mind:
[Artifact stored in System Space. Retrievable at will.]
He flexed his fingers once, staring at the empty space where comfort used to be.
"Good," he said. "That thing better not get eaten by another f**king sheep."
No response from Elder Munch. Just chewing. As always.
Lai Ming stood. His movement smooth. Controlled. No limp. Just a ghost of tension in the thigh where the boar had left its mark.
He reached into the moss beside the fire and pulled out a small, leaf-wrapped bundle—leftover chicken. Cold now, but still his. He slipped it into a pouch tied to his waist.
Then he looked at the trees.
The jungle waited.
Still. Alive. Listening.
He rolled his shoulder. Adjusted the spear. Took one step forward, then paused.
Without turning, he muttered, "Watch the fire for me."
The sheep bleated once. Short. Flat. Ambiguous.
He took that as agreement.
Then he stepped into the trees—barefoot, shirtless, focused.
No pillow.
No system.
Just a man and a spear.
The trees closed around him like a slow exhale.
No birdsong. No squirrel screams. Not even the wind dared interrupt.
Lai Ming stepped lightly over roots and under hanging vines, every motion precise. His body knew this now. It moved without question. No wheezing. No belly slapping his thigh. Just silence and strength.
This wasn't the jungle he roasted chickens in.
This was deeper.
Older.
The bark was darker. The moss thicker. The air—wet and heavy like it had expectations.
He crouched by a print in the mud.
Wide. Deep. Still fresh.
The boar had passed through not long ago. Still heavy. Still dangerous.
He adjusted his grip on the spear and moved on. Each step was soft but grounded. His footfalls barely disturbed the undergrowth. Even the vines didn't dare cling.
Branches above filtered the light into long golden spears that stabbed through the shadows—rays that missed him by inches. He wasn't here to be seen.
He passed a cracked tree trunk—gouged deep. A tusk mark.
Another. Claw-split bark down the middle. As if the jungle itself had tried to hold the beast back—and failed.
He breathed through his nose.
No fear.
Only memory.
The charge. The tusk. The scream he never got to release.
His hand twitched slightly. Not from pain.
From anticipation.
He whispered to himself, "You owe me a leg."
A breath later, he heard it.
Not loud. Not dramatic.
Just a shift in the trees. A crunch of underbrush.
A rhythm.
Heavy. Grounded. Alive.
He ducked low behind a broad fan-leaf, body tense.
There it was.
The boar.
Massive. Coated in dry mud and old blood. Muscles rippled under matted fur. Its breath steamed from wide nostrils like it had never cooled down from the last fight.
It stood in a shallow clearing, snorting at the ground like it had picked up his scent already.
Lai Ming didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
The boar's head swung up.
Eyes—small, black, shining with something just a little too knowing.
Their eyes locked.
It exhaled hard.
He exhaled back.
"Round two," he muttered.
Then it charged.
The jungle didn't part.
It got obliterated.
SKRRRHH—BOOM—CRACK.
Branches burst. Roots tore free. Leaves scattered like they'd been slapped off the trees. The air itself flinched.
Then came the sound.
Not a squeal.
Not a grunt.
A full-body SKRRAAAAAUUNGGGHHKKK—like a steel learning how to bleed.
Its hooves hit the dirt like war drums played by giants.
THMP—THMP—THMP—THMP.
Too fast. Too heavy. No rhythm. No mercy.
Its breath shot out like a forge having a breakdown.
Lai Ming moved.
One step left. Another back.
Then—pivot.
The boar flew past him with inches to spare.
WHOOM.
The heat off its flank hit like an oven door kicked open mid-winter. His ribs flared with the memory of last time.
He didn't blink.
Savage Precision I lit behind his eyes like a hunting god shaking off sleep.
The spear was already up.
He turned.
Thrust.
THUNK.
The point bit flesh—just behind the leg. Not deep. But real.
The boar shrieked.
SKRRRREEEHHHHHHNNNNGGGGK!!
It skidded sideways, claws tearing trenches through the dirt.
It stopped.
Snorted.
Turned.
Its eyes locked on him again—this time not with instinct.
With intent.
Steam burst from its snout like rage had a boiling point.
PFSSSHHH—PFSSSSHHHH—
Lai Ming braced.
The boar stomped twice—BOOM—BOOM—shaking birds loose from nearby branches.
Then it came again.
It was faster this time.
No buildup. No warning.
Just a blur of rage and tusks.
THMP—THMP—THMP—
Lai Ming dove left—
Too slow.
The boar slammed into him like a landslide wrapped in meat.
WHUMP.
A tusk clipped his ribs—hard—and he twisted midair.
The air left him in a strangled gasp. The world spun sideways.
He crashed into the dirt—skidding, limbs flailing—then slammed into a crooked root with a noise that sounded like it hurt the jungle, too.
His spear tore free, cartwheeling into the underbrush like it wanted no part of round two.
He hit the ground and didn't move.
Didn't scream.
Didn't breathe.
For half a second, he was just a broken shape in the mud.
His ears rang. His ribs burned. His thigh—that same thigh—howled like it remembered the tusk.
And then he heard it.
Not charging.
Walking.
CLOP. CLOP. CLOP.
Slow. Measured.
The sound of something that knew it was about to win.
He tried to lift himself.
Failed.
His body twitched. His hand scraped dirt. His breath stuttered.
The boar stepped closer.
PFSSHHHT.
Steam hissed across the clearing like a death sentence exhaled.
And then—his eyes began to shut.
Not from choice.
From blood loss.
From gravity.
From sleep.
FLASH—
His arm moved on its own.
It stabbed into the ground. Rolled him sideways.
One leg kicked back. His whole body twisted like a puppet yanked by panic.
SWISH—THUD—
The boar's tusks missed by inches. One carved through the dirt where his chest had just been.
He rolled again, coughing, dirt in his mouth, eyes wide.
Above the ringing in his skull:
[Evasive Slumber I activated: Emergency Reflex Override]
He didn't have time to read it.
The boar was already turning.
Steam vented again.
PFSSHHH.
It was pissed now.
It wanted a clean kill.
The boar pawed the ground once.
Twice.
THMP. THMP.
Lai Ming rose.
Slow. Crooked. Breathing through grit and blood.
His body screamed. Ribs pulsing. Thigh burning. Vision blurring.
Didn't matter.
He saw the spear—half-buried, ten feet to the left.
The boar snorted again.
PFSSHHHHHH.
The air shimmered around it like heatwaves off rage.
Lai Ming coughed. Spat mud. And whispered:
"You want a nap?"
"Die tired."
He moved.
Fast.
One lurch. One roll. His hand snapped the spear from the dirt.
He turned.
Hurled it.
The spear tore through the air like it hated pigs.
THUNK.
Buried into the boar's rear leg, pinning it to a thick root. Not clean. Not deep.
But enough.
The beast shrieked—SKRRREEEEHHHHH-AUNNNGGGHH!
It bucked. Stumbled. Dragged the root a foot—then stopped.
Frozen in rage. Wild-eyed.
Lai Ming didn't wait.
He charged.
Climbed the beast's flank like a jungle ghost—foot on rib, hand in fur.
It screamed and thrashed, but he was already drawing the weapon.
It was just a bone—sharp, ugly, stolen from a corpse—but in his hands, it was scripture.
He raised it high.
The boar twisted for one last gore.
Too late.
STAB.
Straight into the skull. Between the eyes. Twisted once.
CRACK.
The sound was thick and final.
The body bucked.
Shuddered.
Collapsed.
One last hiss—pfssshhhhhh—and the steam faded.
He slid off the boar's side like a man stepping down from a sermon.
Collapsed beside it.
Didn't cheer.
Didn't move.
Just lay there, eyes on the canopy, breath ragged.
Then—
A quiet laugh.
Wheezing. Small. More dirt than air in his lungs.
He turned his head toward the corpse. Whispered:
"That's for the leg."
Then the strength left him.
Completely.
His ribs groaned, his back seized, and his thigh lit up—hot, deep, flaring like the boar had left a curse stitched into the muscle.
Same spot. Same pain.
His body finally dropped, heavy and slack, into the dirt.
He didn't pass out.
He just lay there, eyes half-lidded, staring at the canopy like it might offer answers. The birds had gone quiet. The wind was still. All that moved was the steam rising off the boar's corpse—slow, like the jungle was exhaling for him.
Then—he moved.
Barely.
Crawling, dragging one hand forward, pulling himself with the defiance of a man too pissed to die politely.
Every inch was earned. Each groan from his leg felt like his thigh was chewing glass. But the clearing came into view.
The fire.
The moss.
The rock.
Elder Munch sat by the pit like he'd been expecting him.
Lai Ming collapsed three steps from the fire, cheek slamming into the dirt.
"Mmph," he mumbled. "Made it… ass-first…"
The sheep blinked.
Then, without a word, shuffled over and dropped a bundle of bitter jungle greens next to him.
Lai Ming raised a finger and jabbed weakly at the air.
"Pillow."
SHHP.
The Heaven-Smothering Cloud blinked into existence beside his head, shimmering with clean, absurd softness.
He flopped onto it like gravity owed him this one.
Elder Munch vanished like an unpaid intern. Returned seconds later with a leaf and the emotional weight of a disappointed uncle. Then—without breaking eye contact—slathered a massive sheep-tongue-sized dose of jungle spit directly onto his thigh.
Lai Ming flinched violently. "Bro, I'm already spiritually broken—don't tongue my trauma."
But it helped.
God help him, it actually helped.
His breath slowed.
The pain blurred.
His fingers relaxed.
And then—
Click.
Darkness.
He awoke in the void.
But this time, it was different.
No green.
The grass was red-gold, glowing faintly like the embers of a forgotten forge. The leaf was gone. The silence had weight.
No quests. No quips. No tutorial screens.
Just breath.
Then:
"Manual Override Confirmed."
"Survival achieved through unassisted combat."
"Processing Milestone Reward..."
The air pulsed once.
And then—
DING.
+10 Physique
"Your body has tasted death and learned to bite back."
+5 Willpower
"You chose to fight, not sleep. The jungle remembered."
+5 Free Attributes
"Keep it."
New Skill: [Desperate Flow I]
"When health drops below 20%, gain +3 to all core stats for 10 seconds. Cooldown: 1 combat/day."
New Menu: [Combat Replay – Soul View]
"Rewatch your battles during sleep. Study. Adapt. Ascend."
Artifact Upgrade: [Blood-Smothering Cloud] (Uncommon)
Stored safely in system space
Summons instantly on command
Auto-deflects one fatal blow while asleep
Emits faint crimson aura when near flame
Still has 0.4 Attack Power. Please stop trying.
The system screen faded—
Then blinked back in.
Progress: 1%
"Reward absorption in progress. Please remain unconscious."
Lai Ming blinked.
Then groaned.
"Oh my god. Not again."
2%… 3%… 4%…
He rolled sideways onto the grass, pressing his face into the glowing patch like he was trying to drown in disappointment.
"You gave me ten Physique. Five Willpower. I killed a boar with a chicken bone. And now I'm being blue-balled by a progress bar?"
6%… 8%… 9%…
He exhaled sharply. Sat up cross-legged. Reached out into the void with that weird half-instinct that had become second nature.
A screen appeared.
[View Attributes?]
[Y]
He tapped.
Soul Attributes – View Mode
Physique: 29 → (39)
Willpower: 15 → (20)
Nap Efficiency: 96%
Free Attribute Points: 12
Skills:
– Evasive Slumber I
– Savage Precision I
– Desperate Flow I
Artifact: Blood-Smothering Cloud (Equipped)
Menu: Combat Replay – Soul View
Dignity: Terminal
Progress Toward Absorption: 11%
Lai Ming squinted at the numbers.
Then blinked again.
"…Wait. Twelve Free Attributes?"
He didn't remember seeing that number last time.
"When the hell did I get twelve?"
No memory of assigning anything. No explanation. Just a vague feeling like the system had been slipping him spare change behind his back for the last week.
"…You've been hiding points from me, haven't you."
The stat screen said nothing. Just hovered there. Judging.
13%… 14%… 15%…
He sighed and leaned back, arms spread wide.
"Thirty-nine Physique, twenty Willpower, and I'm still wearing jungle underwear and using a stick. God, I'm poor."
16%… 17%…
The bar inched upward like it enjoyed this.
Then—
A new message appeared. Soft. Gentle.
SYSTEM NOTICE:
You have qualified for a forced nap.
Enjoy unconsciousness. You've earned it.
[Initiating Soul Rest Mode in 3… 2… 1…]
"Wait, no—I just opened my—"
Click.
Darkness.
Not the void.
Just…
Sleep.
Heavy. Deep. Warm.
No stats. No screens. No control.
Just the slow, quiet hum of growth settling into bone.
And somewhere above him—
18%… 19%…
The numbers continued climbing.
And Lai Ming slept, whether he wanted to or not.
[More chapters coming soon.]