Yang walked steadily through the forest, his spear held firmly in one hand while his other occasionally brushed against trees for balance. The path to his new shelter had become familiar over the past few days of moving supplies back and forth.
His legs had grown stronger from all the walking with his body adapting to the constant physical demands of surviving alone in a forest.
He knew this route well now. Each landmark brought him closer to what would be his home through the coming winter.
As he walked, Yang's thoughts drifted to Grandpa Chen as they often did during these long journeys. It still ached like a wound that refused to heal, a constant emptiness in his chest that no amount of time seemed to diminish. But Yang had learned not to let the grief consume him. Instead, he used it to fuel his determination.
He chose to remember Grandpa's lessons rather than dwell on his death. The patient way Grandpa had shown him which plants were safe to eat near the village. How to start a fire properly. Which direction water flowed. Small pieces of knowledge that had seemed unimportant at the time but had saved Yang's life over and over these past six months.
Most of all, Yang remembered Grandpa's stories about his future. At the time, Yang had thought they were just games, harmless fantasies the old man spun to pass long winter evenings. But now he understood the truth. Grandpa had been comforting himself with those stories, creating futures for Yang that he knew he would never live to see.
In some stories Yang became a great general, leading armies to victory. In others he was a wealthy merchant with ships and warehouses full of goods. Sometimes Grandpa would get particularly imaginative and declare that Yang would become a scholar, reading and writing important documents for powerful people.
Yang smiled slightly at that particular memory. How amusing. How could an illiterate boy ever become a scholar? Grandpa himself couldn't read or write. Neither could anyone else in their poor village. Who would have taught Yang letters when no one around him even knew them?
From the fragmented memories of his previous life, Yang knew the language he had once spoken, read, and written was completely different from the language spoken here. The sounds were different, the grammar was different, and unless this world used the same script, which he strongly doubted, he wouldn't even recognize a single letter.
Yang jumped over some large roots that crossed the path, his movements practiced and efficient. As he landed, he noticed a hole in a nearby tree trunk at about head height. He'd learned with experience that squirrels often stored their winter supplies in such places.
Yang approached and peered inside. Sure enough, there were nuts and seeds packed carefully into the hollow space. He reached in and took a few handfuls, placing them in the rough satchel he'd woven from plant fibers. He felt a brief pang of guilt about taking from the squirrel's winter stores, but the forest was based on survival of the fittest. You either survived or you died. The squirrel would have to find more, just as Yang did every day.
He kept a handful of nuts in his palm and continued walking, munching on them as he went. Many hours had passed since he'd eaten the fruit for breakfast, and his stomach was beginning to complain again. The nuts were small but filling, and he savored each one.
The sound of the river grew steadily louder as Yang walked, the rushing water audible even through the dense trees. His footsteps quickened unconsciously. He was tired and wanted to rest. The sun would set soon, and he needed to be safely inside before darkness fell completely.
Living in the forest had restructured his entire sense of time. His day began with the sunrise and ended when the sun set. There was no point staying awake after dark when he couldn't see to work or gather food. Winter's approach had made the days considerably shorter, which meant less time for everything he needed to accomplish.
Yang had high hopes for this new shelter. The river meant fish, a food source he hadn't been able to access at his old cave. Fish would provide reliable protein even when his traps caught nothing and foraging yielded little.
The sun had almost disappeared below the horizon now, and the moon had already risen to take its place. Darkness would arrive in minutes. Yang hurried his pace, his feet finding the path automatically even as shadows deepened around him.
Finally, he spotted the cave entrance through the trees. Relief flooded through him.
The entrance was naturally larger than his previous cave, which had presented both opportunity and danger. A larger opening meant easier access for Yang but also easier access for predators. So he'd spent days lugging large logs and rocks to partially close it off, reducing the entrance to a narrow passage that only something his size or smaller could squeeze through comfortably.
Yang slipped inside and immediately turned to close the entrance behind him. He'd placed several logs and a large flat rock just inside for this exact purpose. The incident with the snake had taught him the importance of securing his shelter. He'd killed the snake easily enough, but what if it had been something more dangerous? Something faster and more aggressive?
Better to be safe.
Once the entrance was blocked, Yang turned to survey his new home. The cave was much larger than his previous shelter, with several distinct areas he'd mentally designated as rooms. One section near the back was dedicated entirely to dry wood. He had no idea how much colder the forest would get during winter. The winters had already been difficult to bear in the village, even with Grandpa's care.
Yang remembered those cold nights clearly. Grandpa would hold him in his arms and sleep near the fire, positioning Yang closer to the flames so he could be warmer. Grandpa would be on Yang's other side, using his own body heat to keep the him warm despite the chill seeping through their thin mud walls.
Those memories still hurt, but Yang pushed the pain aside and focused on his present situation.
On one side of the cave, he'd created his sleeping area. Thick bark and dried plant fibers covered the floor to provide insulation from the cold stone. A few furs had been sewn together into a small blanket. If he slept curled up, the blanket could cover him completely. But most of the furs he'd collected had gone into clothing and a pair of shoes. He knew keeping his feet warm was essential to prevent frostbite. He couldn't spend the entire winter in the cave. He'd need to go out and try to hunt, and regularly check his traps, and forage for food.
Near the sleeping area was the fire pit, a circle of stones where he would cook and keep fire burning for warmth through the cold nights ahead.
On the bed lay his latest project. A bow. Yang was too scared to approach larger animals with just his spear, but a long-range weapon might allow him to hunt bigger prey. This was his newest prototype and the best one so far. He only had a few arrows made, but if this bow worked properly, he could start producing more.
Yang walked to the clay pot he kept filled with water and scooped out a cupful with the clay drinking vessel he'd made. He drank two cups in quick succession, his body desperate for hydration after the long walk. He couldn't carry the large water pot back and forth on his trips. It was too big and heavy, especially when filled. But being near the river meant he could refill it easily whenever needed.
He really needed to hunt a larger animal soon. He knew their bladders could be used to make water skins, which would let him carry water on longer trips away from the cave. But there was time for that. Now that he didn't have to travel far looking for food every single day, he could spend more time in the cave working on improving his weapons and tools.
Yang took a dried vegetable from one of his storage baskets. He'd learned to preserve vegetables by cutting them into strips and drying them in the sun. They lasted much longer that way. He took one piece and cut it into smaller sections, then placed them in an earthen pot along with a few cups of water and a couple of fresh herbs from the smaller basket where he kept recently gathered plants.
He placed the pot near the fire pit to let everything soak while he built the fire. Starting fires had become routine now, almost automatic. His hands moved through the familiar motions of arranging kindling, creating friction, coaxing the ember to life, and feeding it until flames flared in the stone circle.
Once the fire burned steadily, Yang placed the pot carefully on flat stones positioned over the flames. The water would heat slowly, the vegetables would soften, and the herbs would release their flavor. Simple food, but it would fill his stomach and provide warmth.
While the soup simmered, Yang sat on his bed and picked up the bow. It had taken so many failed attempts to find the right wood. Most types he'd tried either snapped immediately or refused to bend properly. But eventually, through exhausting trial and error, he'd found a wood that had the right combination of flexibility and strength.
The string was made from animal sinew, carefully processed and braided. The arrowheads came from bones of animals caught in his traps, patiently shaped and sharpened. Feathers for fletching had been the easiest component. The forest floor and low branches often held a variety of fallen feathers, and Yang simply selected the most suitable ones.
He fiddled with the bow now, making small adjustments where he could. Checking the tension of the string. Examining the curve of the wood. Looking for any weaknesses that might cause it to fail at a critical moment.
Every few minutes he checked the pot, watching as the water began to bubble and steam rose from its surface. The smell of cooking vegetables slowly filled the cave, mixing with the woodsmoke in a way that reminded Yang of better times.
Once he started smelling the full aroma of the cooked soup, the herbs releasing their scent into the air, Yang set the bow aside. He took a clay bowl and carefully scooped soup from the pot. The hot liquid warmed his hands through the clay, and he had to wait a moment before bringing it to his lips.
It tasted delicious. Yang knew his standards had dropped dramatically. After months in the forest and years living in a simple village before that, anything warm and filling seemed wonderful. Once upon a time, in that previous life he would have found such fare inedible. But poverty in this life and his previous one meant vastly different things.
In his old world, being poor meant cheap food that still came in packages. It meant struggling to pay bills but still having electricity and running water. Here, poverty meant eating whatever you could find or catch or grow, and counting yourself lucky if you didn't starve.
Yang ate his fill, savoring every mouthful. When he finished, he saw that a little soup remained in the pot. He decided to save it for breakfast tomorrow. No point wasting good food, and having something already prepared would let him start the day more quickly.
He drank another bowl of water, then moved to his sleeping area. His body was exhausted from the long walk and the constant physical effort that survival demanded. Tomorrow would bring new challenges. More foraging, checking his traps, maybe testing the bow if he could work up the courage.
But for now, Yang was safe.
He curled up on his bark and fiber bed, pulling the small fur blanket over himself. The fire crackled softly in its pit, sending dancing shadows across the cave walls. Warmth radiated through the space, pushing back the autumn chill.
Yang's eyes closed almost immediately. His last conscious thought was a simple acknowledgment of another day survived.