The return to Bai Village was quiet.
The hunting party was as usual, rowdy with laughter and stories after a successful expedition, but Adam couldn't help but walk in heavy silence.
Snow crunched underfoot, the wind howled gently over the rooftops, and smoke drifted lazily from the chimneys. Adam found himself walking near the rear, his breath fogging in the cold air, eyes darting toward Lin Yao every now and then.
She hadn't spoken to him since the incident in the forest. Not a glance, not a word.
The distance between them, once bridged with ease and mutual trust, now felt like an endless chasm.
She walked alone, arms crossed under her fur cloak, eyes fixed ahead. Her father, Lin Kuan, marched a few steps in front of her, his face carved in stone.
Adam wanted to believe it was temporary. Maybe she was recovering. Maybe the pressure of the breakthrough had shaken her deeply. But in the days and weeks that followed, it became clear: Lin Yao had changed.
She barely spoke to anyone. Instructors, peers, even the children who once admired her—they all received the same cold silence.
Her days were spent in seclusion, training obsessively in the frosted courtyards or practicing silent forms beneath the frozen waterfall.
Adam tried to approach her a few more times, only to be brushed off with polite distance or complete disregard.
His heart ached with something he couldn't quite name—anger, confusion or maybe grief. But it paled in comparison to the sense of failure that bloomed in his chest each morning.
He was still stuck at initial tier three.
No matter how much dark matter he absorbed, no matter how many beasts he hunted, no matter how long he meditated beneath the biting cold wind—it was as if something inside him was broken.
Others progressed, slowly but steadily. Lin Yao had reached tier two and was progressing at a fast speed, others from their generation caught up to him and began showing signs of breakthroughs to tier three mid stage. But Adam remained still.
Trapped.
And yet, he refused to stop.
He rose earlier than anyone, trained harder than all of them, pushed his body until blood mixed with sweat and his vision spun from exhaustion.
Every strike, every repetition, every meditation became a plea to a heaven that never answered.
"Adam, you're overdoing it," Instructor Li warned one morning, watching him slam his fists into the bark of a reinforced training pole until his knuckles split open.
"I'm fine," Adam muttered, wrapping his bloodied hands with worn cloth and returning to stance.
"You're not. You're burning your foundation."
Adam didn't respond. He didn't have the words to explain the pressure pressing on his chest like a stone.
How could he? How could he speak of the four lives, of the death, the fire, the helplessness? How could he tell them that all this—the hunting, the progress, the friendships—none of it mattered if the ending was the same?
He had seen it. The fire in the sky. The barrier of death. The charred bodies of the villagers he had come to love. The twisted laughter of their murderers.
And he had done nothing.
He clenched his fists tighter, felt the sting of torn skin and fractured bones.
He deserved this pain.
---
The seasons passed. Spring melted into summer, then cooled again into autumn, and soon winter returned. One year became two. Then three.
The villagers noticed. Some spoke behind hushed hands, others offered kind words. The children still greeted him with wide smiles, unaware of the storm within.
Madame Yue once brought him new gloves, thick and warm, with reinforced leather for training. Old Zhang would silently leave a bowl of hot congee outside his door in the mornings.
Even Lin Kuan, known for his silence and strictness, once paused beside Adam's training field and grunted, "Too rigid. Loosen your shoulder when you strike."
Everyone in Bai village was still just as kind despite the fact he wasn't the genius they once thought he was. But none of it filled the growing void in his chest.
Adam often wandered the village late at night, long after the fires were out. He would walk past the homes, listening to the soft sounds of sleep and life, and he would picture them—those who had died in his previous life.
The baker's wife who had given him sweet bread. The grizzled hunter who shared stories of his youth. The laughing children who played in the snow.
He remembered their names. Their smiles. Their screams.
And always, Old Bai's voice, echoing in his head: Run, Xue Lian! It's a trap!
That girl—Xue Lian—she hadn't appeared again. In this life, she had never made an appearance just like the last life. Who was she? Maybe she could be the key to save everyone.
He didn't know. But he would not rely on miracles.
---
By the fourth year, even the most hopeful had begun to give up on him.
He saw it in their eyes. Not unkindness—just quiet resignation. The village had seen many talented youths rise and fall. Not everyone bloomed.
But Adam wasn't trying to bloom.
He was trying to survive.
He had failed them once.
He couldn't again.
---
Then came the fifth winter.
It was harsher than the last, the wind more bitter, the snow deeper. The frost seeped into every corner of the village, turning roofs white and freezing streams solid. Training became harder. Resources scarcer.
Adam's body had grown leaner, stronger, more resilient—but his realm had not advanced a single step. He was still stuck at the initial tier 3.
He now trained in isolation in the forest beyond the village. No one stopped him anymore. They had tried, but he wouldn't listen. He practiced until he collapsed. He ran until his legs gave out. He forced himself to fight wild beasts barehanded just to push himself further.
On one such day, as he lay in the snow, blood trickling from a gash in his side, chest heaving with exhaustion, he stared up at the grey sky and whispered:
"I'm sorry."
He didn't even know who he was apologizing to anymore.
---
That night, back in his small wooden hut, Adam sat by the unlit fire. He didn't bother lighting it. Cold had become a friend. A judge.
He stared into the darkness and thought of the faces he could no longer forget.
He thought of Old Bai—his strength, his wisdom, his laughter. Of Lin Yao—her warmth before the ice, her gaze that once saw him. Of the strict Madame Yue, fighting with blood in her hair. Of the children who would never grow up.
"I don't want to lose them again," he whispered. "I don't care if I have to burn myself hollow... I'll stop it this time."
He stood.
There was no other way.
Even if it meant death.
Even if they didn't believe him.
He had to tell Old Bai.
Even if he was branded a traitor, even if he was exiled or executed.
He had to speak.
---
The walk to the Great Pavilion was slow. He decided to meet him at the centre of the village instead of Old Bai's private little house at the edge of the village.
Snow crunched beneath his boots. Lanterns glowed softly on the wooden posts. Villagers passed him, offering nods or gentle greetings.
He didn't respond.
His heart thundered.
What would he even say?
"Hello, I'm from the future and we're all going to die unless we act now?"
They'd think he was mad.
But he couldn't stay silent anymore.
Not while the clock ticked down to another massacre.
Not while the fire was coming.
Not while they still had a chance.
---
He stood at the base of the pavilion steps. High above, the lights were still on. Old Bai never slept early.
Adam clenched his fists.
He took a deep breath.
And he climbed.