The "Auntie Lien" his mother mentioned was a busybody neighbor whose son was a low-ranking guard on the perimeter wall.
Her "news" was often a mix of genuine intel and embellished gossip, a common currency in the tightly packed, rumor-fueled residential blocks of Hanoi Sector 7.
Lâm Minh grunted a non-committal, "Right," as he quickly splashed water on his face in the tiny, shared bathroom.
The cheap soap stung his eyes, a sensation so mundane yet so alien after decades of military-grade hygiene packs or, more often, nothing at all.
His mother, a woman named Mai, was already ladling a thin rice porridge into two chipped bowls.
She looked younger than he remembered her at the end, her face less etched with constant fear and grief, though the worry lines around her eyes were already present.
She was probably only in her late thirties, but life in the ASEAN stronghold aged everyone prematurely.
"Eat quickly, Minh," she said, her voice a familiar blend of care and exasperation.
"Your father left for the hydroponics bay before dawn. Said there was a double shift quota today. Something about a blight in Sector 4's farms."
Lâm Minh nodded, spooning the bland porridge into his mouth.
Food was fuel, nothing more.
In his past life, he'd eaten worse. Far worse.
He remembered scavenging for nutrient paste packets dropped by overwhelmed supply drones, sometimes days old. This porridge, however tasteless, was a luxury by comparison.
"The news said the Madakaros tried a probing attack near the Thanh Trì Bridge section last night," Mai continued, her gaze distant.
"Another patrol wiped out. They say… they say the aliens are getting bolder."
Lâm Minh's spoon paused. Thanh Trì Bridge. That was less than 20 kilometers from here. "They always get bolder if we show weakness," he said, his voice flat.
Mai looked at him, a flicker of surprise in her eyes. "Since when did you become so philosophical about the war, son? Usually, you're just worried about Mr. Hùng's history test."
He forced a shrug, trying to mimic teenage indifference. "Just something I heard."
Internally, he cataloged the information. Probing attacks. Standard Madakaros tactic before a larger push. They were testing defenses, looking for vulnerabilities.
The war never truly stopped, but there were ebbs and flows.
He finished his porridge, grabbed a worn satchel that contained a few flimsy notebooks and a single, dog-eared textbook on "Basic Defensive Tactics and Xenomorphic Biology," and headed for the door.
"Be careful, Minh!" his mother called after him.
"I will," he replied, the words feeling heavier, more sincere than they would have coming from the original sixteen-year-old.
The corridors of their apartment block were narrow, dimly lit by flickering fluorescent tubes.
The air was thick with the smell of cooking, dampness, and the faint, ever-present metallic tang that seemed to permeate everything in the fortified city.
People hurried past, their faces grim, etched with the anxiety of survival. Children, too young to fully grasp the horror, played boisterous games in the cramped hallways, their laughter a stark, almost painful contrast to the atmosphere.
Outside, Hanoi was a city under siege, yet stubbornly alive.
The older, charming French colonial architecture was either retrofitted with plasteel reinforcements and weapon emplacements or stood as bombed-out skeletons.
Newer structures were utilitarian, brutalist blocks of ferroconcrete, designed for defense rather than aesthetics.
Sky-bridges, heavily patrolled, connected taller buildings, allowing for rapid troop movement above the congested streets.
Armored personnel carriers rumbled past, their heavy treads chewing up the patched asphalt.
Propaganda posters, depicting heroic ASEAN soldiers and monstrous caricatures of Madakaros warriors, were plastered on every available surface.
"Vigilance is Victory!"
"Report Suspicious Activity!"
"For Humanity! For ASEAN!"
Lâm Minh navigated the familiar route to Thăng Long Combat Preparatory School, his senses on high alert.
He wasn't just observing; he was assessing. The number of patrols, their alertness, the types of weaponry they carried, the subtle shifts in public mood.
His fifty-year-old mind processed it all, comparing it to the fragmented memories of this period from his first life, and cross-referencing it with the brutal lessons learned in the decades that followed.
The school itself was a large, fortress-like compound, surrounded by a moderately high wall topped with electrified razor wire.
Watchtowers manned by student militia – older students, likely seventeen or eighteen – stood at each corner.
It wasn't designed to hold off a concerted Madakaros assault, but it could deter opportunistic incursions by their scouting parties or human collaborators – the desperate or depraved who sold out their own species for scraps of Madakaros favor or a misguided belief in their invincibility.
He merged with the throng of students funneling through the main gate, their chatter a cacophony of youthful concerns – tests, crushes, the latest black-market vid-chips.
They wore simple, standardized grey uniforms. Lâm Minh felt a profound disconnect. These were children, barely understanding the true nature of the beast at their door.
In his previous life, many of them would be dead within a few years. Some, perhaps, within months.
A wave of grim determination washed over him. He wasn't just here to survive. He was here to change that.
As he walked across the central courtyard towards the main academic block, his eyes scanned the faces.
He was looking for potential. For those with a spark of resilience, intelligence, or even desperation that could be molded. And he was looking for Tố Quyên.
His memory of her at sixteen was hazy.
Pretty, yes. Smart. From a "good family," which in 2025 ASEAN meant her parents were likely mid-to-high-ranking officials, successful merchants in the controlled economy, or perhaps researchers in vital war-effort industries.
Their social circles hadn't intersected much back then. He'd been a nobody from Sector 7; she was likely in a different orbit entirely.
Then he saw her.
She was standing near the entrance of the advanced sciences building, talking animatedly with a group of other girls who radiated an aura of privilege.
Even in the drab school uniform, Tố Quyên stood out. Her black hair, longer than regulations strictly allowed, was glossy and framed a face of delicate, intelligent beauty.
Her eyes, dark and expressive, sparkled as she spoke. She carried herself with an unconscious grace and confidence that set her apart.
Lâm Minh stopped, his breath catching in his throat. It was her.
Unmistakably.
Younger, unburdened by the horrors he knew she would later face, but the same spirit shone through.
The sight of her, alive and vibrant, hit him with the force of a physical blow.
A complex mix of profound relief, aching grief for the future her he'd lost, and a fierce, possessive protectiveness surged through him.
She will live, he vowed silently, his gaze intense. This time, she will live, and she will thrive.
One of the girls in Tố Quyên's group noticed him staring.
She nudged Tố Quyên and gestured discreetly.
Tố Quyên's gaze flickered towards him, a brief, dismissive glance that took in his somewhat disheveled appearance and the cheapness of his worn satchel.
There was no recognition, just the faint, almost imperceptible tightening of her lips that one gives to an uninvited stare from a stranger.
She turned back to her friends, dismissing him.
Lâm Minh felt a pang, not of hurt, but of grim understanding.
Of course.
Why would she notice him? He was, currently, nothing.
A nameless, faceless student from the lower rungs.
This was the chasm of social standing he'd have to bridge.
In his past life, it was shared trauma and the desperate crucible of war that had eventually brought them together, stripping away such superficialities.
This time, he would have to earn her attention, her respect, and eventually, her heart, on different terms.
And he would need to be strong enough to protect her when her family inevitably objected to a boy like him.
He tore his gaze away, forcing himself to focus.
Mooning over her now was unproductive.
He needed to get to class, and more importantly, he needed to delve into the [Basic Madakaros Cultivation Manual (Qi Refining Stage – Human Adapted)] that the System had provided.
His first class was "Contemporary Geopolitics and Xeno-Threat Analysis" with Mr. Dũng, a paunchy, balding man whose lectures were notoriously dry.
Perfect. Lâm Minh found a seat at the back, the chatter of his classmates fading into a dull hum as he mentally accessed the System.
The manual appeared in his mind's eye, not as text, but as a series of intricate diagrams, flowing energy pathways, and complex meditative sequences.
It was incredibly detailed.
The core principle, as he'd known from military intelligence briefings in his past life, involved the refinement of petroleum – Spirit Essence – into usable Qi.
The Madakaros physiology had natural advantages in this process. This "human-adapted" version seemed to focus on stimulating latent human energy centers, the Dantian being paramount, and creating artificial pathways to mimic the Madakaros' efficiency, albeit at a slower initial rate.
[System Note: The provided Qi Refining manual is optimized for human physiology but requires Spirit Stones (Petroleum Condensate) for initial Qi generation and Dantian activation. Sustained practice without Spirit Stones will yield minimal results and may cause internal strain.]
So, the ten Low-Grade Spirit Stones were his starting capital.
He visualized one.
It appeared in his mental inventory as a small, black, irregular crystal, faintly oily to the touch, pulsing with a dense, almost hungry energy.
[Low-Grade Spirit Stone: Contains a small amount of refined Petroleum Condensate. Sufficient for approximately one hour of initial Qi Refining cultivation for a novice with an unlocked Heaven Tier (Stage 1) Spiritual Root.]
One hour per stone.
Ten hours total.
Not much.
He would need more, many more.
And Spirit Stones, even low-grade ones, were not easily obtainable for a sixteen-year-old from a poor family.
They were primarily controlled by the military and research institutions, used to power certain alien-derived technologies or for the few experimental human cultivation programs that had, so far, yielded pathetic results.
A new kind of hunger gnawed at him, sharper than any physical starvation he'd ever known: the hunger for power, for resources, for the means to change his destiny and the destiny of his world.
Mr. Dũng droned on about Madakaros societal structures, regurgitating outdated and often inaccurate information from pre-invasion anthropological studies of dubious alien contactees.
Lâm Minh listened with half an ear, his mind racing. He needed a plan.
A way to acquire more Spirit Stones.
A way to cultivate without drawing undue attention.
And a way to start building a foundation for the future.
His gaze drifted across the classroom.
Most students were either feigning attention, doodling, or surreptitiously passing notes.
A few, the more diligent ones, were actually taking notes.
He cataloged them.
Who seemed sharp?
Who seemed resourceful?
Who had that glint of desperation or ambition in their eyes?
A commotion near the front of the class drew his attention.
A lanky, arrogant-looking youth named Khang, known for his family's connections and his bullying tendencies, was tormenting a smaller, bespectacled boy, flicking his ear and snatching his pen.
The victim, a boy named Bảo, flinched but didn't retaliate, his face burning with shame.
The teacher, Mr. Dũng, either didn't notice or chose to ignore it.
This was the microcosm of the larger world: the strong preying on the weak, and the indifferent allowing it to happen.
In his past life, Lâm Minh might have ignored it too, unless it directly affected his mission.
He had been ruthless, focused. But the kindness to his compatriots, the protective instinct, was still there, buried deep.
And this new Lâm Minh, the one with a chance to truly make a difference from the ground up, felt a flicker of something else: opportunity.
Khang smirked, enjoying his petty display of dominance.
Lâm Minh watched, his expression unreadable.
The predator in the classroom was not Khang.
The true predator was sitting at the back, observing, calculating, and waiting for the right moment to reveal his fangs.
Not through brute force, not yet.
But through intelligence, cunning, and a ruthlessness Khang couldn't begin to comprehend.
The school bell, a harsh, clanging sound, signaled the end of the period. Students began to shuffle out.
Lâm Minh remained seated for a moment, the mental image of the Qi Refining manual still vivid. He needed a secluded place to begin his first cultivation session.
And he needed to gather information.
He stood up, his movements economical.
As he passed Khang, who was still sneering at Bảo, their eyes met briefly.
Khang, expecting perhaps fear or deference from this quiet, unremarkable classmate, saw something in Lâm Minh's gaze that made him pause.
A coldness, a depth, an utter lack of fear that was disconcerting. It was gone in an instant, replaced by a neutral expression, but the seed of unease had been planted.
Lâm Minh walked out of the classroom, his mind already several steps ahead.
The day was young, and the war for Earth had just begun anew, inside the heart of a sixteen-year-old boy who remembered its bitter end.
His first target: secure more Spirit Stones, and then, begin the arduous journey of Qi Refining.
And perhaps, along the way, he would deal with small-time bullies like Khang, not out of altruism, but as a way to test his growing influence and send a message.
The strong would rise, but he would define what true strength meant.