The frost clung stubbornly to the edges of Li Rong's small vegetable plot, sparkling faintly under the rising sun. He knelt among the shoots of cabbage and turnip, pressing his fingers into the soil to test its moisture. The earth was uneven, compacted in places, yet fertile enough to sustain his modest crops. From his previous life, he knew how soil drained, how roots should be spaced, and how even a small trench could protect delicate plants from runoff. Every detail mattered.
A rustle in the underbrush drew his attention to the ridge beyond the village. Something had moved — subtle, deliberate, and fleeting — among the pines. Li Rong's pulse quickened. He had long been alone in this village, yet the mountains seemed to remind him that solitude was never absolute. Shadows shifted, and he returned to his work with renewed caution.
He inspected the rows of wild herbs and tender roots he had transplanted from the mountain periphery. Some he had planted for food, others for medicinal purposes. Picking the tender shoots, he examined each carefully, remembering which could soothe minor wounds or digestive discomfort — knowledge that had once been mundane, now invaluable. Even here, the wisdom of his modern life gave him an edge the villagers lacked.
Footprints pressed into the soft soil near the mountain path caught his eye. Not random, not the irregular marks of animals. Someone had moved with measured steps, careful not to disturb the surrounding brush more than necessary. Li Rong studied the impressions, noting weight distribution, stride length, and direction. His mind cataloged the evidence as methodically as he tended his crops. Someone is watching, he concluded. But for now, the presence felt distant, silent, and non-threatening.
He rose and moved toward the rocks along the edge of his plot, examining mossy patches for hidden mushrooms and roots. Every selection was deliberate: taste-tested in small amounts, checked for signs of decay or toxin, and stored carefully in clay jars. Modern reasoning, he realized, was as useful here as it had ever been: observation, hypothesis, testing, and adaptation.
The ridge above shifted slightly, a metallic glint catching the sunlight for a fraction of a moment. Li Rong's gaze followed it, analyzing angles and possible paths. Deliberate. Careful. Skilled. Whoever it was, they had patience, discipline, and awareness. The presence did not frighten him — but it intrigued him, and his mind cataloged every subtle clue.
By midday, his basket was filled with mushrooms, roots, and tender wild greens. Returning to the hut, he noted minor improvements he had made to protect his plot: a low stone wall to deter stray animals, herbs planted strategically to thrive in morning sun, and shallow ditches to guide runoff water away from vulnerable roots. Small details, yes, but they mattered. Efficiency, foresight, and planning had become his quiet allies.
The wind shifted again, carrying a faint whistle from the ridge above. Li Rong froze briefly, listening to the subtle notes drifting down like echoes of a distant instrument. No sound followed. No footprints moved beneath his gaze. Yet the evidence remained: broken twigs, slightly shifted stones, impressions in soft soil. Whoever it was moved with intention, watching patiently, but leaving no direct trace of threat.
Evening arrived slowly, casting gold and violet light over the mountains. Li Rong sorted his harvest, preparing millet porridge mixed with wild greens and roots. He paused, glancing toward the ridge, noting the lines of observation that seemed carefully maintained. Whoever watched from above was methodical, deliberate — calculating without intrusion. He could not see them, but he sensed the presence, almost like a heartbeat echoing through the mountains.
Pressing his hands into the soil, Li Rong grounded himself in the earthy scent of frost and growth. Alone, yet not unobserved, he thought. Strength, discipline, and patience were recognizable even from a distance. The watcher above would remain for now, silent and unknown, but the thread connecting them had been cast.
Night fell, stars glimmering faintly above the ridge. Li Rong crouched near his hut, listening to the whisper of wind in the pines. Every broken twig, every footprint, every metallic glint was a sign, a question, and a promise. One day, that presence would intersect with his path. Until then, he would observe, prepare, and endure — drawing quietly on the knowledge of two worlds, modern and ancient, to survive the mountains and the village alike.