Somewhere in the eastern continent—west of the Wood Kingdom, buried deep within a mountain range that never truly slept—there existed a small settlement known as Gang Village.
That was all anyone outside needed to know.
For the people who lived here, however, the name carried weight. It meant danger, endurance, and lives measured not in years, but in beast attacks survived.
Gang Hua lived here.
He was six years old.
And he was already an orphan.
His mother had died giving birth to him. Four years later, his father followed—torn apart while defending the village from a beast descending from the mountains. His father had been a cultivator, one of the few fighters capable of standing against such threats.
That year, nearly thirty villagers died.
Five of them were cultivators.
The strongest fighter in Gang Village also fell, and after that, every beast attack carved deeper scars into the village. Fewer defenders. Fewer strong arms. More graves.
For the past two years, Gang Hua had lived in the village orphanage alongside a dozen other children. Most of them had lost their families during that same disaster. Some were younger, some older, but all of them shared the same hollow look—children forced to grow up too fast.
Right now, Gang Hua sat beneath an old tree at the edge of the orphanage yard, his back against the trunk, watching the younger children chase each other around in circles.
They laughed loudly.
He didn't join them.
Instead, his gaze drifted, unfocused, settling on the slow-moving water of a nearby stream.
…I really wish I had a smartphone right now, he thought. I could read a chapter or two.
Yes.
He already knew how ridiculous that sounded.
Gang Hua was a reincarnator.
He didn't remember much of his previous life—just fragments. A glowing screen. Endless stories. Late nights scrolling when he should have been sleeping. Those memories had grown clearer as his body aged, and as a result, his mind felt far older than six.
Which made pretending to be a normal child exhausting.
The surface of the water rippled, and his reflection wavered. Black hair. Black eyes. A face still soft with childhood, but already well-shaped.
Gang Hua studied it seriously.
…I'll probably be handsome when I grow up.
That thought brought him a small, private satisfaction.
His father had been a cultivator. That alone meant he'd had the qualifications to marry one of the most beautiful women in the village. Gang Hua had no memories of her face, but he liked to believe he'd inherited her looks.
Just as he was admiring himself a little too much—
"Gang Hua!"
A voice snapped him out of his thoughts.
He flinched and looked up.
A middle-aged woman stood nearby, her hands on her hips. She looked to be somewhere between thirty and forty, but the lines on her face made her seem older. Years of hard labor and worry had carved themselves into her expression.
This was Miss Ye, the caretaker of the orphanage.
She had raised more children than she could count.
"Why aren't you playing with the others?" she asked.
Gang Hua shrugged. "Looks boring. You know I don't like playing."
She sighed, rubbing her temple. "Yes, yes. At least you aren't swinging a stick around and calling it sword training this time. So?" She eyed him. "What are you thinking about today?"
"Tomorrow," he replied casually.
"Tomorrow?" Her eyebrows rose. "And what's so special about tomorrow?"
"What I'm going to do," he said.
Miss Ye's eyes softened. "Oh?" she said gently. "So which shop are you planning to visit?"
Gang Hua stood up, straightened his back, and puffed out his chest with exaggerated pride. "The blacksmith shop. Uncle Wu said he'd take me in."
She froze for half a breath, then smiled and reached out, ruffling his hair.
"That's good," she said. "Very good."
In Gang Village, children didn't stay in the orphanage forever.
Once a child reached six and a half years old, they were sent out.
It wasn't cruelty.
It was survival.
The village was small, hidden deep in the mountains, and the mouths to feed far outnumbered what the orphanage could sustain. After the beast disaster, orphans had become tragically common. Miss Ye simply couldn't carry the burden alone anymore.
So the village chief had made a hard decision.
Children who came of age would be sent to work under village craftsmen—blacksmiths, herbalists, hunters, shopkeepers.
On the surface, it was labor.
In truth, it was training.
Some children learned trades. Some discovered talent—strong physiques, keen senses, or even faint spiritual roots. If a cultivator or craftsman took interest, the child might be accepted as an apprentice.
For an orphan, that was the best fate possible.
Food.
Shelter.
Guidance.
And perhaps—if fate was kind—a path toward cultivation.
Miss Ye looked at Gang Hua quietly for a moment. "Are you scared?" she asked.
He hesitated.
"…A little," he admitted.
She nodded. "That's normal. But Uncle Wu is a good man. Your father and he were friends."
Gang Hua clenched his fists slightly at the mention of his father.
"I know," he said. "That's why I chose him."
Miss Ye studied him with a complicated look. Sometimes, she felt as though this child saw the world too clearly.
"Gang Hua," she said softly, "no matter what path you walk… don't rush yourself."
He smiled. "I won't."
A pause.
"By the way," Miss Ye added suddenly, "can you go get Ye Chag?"
Gang Hua's expression collapsed instantly.
"What? Again?" he groaned. "Why me? Why not Xiao Yu? She's the only one who can drag him back before dinner."
"Her mother is sick again," Miss Ye said. "She stayed home to help."
Gang Hua clicked his tongue. "That Ye Chag! Why is Xiao Yu always clinging to him and not me? If I were able to—!"
Flick.
"Ow!"
"One watch," Miss Ye scolded, "and you're only six years old, yet you're already getting jealous?"
Clutching his forehead, Gang Hua muttered, "Why do you always hit so hard…"
"What was that?" she asked, raising her hand again.
Fear surged through his body instantly.
"I'll go! I'll go!" he shouted, already turning and sprinting away, his short legs pumping as fast as they could—like prey fleeing a mother tiger.
Miss Ye watched his retreating figure, shaking her head.
"…This child," she murmured. "I hope the mountains are kinder to you than they were to your father."
As Gang Hua ran toward the edge of the village, his playful expression slowly faded.
Tomorrow, he would step onto his path.
And this time—
He would survive.