Xu Mingyue stood at the edge of the cracked field, watching villagers move with the deliberate slowness of the underfed. Every action conserved strength. Every hesitation weighed the cost of effort.
MOI floated beside him, projection faint in the daylight but steady. Her presence drew cautious glances but no screams; in a world stripped bare, even the impossible lost its sharpness.
The muscle guy stood a few steps away, arms crossed loosely over his chest. The posture was relaxed, but the man himself was not. Hunger had stripped him, but it hadn't diminished the breadth of his shoulders or the heavy-set muscle beneath. Some people wilted in famine; he had become a stripped-down version of strength—nothing extra, nothing wasted.
"Who are you again ? " Ask mingyn to the muscle guy.
He kept looking at Mingyue in intervals—as if verifying he hadn't imagined him.
" Li Yun" he answered. His tip of the ear reddened without reason.
Mingyue doesn't notice it and he finished tying the last knot of the improvised filter net over a stone basin. "This should hold for now," he said.
The old man from earlier—named Hu De, former grain clerk turned reluctant leader—approached with the stiff spine of someone accustomed to command even when it served no purpose.
Hu De eyed the setup, his expression unreadable. "You city folk," he muttered, rubbing his jaw. "Always tying strings and talking sense. Fine work."
It was the closest thing to praise the old man had likely given in months.
Behind him, a woman with sharp, observant eyes approached—Auntie Qiao, the midwife who had once tended half the valley's births. Her hands were cracked, but steady. A young boy leaned behind her leg, watching Mingyue as if he were a traveling storybook hero.
"Child's fever dropped a little," Auntie Qiao said. "Your porridge helped."
Mingyue nodded once, quiet acknowledgment.
He did not bask in gratitude.
He did not dismiss it with false modesty.
He accepted it the way adults accept weather—simply, without fuss.
MOI turned her head slightly. "Administrator," she said, "I recommend distributing tasks. Survivors require structured routines to stabilize morale and reduce cognitive decline associated with extended famine."
Hu De frowned. "She talks fancy."
Mingyue said, "She talks accurately."
Li Yun's voice cut in—low, rough from months of minimal use. "Tell us what needs doing."
It was the first time he'd spoken in a full sentence.
Heads turned. People listened instinctively; his voice carried weight even before meaning settled in.
Mingyue looked at him fully now. Not evaluating, not admiring, just… seeing him.
"First," Mingyue said, "we secure clean water."
Auntie Qiao: "We can rotate shifts at the spring. Fetching, boiling, cooling."
Hu De: "And guard it. In case outsiders wander through."
Li Yun: "I'll take first watch."
He said it without hesitation.
Just the kind of practicality born from responsibility he never asked for.
His gaze flicked to Mingyue again, softening in a way he couldn't hide.
Mingyue turned back to the group. "Next: we stabilize the shelter. Rain or no rain, the wind carries dust."
From the side, three other villagers emerged quietly, people who had followed Hu De earlier.
Chen Gui, the only remaining carpenter, hands calloused and knuckles swollen.
Little Sui, a teenage girl with a torn sleeve and fierce, bright eyes—fast on her feet, useful as a runner.
Huo Wenting, middle-aged, quiet, ex-teacher, grief carved into the lines around her mouth.
Chen Gui raised a hand. "I can salvage planks. Might take a while."
Little Sui added quickly, "I can gather the reeds still standing by the lower terrace!"
Huo Wenting bowed her head. "I will clean the shelter. I still remember how to run a classroom. A space for children to stay calm… helps the adults, too."
Mingyue listened, not interrupting. These were the people MOI had scanned earlier—the backbone of a broken community, brittle but not yet gone.
He didn't delegate out of authority; he listened out of respect.
"Good," he said simply. "All of this helps."
Hu De crossed his arms. "And you, sir city man? What will you do?"
Not accusation. A test. A man protecting his people.
Mingyue didn't bristle. His answer came level and clear.
"I'll give you water, tools, access to supplies—and knowledge you don't have."
MOI chimed in. "Administrator possesses skill sets uncommon in this environment. Utilizing him optimally increases group survival probability by 68 percent."
Hu De snorted. Auntie Qiao pressed her lips not to smile.
Li Yun… looked at Mingyue with an expression painfully close to admiration.
The edges of a bond formed—quiet, inevitable.
When the villagers dispersed, Li Yun stayed.
He stood near the collapsed granary, the dry wind brushing dust along his forearms. Even motionless, he radiated a solid presence, like a piece of the world refusing to collapse with the rest.
Mingyue approached him, stopping at a respectful distance. "You should eat something."
Li Yun shook his head. "Others first."
"Others have eaten," Mingyue said.
Li Yun hesitated—just a flicker—then shifted his weight.
"I'm not used to… taking things," he admitted. His voice cracked on the last word, not from emotion but disuse.
Mingyue unwrapped a tin, warming it on the burner as before. The aroma rose, faint but comforting.
He extended it.
Li Yun stared at the bowl like it was an unfamiliar tool—something meant for someone else. Then, slowly, he accepted it, fingers brushing briefly against Mingyue's.
Just skin touching skin.
A small, accidental moment.
But enough.
Li Yun inhaled sharply, not visibly, but Mingyue noticed. A subtle contraction of breath.
"You saved the child," Li Yun said quietly. "And the water. And the shelter."
"Not alone."
"You didn't have to do it."
"I chose to."
Li Yun's jaw tightened. His eyes were dark, clear, almost stunned. "Why?"
Mingyue held his gaze. No smile. No explanation. Just truth.
"Because this world needs someone to start."
Li Yun swallowed. That simple, steady sentence did something to him—broke something open, made something fragile stir.
"Then let me help you," he said.
Not a servant oath.
Not a vow.
Just a man offering the only thing he still had—himself.
Mingyue nodded. "Then let's begin."
By afternoon, they had gathered near the spring again. Children sat with Huo Wenting. Chen Gui dragged wood from a ruined shed. Little Sui returned breathless with a bundle of reeds. Auntie Qiao oversaw the boiling.
MOI hovered near Mingyue, her projection rippling in the heat.
"Administrator," she said quietly, "you have reached the threshold for initial recruitment. Formal integration recommended."
"Of who?" Mingyue asked, though he already knew.
MOI's eyes shifted toward Li Yun, who was carrying a beam across his shoulders like it weighed nothing.
"Subject is optimal candidate," she said. "Strength, loyalty inclination, resilience, and emotional imprint compatibility all notable."
Mingyue breathed once—slight, measured.
"Then initiate," he said.
MOI's projection brightened, casting faint blue light over the cracked ground.
A soft chime echoed—subtle, not supernatural, almost like wind against glass.
Li Yun jolted slightly, straightening. "What—?"
A faint ring of light formed at his feet, delicate as thread, then vanished as quickly as it came.
MOI intoned calmly:
"Administrator Action: First Recruitment Complete."
"Subject: Li Yun."
"Role: Primary Physical Support."
"Benefits: shelter access, resource share, protection protocols."
The villagers watched, wide-eyed—not with fear, but with something gentler. Wonder. Curiosity. Relief.
Li Yun looked at Mingyue, breath heavy, expression soft.
"What does that mean?" he asked.
"It means," Mingyue said, "you're with me now."
Li Yun swallowed hard—chest rising, trembling with something he didn't have a name for.
"…Good," he whispered.
And for the first time since the famine began, he smiled—barely, but real.
The sun dipped lower.
The villagers settled into tasks guided by routines they hadn't practiced in months.
And Mingyue walked beside Li Yun toward the house—not leading, not following, but moving in the same direction.
The beginning of a partnership.
A foundation built in ruin.
A choice made in quiet certainty.
The world was still broken.
But now it had two people willing to rebuild carefully, one step at a time.