The walk back was brutal.
Forty kilograms didn't sound like much in abstract terms, but carried on a malnourished teenage frame over rough terrain in the pre-dawn darkness, it became a test of endurance. Marcus had to stop five times—more than he'd planned—to rest his screaming shoulders and catch his breath.
But he was smiling the entire time.
He'd done it. Successfully hunted, killed, and dressed game. The meat in his pack was proof of capability, evidence that he could contribute something tangible to his family's survival.
Yet even as satisfaction warmed his chest, another part of his mind was already dissecting the hunt with clinical precision, identifying every inefficiency and mistake.
The throw had been good—fatal even—but not optimal. He'd aimed for center mass, the largest target, prioritizing likelihood of hit over lethality. A more experienced hunter would have aimed slightly forward, targeting the heart specifically rather than hoping the spear would find something vital. Better shot placement would have meant instant death instead of those five meters of panicked flight and the awful squealing.
More humane. More efficient. Less noise to potentially attract attention.
His field dressing had been adequate but slow. Too slow. Marcus's memories from his previous life provided the basic steps, but his execution had been clumsy. He'd taken nearly twenty minutes for a task that should have required seven or eight. The cut from sternum to pelvis had been uneven, requiring correction. He'd been overly cautious around the organs, wasting time and energy on excessive care when speed would have served better.
Practice would help. Repetition would build the muscle memory and confidence needed to work faster. But he'd also need to study more—mentally review the anatomy, understand exactly where to cut and how deep, eliminate the hesitation that came from uncertainty.
The positioning had been decent but could have been improved. He'd set up 7 meters from the water, which worked, but 5 meters would have been better—closer to the likely approach path, higher probability of a kill shot. He'd been too conservative, trading optimal position for perceived safety.
The wait time had been acceptable—one hour before game appeared—but he hadn't considered the possibility of multiple animals. The pig had been alone, but if there had been a group, would he have taken the shot? Injured one while others fled? Or waited for them to separate, potentially losing the opportunity entirely?
Variables he hadn't fully planned for. Scenarios his simulations had been incomplete on.
Marcus adjusted the pack on his shoulders, feeling the dead weight shift, and continued climbing the trail. His legs burned. His arms ached. The sky was growing lighter, predawn gray giving way to the first hints of color.
He needed to move faster.
But his mind continued its relentless analysis.
The spear throw itself—he'd stepped forward with his right foot, rotated his hips, followed through with his arm. Standard technique from Chen Liang's memories. But the rotation had been incomplete, maybe 70% of full range. More hip drive would have generated additional force, penetrated deeper, ensured a faster kill. His arm had also dropped slightly at release, introducing an upward arc that was unnecessary at that range.
Small technical flaws that had been masked by success but represented inefficiencies nonetheless.
The knife work on the throat—he'd cut too shallow initially, requiring a second stroke. Should have pressed deeper from the start, severed everything cleanly in one motion. The hesitation came from squeamishness, from the psychological barrier of deliberately causing pain even to a dying animal.
He'd need to overcome that. Hesitation in hunting meant suffering—for the animal and potentially for himself if a wounded target fought back or fled.
By the time Marcus reached the edge of the village, the sun was cresting the mountains, painting the sky in oranges and pinks. Smoke rose from morning fires. His family would be awake now, beginning their daily routines.
He'd cut it closer than intended. Another variable to account for next time—pack weight significantly impacting travel speed, probably reducing it by 35-40%. Future calculations would need to factor that in.
Marcus made his way directly home, too exhausted and focused to care about being seen. A few early risers noticed him—old Chen from two houses down, who was drawing water from the well, stopped and stared. Zhang Kun's mother, sweeping her doorstep, paused mid-motion, her eyes going wide.
Let them stare. Let them gossip. He had meat for his family.
He pushed open the door to his house and stepped inside. The entire family was there—his father preparing to leave for the fields, his mother by the hearth, Mei helping with breakfast, young Bao rubbing sleep from his eyes.
They all turned to look at him. At the pack on his shoulders. At the blood staining his hands and clothes. At the spear in his grip.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then Marcus lowered the pack carefully to the ground and unwrapped the oiled cloth, revealing the dressed pig carcass.
"I brought meat," he said simply.
Bao's eyes went huge. "You killed that?"
"Yes."
Mei moved closer, examining the carcass with a critical eye. "It's been properly dressed. Clean cuts, organs removed." She looked up at him with something that might have been respect. "Where did you learn to do this?"
Marcus shrugged, too tired for elaborate lies. "I figured it out."
His mother had risen from the hearth and was studying him with an expression he couldn't quite read. Not surprise—she'd known he was trying. But perhaps relief mixed with worry mixed with something else. Pride, maybe.
His father, Chen Wei, hadn't moved. He stood near the door, dressed for field work, his weathered face impassive as he looked from the carcass to Marcus to his hunting gear propped in the corner—gear that had been removed and replaced multiple times now.
When he finally spoke, his voice was neutral. "The ravine trail?"
"Yes."
"Night hunting?"
"Yes."
Chen Wei nodded slowly. "I knew."
Marcus blinked. "What?"
"I knew from the first time you went out." His father's expression softened slightly. "You left tracks, Liang. Muddy footprints on the floor, disturbed dust around my gear. I've been hunting these mountains since before you were born. You think I wouldn't notice someone taking my spear in the middle of the night?"
Marcus's stomach sank. All his careful planning, and he'd been caught by something so simple. So obvious.
"Why didn't you stop me?" he asked.
"Your mother asked me not to." Chen Wei glanced at Lin Shu, who met his eyes with quiet determination. "She said you needed to do this, needed to feel useful. Said forbidding you would just make you more reckless."
"And you agreed?"
"No." His father's tone was frank. "I thought it was foolish and dangerous. Thought you'd get yourself killed chasing some need to prove you weren't useless." He paused, his eyes moving back to the pig carcass. "But your mother is wiser than me about some things. She said if we helped you prepare properly, gave you better odds, maybe you'd succeed. Maybe you'd surprise us."
He walked over and knelt beside the carcass, examining it with a hunter's eye. His fingers traced the spear wound, the knife cuts, the overall condition of the meat.
"Good shot placement," he said after a moment. "Punctured the lung, probably nicked the heart. Death would have been quick." His hand moved to the field dressing. "The cuts are clean, no organs punctured. You were careful." He looked up at Marcus. "This is good work, son. Better than I expected from someone with no practical experience."
The words hit Marcus harder than he anticipated. Approval from a man he barely knew, in a life that wasn't entirely his, for skills cobbled together from two lifetimes.
"Thank you," he managed.
"Don't thank me yet." Chen Wei stood, his expression growing stern. "You got lucky. One successful hunt doesn't make you a hunter. You could have been killed by a leopard, gored by a boar, fallen and broken your neck in the darkness." He gripped Marcus's shoulder, firm but not harsh. "But you did well. You prepared, you executed, you brought back meat for your family. That deserves recognition."
He released Marcus and turned to Lin Shu. "We'll need to smoke most of this. Keep some fresh for tonight's meal, preserve the rest for winter."
"I'll start the smoke box," his mother said, already moving with purpose.
Mei was still studying Marcus with that appraising look. "Can you teach me?" she asked suddenly.
Marcus blinked. "Teach you what?"
"To hunt. To do what you just did." She gestured at the carcass. "I'm strong enough, fast enough. If winter is going to be as hard as everyone says, we'll need all the help we can get. Another hunter means better odds."
Their father frowned. "Mei—"
"I'm serious." She cut him off, her voice firm. "Liang is fifteen and weak from illness, and he managed this. I'm seventeen and stronger. Why shouldn't I learn?"
Chen Wei looked like he wanted to argue, but Lin Shu spoke first. "She's right. If Liang can contribute this way, why not Mei? They could go together—safer than either hunting alone."
Marcus watched this exchange with a mix of surprise and calculation. Hunting with a partner would be safer, true. Two sets of eyes, two weapons, better odds if something went wrong. But it would also mean sharing the kill, explaining his methods, potentially revealing some of his unusual capabilities.
Though Mei was family—or Chen Liang's family, at least. If anyone deserved to know...
"I can teach you," Marcus heard himself say. "But you'll need to prepare properly. Build up your strength, learn the terrain, understand the risks."
Mei's face lit up. "I will. I promise."
Their father sighed, looking between them. "Both of you will be careful. Both of you will hunt together, not alone. And both of you will tell me before you go out, not after." His tone was firm. "I won't forbid this—clearly that doesn't work—but I'll be damned if I lose a child because they were too stubborn to ask for help."
"Yes, Father," they said in unison.
Chen Wei shook his head, muttering something about children and foolishness, but there was no real anger in it. He gathered his tools and headed for the door, pausing to look back at Marcus.
"Get some sleep. You look like you're about to collapse. And next time, clean your feet before you come inside—you're tracking mud everywhere."
Then he was gone, off to the fields with Bao in tow.
Marcus stood there, swaying slightly from exhaustion, and felt his mother's hand on his arm.
"Come," she said gently. "Sit. Eat something before you sleep."
She guided him to the hearth and pressed a bowl into his hands—rice porridge, thicker than usual, with actual chunks of vegetable in it. Luxury by recent standards.
Marcus ate mechanically, his body desperate for fuel even as his mind continued spinning. The hunt had been successful, but the analysis kept running. Every inefficiency identified. Every potential improvement catalogued.
Next time, he'd position 2 meters closer. Next time, he'd aim for the heart specifically. Next time, he'd practice field dressing to improve his speed by at least 40%. Next time—
"Liang."
His mother's voice cut through the spinning thoughts. She was watching him with knowing eyes.
"You did well today. Be satisfied with that. Don't turn success into another burden by focusing only on what you could have done better."
Marcus wanted to argue that improvement required critical analysis, that satisfaction bred complacency, that there was always room to optimize and refine.
But he was too exhausted. And maybe she was right. Maybe success deserved a moment of appreciation before being dissected for efficiency gains.
"Okay," he said quietly.
Lin Shu smiled and touched his cheek, a brief gesture of affection. "Sleep now. Tomorrow you can start teaching Mei. Tonight, we'll feast on fresh meat for the first time in months."
Tonight, they would feast. His family would eat because of him, because of his contribution. That meant something, even if the execution had been flawed.
Marcus finished his porridge and made his way to his mat, not bothering to remove his bloodstained clothes. He collapsed onto the thin padding and felt sleep reaching for him immediately.
His last conscious thoughts were calculations—optimal smoking time for meat preservation, caloric content of the remaining carcass, probability distributions for future hunts.
But underneath the analysis, quiet and unexpected, was a warm satisfaction.
He'd succeeded. He'd contributed. He'd kept his promise to his mother to stay safe.
And tonight, his family would eat well.
That was enough. For now, it was enough.
Marcus closed his eyes and let the exhaustion pull him under, his mind finally, mercifully quiet.