Chapter 2: Death Farming Strategy
The bedroll again. Predawn light. My chest intact.
Death number two, and the terror had dulled to background noise. The void was still horrible—that moment of dissolution, consciousness unraveling—but I knew I'd wake up. Twenty-four hours back. Always twenty-four hours.
I sat up, and new information crystalized in my mind. Not a skill this time. A spatial ring. Crude, low-grade, the kind of storage treasure even poor cultivators could afford. And it was mine now—physically present on my finger, cold metal against my skin.
I stared at it. In the previous timeline, this ring had been on the Bandit Leader's hand. Now it was here. The system hadn't just copied it. It had stolen it, yanked it backward through time.
I focused on the ring, and knowledge of its contents flooded in. Three low-grade spirit stones. A basic dagger, better quality than my belt knife. Some dried rations.
Not much. But infinitely more than I'd had five minutes ago.
So the rules are: first death to a specific killer copies a skill. Second death steals an item.
I flexed my fingers, feeling the ring's weight. The Bandit Leader would attack in sixteen hours wearing this ring. Except he wouldn't be, because I'd already taken it from his future corpse. Would he notice? Would the timeline compensate somehow?
Only one way to find out.
I spent the morning experimenting. The Swift Shadow Step was still useless without qi, but I practiced the movements anyway. Muscle memory, even without the energy to power it. The dagger from the spatial ring was sharp, well-balanced. I tucked my old knife away and kept this one in my belt.
The guards watched me with mild confusion—the caravan kid suddenly acting weird, pantomiming fighting stances. I ignored them. They'd be dead in a few hours anyway. Most of them.
When the sun hit its peak, I made my decision.
The Bandit Lieutenant. I'd seen him in the first raid—second-in-command, fighting with some kind of palm technique. If I could die to him, copy his skill...
Sunset came. The bandits attacked.
This time I moved with purpose. The Bandit Leader charged the main group—I slipped past him, searching. There. The Lieutenant, cutting down a merchant with brutal efficiency. Younger than the Leader, scars across his face, palm strikes that caved in ribs.
I ran toward him.
He saw me coming, laughed. "Fresh meat."
His palm caught me in the chest. No blade this time—just crushing force, ribs snapping like kindling. I felt my heart rupture, blood flooding my lungs.
Darkness. Void. The pull.
[RETURNER'S MIRROR ACTIVATED]
[Death Registered: Bandit Lieutenant, Qi Condensation Mid]
[Copied: Iron Palm Strike - Green Rank]
[Timeline Reset: -24 Hours]
Bedroll. Dawn. Death three.
Iron Palm Strike downloaded into my brain alongside Swift Shadow Step. Another technique I couldn't use, but the knowledge was there. Pressure points. Qi circulation through the arms. How to condense energy into a single devastating blow.
I checked my spatial ring. The items were still there. Good. Possessions carried across resets.
Three deaths down. Two skills acquired, one item. The pattern was clear. But I needed more information. The bandits weren't just random raiders—the original body's memories were thin, but I'd heard them talking during the first raid. Something about being paid. The Cai Family.
Time to get answers.
I let the raid happen again. Fourth time watching the Bandit Leader cut through guards. Fourth time seeing merchants die screaming. The horror had dulled to numbness. I was starting to see patterns. The Lieutenant always went left. The Leader always targeted the strongest guard first. Three bandits hung back, watching for runners.
I let one of those three catch me.
"Please," I begged, playing terrified. "Don't kill me. I'll tell you anything."
The bandit—scarred face, missing teeth—grabbed my collar. "What's a whelp like you know?"
"The caravan routes," I lied. "Future shipments. I can—"
He dragged me away from the burning wagons, toward the tree line where the bandits had made camp. Perfect.
In the camp, he tied my hands and started asking questions. I fed him nonsense, stalling, listening. The bandits talked freely around me—just a prisoner, soon to be dead anyway.
"Cai Family's paying good coin for this route disruption," one said.
"Heard they're targeting the Luo Clan convoy next," another replied.
Luo Clan. The name sparked fragmented memories. The manhua I'd read. The protagonist—Zhuo something—served a declining noble clan. The Luo Clan. They were supposed to be weak, nearly destroyed, until Zhuo Fan's schemes rebuilt them.
If I can find them...
The scarred bandit came back, annoyed I knew nothing useful. His knife opened my throat.
Darkness. Void. Reset.
Fifth death. Sixth. Seventh.
Each time I adjusted my approach. Let different bandits capture me. Asked different questions. Died in different ways—stabbed, strangled, skull crushed with a rock. The void became familiar. Almost routine.
By the seventh loop, I had a complete intelligence picture:
The Cai Family was a regional power, hostile to the Luo Clan. These bandits were mercenaries, paid to destabilize trade routes the Luo Clan relied on. The Luo convoy had passed through yesterday, heading toward Blackstone Town. They were small, weak, on the verge of total collapse.
Perfect.
I also confirmed the system's rules. Same killer, multiple times: no new skills, no new items. Each unique killer: one skill on first death, one item on second. The Bandit Leader had given me Swift Shadow Step and the spatial ring. The Lieutenant gave me Iron Palm Strike. The other bandits gave me nothing—I'd already died to them once, copying minor skills I immediately dismissed as too weak to remember.
Seven deaths. Seven trips through the void. Seven times waking up in that bedroll, chest intact, memories of dying seared into my brain.
I should've been traumatized. Breaking down. Instead, I felt cold. Calculating.
Death wasn't permanent. It was a resource. And I was going to exploit it.
Eighth loop.
This time, I didn't seek death. This time, I fought.
When the bandits hit at sunset, I was ready. I grabbed the dagger from my spatial ring—the one I'd stolen from the Bandit Leader's future—and moved toward the guards.
"Eastern flank!" I shouted. "They're coming from the east!"
The guards looked at me like I was insane. Then the bandits appeared, exactly where I'd said.
Chaos. Screaming. Steel on steel.
I wasn't strong enough to fight. But I knew every bandit's position, every attack pattern, every weak point in their formation. I shouted warnings, pointed out ambushes, dragged wounded merchants behind wagons.
The Bandit Leader spotted me. Recognition flickered in his eyes—had he seen me in previous loops? Impossible. The timeline reset completely. But he charged anyway.
I used Swift Shadow Step.
No qi. No energy. Just the muscle memory I'd practiced all morning, the movements ingrained through repetition. I wasn't fast. But I was faster than a normal mortal, body moving in ways it shouldn't.
The Bandit Leader's sword missed by inches.
I rolled, came up behind a wagon. Guards rallied, forming a defensive line. We weren't winning, but we weren't dying as fast. The bandits looked confused—this wasn't the easy slaughter they'd expected.
After ten minutes, they retreated.
The Bandit Leader glared at me across the burning battlefield. His hand moved to his finger—searching for the spatial ring that was now on mine.
His eyes widened. Then he was gone, vanishing into the night with his men.
We'd survived.
I collapsed against a wagon wheel, hands shaking. Not from fear this time. From exhaustion. From the weight of seven deaths finally catching up.
A merchant clapped my shoulder. "You saved us, boy. How'd you know they were coming?"
"Lucky guess," I said.
The guards were talking, comparing wounds. Light casualties. Most had survived. The caravan was damaged but functional.
I waited until everyone was distracted, then approached the caravan master—a fat merchant named Wei.
"The Luo Clan convoy," I said. "Where did it go?"
Wei looked at me strangely. "Toward Blackstone Town. Passed through yesterday. Why?"
"I need to find them."
"They're running from something. The whole convoy looked like refugees." Wei spat. "Probably dead by now. The Cai Family's been targeting them for weeks."
I nodded slowly. Refugees. Desperate. Exactly the kind of people who might accept help from a mysterious stranger with resources and foreknowledge.
At dawn, I took my payment for helping the caravan—a few extra spirit stones, some dried meat—and left. The merchants offered me a spot on their crew. I declined.
I had two trash-tier skills I couldn't properly use. One stolen spatial ring with minimal contents. And seven deaths worth of knowledge about how this new ability worked.
Not much. But it was enough to start.
I walked into the wilderness alone, following the road toward Blackstone Town. Somewhere ahead, the Luo Clan convoy was limping toward destruction. And somewhere in that convoy, if my fragmented memories were right, was the protagonist of this world.
I just had to find him before the Cai Family killed everyone.
Or die trying.
Again.
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