Marcus waited three days before making his second attempt.
Three days of rest, of eating what little food his mother quietly directed his way, of rebuilding his strength. Three days of sitting and watching, pretending to recuperate while his mind worked through the variables of his next hunt.
His mother assumed he was scouting during his brief walks around the village perimeter, and he let her believe it. She'd check on him each evening, asking gentle questions about terrain and conditions, nodding approvingly when he described features of the ravine trail with careful detail.
But Marcus hadn't returned to the ravine. Didn't need to.
His memory of that night—the actual terrain, the current state of the deadfall, the undergrowth patterns, the stream's flow and width—remained crystalline in his mind. He could call up the image at will, rotate it mentally, examine it from different angles. Every root that had caught his foot, every branch that had scraped his face, every stone in the streambed was catalogued with perfect clarity.
It was one of the strange things he'd noticed about this new existence. Chen Liang's old memories were fuzzy, imprecise, like trying to remember a dream. But anything Marcus himself experienced was sharp, detailed, permanent. He could recall the exact position of the deadfall—14.7 meters upstream from his original estimate, angled at roughly 35 degrees from perpendicular to the trail. The boulder he'd used for cover was approximately 2.3 meters tall, with a distinctive crack running down its eastern face.
He didn't fully understand this ability yet. Didn't know if it was a quirk of his reincarnation, some synergy between Marcus's analytical mind and Chen Liang's body, or simply an aspect of this world he hadn't learned about. But he knew it was unusual. Chen Liang's memories suggested normal people forgot details, misremembered distances, conflated similar events.
Marcus didn't forget anything.
His mother wouldn't understand if he tried to explain, so he didn't. Better to let her think he was being cautious and thorough, scouting properly as she'd instructed. The deception sat uneasily in his chest, but practicality won out over honesty.
On the third night, when his body felt strong enough and the conditions were right, Marcus made his move.
This time he was prepared properly. The dried meat and waterskin sat in the pack along with the fire-starting kit and oiled cloth. He wore his warmest clothes—still thin by his previous life's standards, but layered for better insulation. The spear's head had been re-bound with fresh cord, tested against a tree to ensure it held firm.
His mother had watched him prepare with knowing eyes, saying nothing but pressing an extra cloth into his hands for wrapping around his face against the cold. She didn't ask when he was leaving. Didn't need to.
"Remember your promise," was all she said.
"I will."
He left two hours after midnight, when his family was deep in sleep and the village lay silent under a thin veil of stars.
The trail was easier this time. Marcus moved with more confidence, his body stronger, his mind already holding a perfect map of the route. He knew where the treacherous roots lay, which branches hung low, where the path narrowed. Each obstacle was catalogued from his first journey, transformed from surprise to expected challenge.
But he also moved more cautiously, because this time he understood the real dangers.
Daytime hunting would have offered visibility, true. But his mother's advice, well-meaning as it was, hadn't accounted for something Marcus had been thinking about extensively: predators.
During the day, the mountain forests came alive with activity. Large predators—leopards especially, but also the occasional wolf pack—hunted when they could see. Chen Liang's memories held stories of hunters encountering leopards on the trails, of close calls and narrow escapes. A fifteen-year-old boy with a spear was potential prey to a hungry leopard, not a threat.
At night, the apex predators typically bedded down. Leopards were crepuscular, most active at dawn and dusk. Wolves hunted in the evening and early morning. The deepest part of night, between midnight and dawn, was relatively safer—at least from the large predators that could kill him outright.
The trade-off was visibility and the smaller nocturnal hunters, but Marcus had decided those risks were more manageable. Better to stumble in darkness than walk into a leopard's hunting ground in daylight.
His mind tracked the journey with automatic precision. 847 steps to the trail fork. Another 623 steps down the ravine path. Two brief rest stops—one at 1,240 steps, another at 1,890—to catch his breath and verify his direction. Total travel time: 82 minutes, a significant improvement over his first attempt.
The deadfall loomed out of the darkness exactly where his memory promised it would be. Marcus moved past it to his chosen position, the boulder with the distinctive crack, and settled in with practiced care.
This time he'd brought the oiled cloth to sit on, creating a barrier between himself and the cold ground. The extra wrapping around his face helped retain heat. The waterskin and dried meat were positioned within easy reach. Small preparations, but they made an enormous difference in comfort.
He waited, spear across his knees, breathing slowly and quietly.
The forest at night had its own rhythm, distinct from the silence of his first attempt. Marcus found himself cataloguing sounds almost unconsciously. The rustle of something small—probably a rodent—moving through leaf litter approximately 15 meters to his left. The distant call of a night bird, some species he didn't recognize. The constant burble of the stream, flowing at what his mind automatically calculated as roughly 40-50 liters per minute based on the sound and his memory of its width and depth.
His mind wanted to multitask, to process multiple streams of thought simultaneously, but Marcus forced himself to focus. Hunting required attention, presence in the moment. Let his consciousness split too much and he'd miss the subtle signs that game was approaching.
An hour passed. His body was cold but not dangerously so. The preparation had worked—he was uncomfortable but functional, capable of remaining still and alert.
Then, a new sound. Different from the ambient forest noise. The soft crack of a branch, the rustle of something larger than a rodent moving through undergrowth.
Marcus's breathing slowed further. His grip tightened slightly on the spear shaft.
Through the darkness, he could just make out movement near the stream. A shape, low to the ground, four-legged. Too large to be a rabbit, the wrong proportions for a deer.
Pig.
His heart rate elevated despite his attempt to stay calm. The shape moved to the water's edge, and in the faint starlight reflecting off the stream, Marcus could see it more clearly. Young pig, probably female, maybe 35-40 kilograms. Alone, which was unusual—they typically traveled in small groups—but not unheard of.
The pig drank, its head lowering to the water, body angled slightly away from Marcus's position. The distance was approximately 12 meters, within range for a spear throw if he was confident in his aim.
But Marcus wasn't confident. Chen Liang's memories included spear throwing, but those were a child's memories, muscle patterns that this teenage body might not fully retain. A missed throw meant a spooked target and another wasted night. A wounded pig meant danger—even a small one could be vicious when hurt.
He needed a better opportunity. Needed the pig to move closer or present a more certain target.
The pig finished drinking and raised its head, snuffling at the air. For a terrible moment, Marcus thought it had caught his scent, that he'd made some error in positioning or wind calculation.
But the animal didn't run. Instead, it moved along the streambank, angling slightly toward his position, investigating something in the undergrowth.
Closer. 10 meters now. Then 9.
The pig's attention was focused on rooting in the dirt, searching for something—grubs maybe, or roots. Its flank was exposed, broadside to Marcus's position.
8 meters.
His mind ran calculations automatically. Distance, angle, necessary force. The spear's weight distribution, his current physical condition, the pig's likely reaction time. Success probability climbed from 40% to 60% as the range decreased.
7 meters.
Marcus's muscles tensed, preparing. He'd need to move fast—stand, step forward, throw in one smooth motion. No hesitation, no second-guessing.
The pig shifted slightly, its body angling even more favorably.
Now.
Marcus moved. His body responded with surprising fluidity—the rest and preparation paying dividends. He rose from his crouch, took one long step forward for momentum, and threw.
The spear left his hand with more force than he'd expected, his body executing movements that felt almost instinctive despite being unfamiliar. Chen Liang's muscle memory, perhaps, combining with Marcus's intent.
Time seemed to slow as the spear flew through the darkness. Marcus's enhanced perception tracked its path—the slight wobble in flight, the arc, the point of impact.
The metal tip struck the pig's chest, behind the front leg, penetrating deep. The animal squealed—a horrible, sharp sound that shattered the night's quiet—and bolted.
But not far. It made it perhaps 5 meters before its front legs buckled. The spear must have hit something vital—heart or major blood vessel. The pig staggered, squealed again more weakly, and collapsed.
Marcus was already moving, drawing the knife from his belt. His heart hammered in his chest, adrenaline flooding his system, but his mind remained oddly clear. The pig was down but might not be dead. Needed to finish this quickly, humanely.
He reached the fallen animal and could see immediately that it was dying. Blood pooled dark beneath it. Its breathing was rapid, labored, fading. The spear had struck true, punching through the chest cavity.
Marcus knelt and used the knife to cut its throat, severing the major vessels. A mercy, ending it faster. The pig shuddered once more and went still.
Then silence returned to the forest, broken only by Marcus's own heavy breathing and the continued burble of the stream.
He'd done it. Actually done it.
For a long moment, he simply knelt there beside his kill, trying to process what had just happened. His first successful hunt. Meat for his family. Proof that his planning and preparation could translate into results.
But there was no time for celebration. He needed to field dress the animal quickly, before the smell of blood attracted scavengers. Needed to get it back to the village before dawn.
Marcus's mind shifted into practical mode, cycling through the steps he'd learned from his uncle in another life. Make a shallow cut from sternum to pelvis. Remove the organs carefully, watching not to puncture the stomach or intestines. Work quickly but precisely.
His hands shook slightly as he worked—partly from adrenaline, partly from the reality of what he was doing. Taking a life, processing a carcass. It was more visceral than his mental simulations had prepared him for. Messier. Warmer. The smell was stronger, more complex.
But he pushed through the discomfort and finished the job. The organs went into a shallow hole he scraped out and covered with stones—they'd be eaten by scavengers anyway, no point carrying the extra weight. The carcass he wrapped in the oiled cloth and secured to his pack.
The pig was heavier than expected—closer to 40 kilograms than 35. His body strained under the weight as he shouldered the pack and retrieved his spear.
The return journey was going to be harder than he'd planned.
But as Marcus started back up the trail, pack heavy on his shoulders and spear in hand, he found himself smiling despite the exhaustion and the blood on his hands.
He'd succeeded. Failed once, learned, adapted, and succeeded.
His mother had been right about preparation. But she'd been wrong about daytime scouting being necessary. His perfect memory had made that redundant, though he'd never explain that to her.
The forest was still dark around him, but the sky to the east showed the first hints of predawn grey. He needed to move faster.
Marcus picked up his pace, his mind already calculating optimal rest stops and arrival time, already planning how to preserve the meat, already thinking about the next hunt.
Because there would be a next time. There would always be a next time.
Until winter came, until the game moved on, until the risk outweighed the reward—he would keep hunting. Keep contributing. Keep surviving.
One careful step at a time.