The Breaking Point
Wei didn't sleep.
He lay on the kang with his eyes open, staring at the ceiling. The wooden beams were the same ones he had stared at as a child, counting the knots when he couldn't sleep. Back then, his worries had been small—a test he hadn't studied for, a boy who had been mean to Li, a dog that had wandered too far from the farm.
Now the barn was full of neighbors who hated him, and somewhere in the hills, goblins had been spotted. Not close. Not yet. But the patrols had seen them.
He turned his head toward the window. The sky was still black. The moon was a thin crescent, barely casting any light.
His mother's breathing from the next room was slow and deep. His father's snoring had stopped. He was awake too, probably sitting in the dark, thinking the same thoughts.
Wei sat up. The kang was still warm beneath him. He swung his legs over the edge and sat there for a moment, letting the cold air wake him.
Then he reached into his inventory and pulled out the Heartstone Apple.
The fruit glowed in the darkness of the room, its deep crimson skin shot through with veins of gold. It pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat. He turned it over in his hands, feeling the warmth spread through his palms.
Permanent, the panel had said. Strength +0.1.
He had never seen anything like it. The other fruits gave temporary boosts—an hour, two hours, maybe three. But this one would change him forever.
He brought it to his mouth and bit down.
The flesh was firm and sweet, unlike any apple he had ever tasted. Juice ran down his chin, warm and sticky. The warmth that had been in his palms flooded through his entire body—his arms, his chest, his legs, his head. It was not painful, but it was intense. His muscles tightened. His bones creaked. His heart pounded so hard he could hear it in his ears.
He finished the apple and sat still for a moment, breathing. His hands were trembling slightly. He wasn't sure if it was from the fruit or from everything else.
He checked his status.
```
Strength: 7.6
Agility: 7.3
Physical Resilience: 7.4
Intelligence: 7.3
Stamina: 7.4
Mana: 468
Credits: 287
Experience: 249/1000 toward Tier 3
```
Strength had increased by one tenth. Not a lot. But it was permanent. It was his now.
He flexed his arm. It felt the same. But he knew the change was there, buried in his muscles, waiting.
He stood up and dressed in the dark—dark pants, a dark shirt, shoes that tied tight. He strapped the scythe across his back, the blade wrapped in cloth to keep it from catching the light.
Then he went outside.
---
The sky was grey, the sun not yet up. The air was cold and damp, and his breath fogged in front of his face.
He walked to the barn.
The door was closed. He could hear movement inside—low voices, the shuffle of feet, a child coughing. The sick boy. The fever hadn't broken.
The barn smelled of sweat, sickness, and desperation. Wei had grown used to the smell of animals, of hay and manure. This was different. This was human fear, and it clung to the wooden walls like smoke.
He pushed the door open.
The survivors were awake. Old Lin sat on a crate near the door, his hands on his knees, his head bowed. His son, Lin Tao, stood by the window with his arms crossed, his jaw tight. Wang Feng, a broad-shouldered man with a thick neck and calloused hands, sat in the corner, sharpening a knife. The sound of the stone against the blade was steady, rhythmic, unnerving.
Liu Wei, thin and hollow-cheeked, held his sick son in his arms, rocking back and forth in the corner. The women were packing the few blankets they had, their movements slow and heavy. The children were huddled together near the back wall, their eyes wide and dark.
"You're supposed to leave at dawn," Wei said.
Old Lin looked up. His face was grey, his eyes sunken. He looked like he hadn't slept in a week.
"We need more time," he said. His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.
"You've had all night."
"One more day. That's all we ask."
Wei shook his head. "The agreement was one night. Dawn. You leave."
Lin Tao stepped forward, his boots heavy on the dirt floor. "You really want to throw us out? With children? With a sick boy?" He gestured toward Liu Wei's son, his arm sweeping wide. "Look at him. He can barely breathe."
"I want you to honor the agreement."
"The agreement was made when we were starving." Lin Tao's voice rose. "We weren't thinking clearly. You can't hold us to that."
Wei stared at him. "That's convenient."
Wang Feng stood up, the knife still in his hand. He was a large man, and when he stood, he seemed to fill the corner. "You think you can talk to us like that, boy? We're your elders. We've been farming this land since before you were born."
"And we've been cleaning up your messes since before I could walk," Wei said. "The stolen chickens. The broken fence. The fire."
Wang Feng's face darkened. "You little shit. You don't know what you're talking about."
"I know you stole from us. I know you burned our field. I know you broke my dog's leg."
"You have no proof." Wang Feng took a step forward, the knife catching the light from the window.
"I don't need proof." Wei didn't back down. "I have my eyes."
Liu Wei spoke for the first time. His voice was quiet, almost a whisper, but it cut through the tension like a blade. "Please. My son is sick. He needs rest. He needs food. Just a little more time."
Wei looked at the boy. His face was pale, his lips cracked. His eyes were half-closed, and his small chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths. The fever was burning through him, and there was nothing any of them could do about it except wait.
"We gave you food," Wei said. "We gave you shelter. Now you leave."
"We'll die out there," Liu Wei said. Tears welled in his eyes. "You know we will."
"That's not our problem."
Lin Tao's face twisted. "You've always looked down on us. You and your father. With your wall and your—"
"We have a wall because we worked for it." Wei's voice was cold. "That's all."
"Worked for it?" Wang Feng laughed—a harsh, ugly sound. "You think we didn't work? You think we sat around doing nothing while you built your wall and filled your barns?"
"I think you're thieves. I think you're liars. I think you'd rather take than earn."
Wang Feng's face went red. "You son of a bitch." He took a step forward, the knife raised.
Lin Tao grabbed his arm. "Not yet."
Wang Feng shook him off but didn't move closer. His knuckles were white around the knife handle, and his breathing was heavy.
Old Lin stood up. His legs were weak, and he swayed for a moment before steadying himself. "We're not leaving. We have nowhere to go. Our children will die out there."
"That's not our problem."
"It is now." Old Lin's eyes were hard. "You let us in. You fed us. You can't just send us back out to die. Not if you want to live with yourselves."
Liu Wei held his son tighter. "Have you no mercy? Look at him. He's just a child. He hasn't done anything to you."
Wei's father appeared in the doorway behind him. He had come without a sound, and now he stood there, his arms crossed, his face unreadable.
"You have one hour," he said. "Then the gate closes."
Lin Tao spun around. "You can't do this."
"I can." Wei's father didn't raise his voice. "I am."
Wang Feng took a step forward. "We're not going anywhere, you hear me? We'll die right here before we leave."
"Then you'll die." Wei's father's voice was quiet, almost gentle. "But not on my land."
He turned and walked away. Wei followed.
Behind them, Lin Tao shouted: "This isn't over, you bastards! You'll regret this!"
Wang Feng's voice echoed after them: "Fucking cowards! Hiding behind your wall!"
---
The hour passed slowly.
Wei stood on the wall, watching the barn. The survivors did not pack. The women sat in the doorway, staring at the ground, their faces blank. The children played in the dirt, too young to understand what was happening.
Lin Tao paced back and forth, his hands clenched into fists. Wang Feng stood by the barn door, arms crossed, glaring at the house. Liu Wei sat with his sick son, rocking, rocking, rocking.
Wei's father stood beside him, silent.
"What are they waiting for?" Wei asked.
"Something." His father's voice was low. "I don't know what. But something."
Hao climbed up the wall, wincing as his ribs twinged. He moved carefully, one hand on the stone, the other holding his side. "They're not leaving, are they?"
"No."
"Fucking bastards." Hao spat over the edge. "We should have never let them in."
"We couldn't let them die," Wei's mother said from below. She had come out of the house and was standing in the courtyard, her arms crossed, her face tight.
"The hell we couldn't." Hao's voice was bitter. "They would have let us die. They tried to."
Li climbed up beside him. Her face was pale, but her eyes were hard. "What are we going to do?"
"We wait." Wei's father didn't look at her. "We give them the hour. Then we remind them."
"Remind them how?" Hao asked.
Wei's father didn't answer.
---
At the end of the hour, Wei's father climbed down from the wall and walked to the house. Wei followed. Hao and Li came too.
His uncle Jianguo was sitting at the kitchen table, sharpening a knife. He was a tall man, broad-shouldered and muscular, his arms thick from years of military service. Even in his forties, he carried himself like a soldier—back straight, eyes sharp, movements efficient. When he stood up, he seemed to fill the room.
He looked up when they walked in.
"Time?" he asked.
"Time," Wei's father said.
His uncle nodded. He set down the knife and stood up. He walked to the corner of the kitchen and picked up the scythe—Wei's spare, the one he had used before the Tree of Life blessed his main weapon. The blade caught the light from the window and flashed.
Hao picked up his bow. He notched an arrow.
"Come," Wei's father said.
The five of them—Wei, his father, his uncle, Hao, and Li—walked to the barn. Their footsteps were heavy on the packed earth. The morning light was grey and thin.
His uncle pushed the door open. He stood there, the scythe in his hands, not saying a word. Just staring.
The survivors went silent.
Lin Tao stepped forward, his boots scuffing the dirt. "What's this? You're going to kill us? In front of the children?"
His uncle didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stared. His size alone was enough to make the room feel smaller.
Wang Feng stood up, his knife still in his hand. "You think that scares us?"
"It should," Wei's uncle said quietly.
Wang Feng took a step forward, raising his knife. Lin Tao grabbed his arm—not to hold him back this time, but with a note of caution in his voice.
"Wait," Lin Tao said. He was looking at Wei's uncle, really looking. The man was a head taller than Wang Feng, his arms like iron, his eyes cold and empty. This was not a farmer. This was someone who had killed before.
Wang Feng hesitated. His knife wavered.
"We're not killers," Wei's father said. "But we're not fools either. You had your hour. Now you leave."
Lin Tao's face twisted. "You think a man with a scythe scares me? I've seen worse. I've done worse."
"You've done worse to us," Wei said. "You know what you did."
"That was different."
"Different how?"
Lin Tao opened his mouth, then closed it. He had no answer.
Liu Wei stood up, his sick son in his arms. The boy was wrapped in a thin blanket, his face pressed against his father's chest. "Please. Just let us stay until my son's fever breaks. Then we'll go. I promise."
Wei's father looked at the boy. His face was pale, his breathing shallow. He looked at Liu Wei's hollow cheeks, his desperate eyes, the way his hands trembled as he held his son.
"One more day," Wei's father said.
"What?" Lin Tao turned on him. "You're giving them another day?"
"I'm giving the boy another day." Wei's father's voice was firm. "When his fever breaks, you all leave."
Wang Feng stepped forward. "That's not fair. Why should they get special treatment?"
"Because their son is dying," Wei's mother said from the doorway. She had followed them. "And because I won't have that on my conscience."
Lin Tao laughed bitterly. "Conscience. You have a conscience now? Where was your conscience when we were starving?"
"We gave you food." Wei's mother's voice was cold. "We gave you shelter. We didn't have to."
"No, you didn't. But you did. And now you're throwing us out."
"You're throwing yourselves out by refusing to leave."
Wang Feng spat on the ground. The spittle landed near Wei's feet. "This is pointless. They're not going to help us. They never were."
Old Lin grabbed Lin Tao's arm. "Enough. We'll go. We'll go now."
"Father—"
"I said enough." Old Lin's voice cracked. "We'll go."
Liu Wei looked at Wei's father. "One more day? You promised."
"One more day," Wei's father said. "But only for the boy. The rest of you leave."
Lin Tao's face was red with anger. "You're splitting us up?"
"I'm giving a sick child a chance to live."
Lin Tao looked at Liu Wei. "You'd leave us? After everything?"
Liu Wei's eyes were wet. "My son is dying."
"So are we."
Liu Wei didn't answer. He just held his son tighter and turned away.
---
The survivors left at sunrise.
Liu Wei stayed behind, his sick son in his arms. He sat in the corner of the barn, rocking, whispering to the boy. His voice was too low to make out the words, but the tone was soft, desperate, loving.
The others filed out—Old Lin, Lin Tao, Wang Feng, the women, the other children. They carried their blankets, their few belongings, the weight of their hunger.
But before they reached the gate, Lin Tao stopped. He turned to face the house.
"You know what?" he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "We're not leaving. Not without food. Not without supplies."
Wang Feng stopped beside him. "He's right. You have plenty. More than you need."
Wei's father stood at the gate, his arms crossed. "We gave you food."
"Bread and congee." Lin Tao spat the words. "Barely enough to keep us alive. You have meat in your cellar. You have vegetables. You have grain."
"We have enough for ourselves."
"And what about us?" Lin Tao gestured at the women, the children. His arm swept wide, taking in all of them. "There are more of us than you. We have mouths to feed. Children to keep alive."
Wang Feng stepped forward. "Half. We want half of everything."
Wei's father didn't move. "You want half of everything we have?"
"Fair is fair." Wang Feng's voice was hard. "You have a wall. You have land. You have food. We have nothing. You owe us."
"We owe you nothing."
Old Lin stepped between them. His face was calm, but his eyes were hard. "We're not asking for charity. We're asking for what's right. You have more than you need. We have nothing. Share with us, and we'll leave peacefully."
"And if we don't?"
Lin Tao smiled. It was not a kind smile. "Then we don't leave."
Wei's uncle stepped forward, the scythe in his hands. He didn't say anything. He just moved, and the space between him and Wang Feng disappeared. His size was enough. Wang Feng took a step back.
"You'll leave," Wei's uncle said quietly. "One way or another."
Wang Feng raised his knife, but his hand was shaking. "Try it, old man. I've killed bigger than you."
The tension was thick enough to cut. Wei could feel his heartbeat in his throat. His hand rested on the handle of his own scythe.
Then Hao raised his bow. He drew the string back to his ear, aimed at the ground in front of Lin Tao, and released.
The arrow thudded into the dirt, inches from Lin Tao's feet. Dust puffed up around it.
Everyone froze.
Lin Tao looked down at the arrow. His face went pale. He took a step back.
"The next one won't miss," Hao said. His voice was steady, but his hands were shaking.
Wang Feng stared at Hao. "You little—"
"The next one," Hao repeated, "won't miss."
Lin Tao looked at his father. Old Lin's face was unreadable.
"We'll take what they gave us," Old Lin said quietly. "For now."
Lin Tao stared at him. "What are you doing?"
"We're taking what we can. For now." Old Lin's voice was quiet, almost a whisper. "We'll be back."
Lin Tao's eyes flickered. He looked at the arrow, then at Hao, then at Wei. His jaw tightened. Then he nodded. "Fine."
Wei's mother brought out a bag of rice and a basket of vegetables. She handed them to Lin Tao without a word. Her face was stone.
Lin Tao took them. He looked at Wei.
"This isn't over," he said.
"I know."
"You'll regret this."
"Maybe."
Lin Tao turned and walked through the gate. Wang Feng followed, his knife still in his hand. Old Lin was the last to go. He stopped at the gate and looked back at the house.
His lips curved into a small smirk. Just for a moment. Then it was gone.
He walked away.
---
The gate closed.
Wei stood there for a long time, his hands on the wood. The wood was rough under his palms, splintered in places. He felt every groove, every crack.
Hao lowered his bow. His hands were shaking.
"Aren't I cool?" he said, trying to laugh. "I scared them away."
Li punched his arm. "Your hands are shaking."
"I'm not shaking." Hao held them up. They were trembling visibly. "I'm... vibrating with adrenaline."
"You're shaking."
"Same thing."
Wei's uncle put a hand on Hao's shoulder. "Good shot."
Hao's face broke into a grin. "Told you I was good."
"You got lucky," Wei's mother said.
"Luck is a skill."
She shook her head, but she was almost smiling. Then she pulled Hao into a quick, fierce hug. He stiffened, then relaxed.
"Don't do that again," she said.
"I won't. Probably."
Wei's uncle muttered, "Definitely not." But there was a hint of pride in his voice.
Wei's father looked at the gate. "They'll be back."
"I know," Wei said.
"And next time, they won't ask."
Wei looked at him. "What do you mean?"
His uncle's face was grim. "That smirk. Old Lin. He's planning something. They all are. The food was just the beginning."
Wei's stomach tightened. "What do we do?"
"We watch. We wait. We prepare." His uncle put a hand on his shoulder. "And we don't let them in again."
---
The morning passed slowly, the sun climbing higher into a sky still streaked with smoke from the distant town.
Wei stood in the courtyard, watching his mother hang laundry on the line. The sheets were white and clean, snapping in the breeze. It was such an ordinary thing, so normal, that for a moment he almost forgot about the neighbors, the goblins in the hills, the end of the world.
His mother caught him staring.
"What?" she asked, pinning a sheet to the line.
"Nothing."
"You've been standing there for five minutes."
"Just thinking."
She pinned another sheet. "About what?"
"About how strange it is. That we're still doing this. Hanging laundry. Making congee. Milking cows."
She was quiet for a moment. Then she said, "What else would we do? Sit around and wait to die?"
"No. But—"
"We're alive, Wei." She turned to look at him. "As long as we're alive, we live. We don't stop being people just because the world is ending." She walked over to him and put her hand on his cheek. "Your grandmother taught me that. During the famine. When there was nothing to eat, she still swept the floor. She still washed the dishes. She still made the bed."
"Why?"
"Because if you stop doing the small things, you stop being human. And once you stop being human, you might as well be dead."
Wei didn't know what to say to that. So he nodded and walked toward the tree.
Behind him, his mother called out: "Eat lunch before you pass out!"
He waved without turning around.
---
Wei approached the Tree of Life.
The leaves rustled. Gold light pulsed. He placed his hand on the trunk, feeling the familiar warmth spread through his palm.
The tree's daily gift arrived.
```
Tree of Life: Ambient mana absorbed.
Credits: +20
```
He checked his total.
```
Credits: 287 → 307
```
Then he went to the cow shed. The heifer with the gold mark on her forehead stood calmly as he approached, her large brown eyes watching him. He milked her, and the milk came out thick and white, almost glowing, warm against his hands.
```
Blessed Milk collected.
Credits: +5
Experience: +2
```
He collected eggs from the chicken coop. The speckled hen—the one that was evolving—had laid ten eggs, each with a faint gold sheen. He gathered them carefully, placing them in his basket.
```
Blessed Eggs collected (10).
Credits: +5
Experience: +2 each → +20 total
```
He checked his totals again.
```
Credits: 307 → 312 (milk) → 317 (eggs)
Experience: 249 → 251 (milk) → 271 (eggs)
```
Then he went to the orchard.
---
The orchard was quiet. The leaves rustled in the breeze. Bees buzzed lazily around the ripest fruit. A bird sang somewhere in the distance—a small brown thing, hopping from branch to branch, oblivious to the chaos of the world.
Wei took a deep breath and walked to the first tree.
He worked methodically, moving from tree to tree, row by row. The peaches came first—common medium, each giving 5 credits and 2 experience. He twisted them gently until the stems snapped, placing them carefully in his inventory.
The work was meditative. His mind wandered.
He thought about Lin Tao's face. The anger. The desperation. The way he had looked at the house, at the wall, at everything the Zhangs had built.
He thought about Wang Feng's knife. The way he had raised it, the way his knuckles had gone white around the handle.
He thought about Old Lin's smirk. That brief, fleeting expression that had appeared and disappeared so quickly. What did it mean? What was he planning?
He didn't know. But he knew it was something.
By the end of the harvest, he had 456 credits and 331 experience. The morning's work had brought in one hundred thirty-nine credits from the orchard alone.
He sat down at the base of the oldest apple tree and ate a common peach. The flesh was sweet, the juice warm. He closed his eyes and listened to the wind in the leaves.
---
Li found him there.
"You've been out here all morning," she said, sitting down beside her.
"I've been harvesting."
"I can see that." She picked up a peach from his basket and bit into it. Juice ran down her chin. "These are good."
"They're blessed."
"I know." She chewed thoughtfully, her eyes distant. "Wei, do you think they're really going to come back?"
"The neighbors?"
"Yes."
"I don't know. Probably."
She was quiet for a moment. Her hands were trembling. She pressed them flat against her thighs, but the trembling didn't stop.
"I'm scared," she said. Her voice was small.
Wei looked at her. Her face was pale, her eyes dark. She looked tired. He realized he hadn't really looked at her in days.
"Of what?" he asked.
"Of them. Of the goblins. Of everything." She picked at the grass, tearing up small clumps and letting them fall. "I keep thinking about what would happen if they got in. If the wall fell."
"The wall won't fall."
"You don't know that."
"I know it's strong."
"That's not the same."
He didn't have an answer for that. So he put his arm around her and pulled her close. She leaned into him, and he felt her shoulders shake. Just once. Then she steadied herself.
"We'll be okay," he said.
"You don't know that either."
"No. But I have to believe it."
"That's stupid."
"Probably."
They sat like that for a while, watching the leaves move in the breeze.
---
After lunch, Wei went to the barn to check on Liu Wei and his son.
The barn smelled of hay and sickness. The boy was sleeping. His breathing was steadier now, his face less pale. Liu Wei sat beside him, his hand on the boy's forehead.
"The fever is going down," Liu Wei said.
Wei nodded. "That's good."
Liu Wei looked up at him. His eyes were red, his face haggard. "I don't know how to thank you."
"You don't have to."
"Yes, I do." Liu Wei's voice cracked. "You didn't have to help us. You didn't have to let us stay. But you did. And my son is alive because of you."
Wei didn't know what to say to that. So he just stood there, awkward and uncomfortable.
Liu Wei wiped his eyes with his sleeve. "Lin Tao threatened me, you know. Before we came here." His voice was low, almost a whisper. "He said if I didn't go along with them, he'd make sure my family didn't survive. I didn't have a choice."
Wei's jaw tightened. "He's a bastard."
"Yes." Liu Wei looked at his son. The boy's chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. "But I'm done with him. When my son is strong enough, we're leaving. Going far away. Somewhere they won't find us."
"When will you leave?"
"A day or two. Maybe less."
Wei nodded. "Take the time you need."
Liu Wei stared at him. "Why are you being so kind to us? We're not your people. We're not your family."
"Because you didn't do anything to us," Wei said. "You're just a man trying to keep his son alive."
Liu Wei's face crumbled. He started to cry—silent tears, running down his hollow cheeks. He didn't make a sound.
"Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you."
Wei turned and walked away.
---
That afternoon, Wei went to find Hei.
The old dog was lying under the persimmon tree, his head on his paws. His leg was stretched out awkwardly, the way it always was when it hurt. The swelling had gone down, but he still limped.
Wei sat down beside him. He didn't reach out. He just sat.
"I know you don't trust me," he said quietly. "Not after what happened. Not after they hurt you."
Hei didn't move.
"But you're part of this family. You always have been. And I need you, Hei. We all need you."
Hei's ear twitched.
Wei reached into his inventory and pulled out a common peach—not for himself, for the dog. He held it out.
Hei sniffed the air. His nose twitched. He lifted his head and looked at the peach, then at Wei.
"It's blessed," Wei said. "It'll help you heal."
Hei stared at him for a long moment. Then he took the peach from Wei's hand and ate it.
A panel appeared.
```
┌─────────────────────────────────────────┐
│ HEI (BLESSED DOG, Tier 1, Common) │
├─────────────────────────────────────────┤
│ The old injury begins to respond. │
│ Evolution may now proceed. │
│ Estimated time: 24-48 hours. │
└─────────────────────────────────────────┘
```
Wei smiled. He scratched Hei behind the ears.
"Good boy," he said.
Hei wagged his tail.
---
That evening, Wei's father called a family meeting.
They gathered in the kitchen. The table was spread with food—congee, pickled vegetables, a small dish of preserved eggs. Wei's mother had made tea. The steam rose from the cups, curling toward the ceiling.
Wei's father sat at the head of the table. His face was tired, but his eyes were clear.
"The neighbors are gone," he said. "Most of them, anyway. Liu Wei and his son are still in the barn, but they'll leave soon."
Hao snorted. "If they don't, I'll shoot another arrow."
"Don't," Wei's mother said. "You'll hurt someone."
"That's the point."
She gave him a look that could freeze fire. Hao shut up.
Wei's father continued. "The goblins are still in the hills. They haven't moved closer. But they haven't left either."
"They're waiting," Wei's uncle said. He was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed, his tall frame casting a long shadow.
"For what?"
"I don't know. Maybe for more of them to arrive. Maybe for us to let our guard down."
Wei's mother put down her cup. "What do we do?"
"We prepare," Wei's father said. "We make more weapons. We store more food. We watch the wall."
"And the tree?" Li asked.
Wei looked at her. "What about the tree?"
"Can it help? Against the goblins? Against the neighbors?"
Wei thought about it. He couldn't explain the system. They wouldn't understand. So he said, "The tree helps the land. It makes the crops grow. It keeps the animals healthy. But it won't fight for us. That's our job."
Li nodded slowly. "I wish it could."
"Me too."
Wei's grandmother spoke from her chair by the window. She was old, her hands gnarled, but her eyes were sharp. "I've seen worse than Lin Tao. He'll tire himself out before he does anything. Men like that always do."
Wei's mother sighed. "You're not helping."
"I'm not trying to help. I'm telling the truth."
Wei's father stood up. "We'll take shifts on the wall. Two people at a time, day and night. Wei, you'll handle the orchard and whatever else you do out there. Hao, you'll make arrows. Li, you'll help your mother with the animals."
"And you?" Wei asked.
"I'll watch the gate."
---
The next morning, Wei harvested again.
The orchard was still full of common fruit, but the special fruits—the glowing ones, the rare ones—were nearly gone. He had picked most of them over the past two days.
He walked from tree to tree, scanning the branches. Most held only ordinary peaches, pears, and persimmons. He picked them anyway, filling his inventory.
Then, near the edge of the orchard, hidden in the leaves of an old plum tree, he found something.
A single fruit, glowing with a soft silver light. It was smaller than the Heartstone Apple, but it pulsed with the same energy. He reached up and plucked it carefully.
A panel appeared.
```
┌─────────────────────────────────────────┐
│ SILVER PLUM (Tier 2, Uncommon High) │
├─────────────────────────────────────────┤
│ Effect: Permanently increases │
│ Intelligence by 0.1 │
│ Harvest credit: 50 │
│ Harvest experience: +15 │
│ │
│ ⚠ This fruit's blessing is permanent. │
│ Consume with care. │
└─────────────────────────────────────────┘
```
Wei stared at the panel. Another permanent fruit. Intelligence this time, not strength.
He added it to his inventory.
```
Credits: 456 → 486 (morning chores) → 536 (Silver Plum) → plus commons...
```
He continued harvesting, but the rest of the morning yielded only common fruit. The special fruits were exhausted. He would have to wait for the orchard to grow more.
By the end of the harvest, he had 569 credits and 391 experience. The morning's work had brought in only fifty-three credits from special fruits, and the rest from commons.
He sat down at the base of the oldest apple tree and ate a common peach. The flesh was sweet, but he couldn't help feeling disappointed.
The orchard would need time to recover.
---
That night, Wei sat under the tree and ate the Silver Plum.
The flesh was tart and sweet, different from the apple. The warmth spread through his head—not through his body. His thoughts sharpened. His mind felt clearer.
He checked his status.
```
Strength: 7.6
Agility: 7.3
Physical Resilience: 7.4
Intelligence: 7.4
Stamina: 7.4
Mana: 468
Credits: 569
Experience: 391/1000 toward Tier 3
```
Intelligence had increased by one tenth. Not a lot. But it was permanent.
He closed his eyes and listened to the night.
---
That night, Wei stood on the wall and looked out at the hills.
The goblins' torches were still there, flickering in the darkness. They hadn't moved closer. But they hadn't left either.
They were waiting.
Wei didn't know what for. More goblins, maybe. Or for Lin Tao to come back. Or for something else entirely.
He thought about Old Lin's smirk. The way he had looked at the house. The way he had said, "We'll be back."
It wasn't a threat. It was a promise.
Wei climbed down and went inside.
His mother was in the kitchen, making tea. She handed him a cup without a word.
He drank it slowly, feeling the warmth spread through his chest.
"The goblins are still there," he said.
"I know."
"Lin Tao will be back."
"I know."
"Wang Feng too."
She sat down across from him. "What do we do?"
"We wait. We watch. We prepare."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
She looked at him for a long moment. Then she nodded.
"Then we wait," she said. "We watch. We prepare."
---
The tree's leaves rustled. The gold light pulsed.
Wei closed his eyes and listened to the night.
The dogs were quiet. The animals were calm. The family was together.
But somewhere out there, in the darkness, Lin Tao was planning. Wang Feng was sharpening his knife. Old Lin was smirking in the shadows.
And the goblins were waiting.
Then, from the hills, a howl. Long and low. It echoed across the fields, faint but unmistakable.
Wei's blood ran cold.
They were still there.
He climbed the wall again and looked out. The torches were closer now. Not much. But closer.
He filed it away.
The world outside was still burning.
But here, inside the wall, there was peace.
For now.