Chapter 3: Shadows of Power

Ethan’s sleep in the barn was a restless sprawl across the hay, the coarse strands poking through his torn hoodie. The faint stink of manure clung to the air, but after the cold, jagged ravine, it was a luxury. He’d barely closed his eyes—exhausted from the boar fight and the wood-chopping ordeal—when a scream ripped through the stillness, sharp and desperate. His heart jolted, and he scrambled upright, straw tumbling from his hair. The iron dagger lay beside him, its rusty blade catching the dim moonlight seeping through the barn’s slats. He snatched it up, pulse racing, and crept to the door.

Outside, chaos reigned. Villagers darted through the muddy square, their shouts mingling with the clatter of dropped tools—pitchforks, hoes, a battered bucket. A towering figure dominated the scene, clad in black armor that gleamed like polished obsidian. Qi rippled around him, a dark, smoky aura that pulsed with menace, distorting the air like heat off a flame. His voice boomed, deep and guttural: “Taxes! Spirit stones, now—or this pitiful hamlet burns to ash!” He kicked over a cart of grain for emphasis, the wood splintering with a crack that echoed off the huts.

The system flared to life, its blue screen searing into Ethan’s vision: [Quest: Protect the Village. Reward: 50 XP, Basic Qi Cultivation Manual.] He groaned, peering through a gap in the barn’s wall. “Level 2 against that? I’m screwed six ways to Sunday!” The cultivator’s sheer presence dwarfed him—Ethan was a scrawny nineteen-year-old with noodle arms and a dagger that looked like it belonged in a junk pile. Back home, he’d have run from a bar fight, not faced down a qi-wielding warlord. But the system offered no exit button, no save file to reload.

He watched, stomach twisting, as the cultivator grabbed a villager by the throat—a wiry man with graying hair—and lifted him effortlessly. “No stones? Then you’re first,” the armored figure snarled, tossing the man aside like a rag doll. He crashed into a hut’s wall, groaning as splinters rained down. The villagers froze, their makeshift weapons trembling in their hands. Ethan’s fists clenched around the dagger’s hilt, the metal cold against his sweaty palm. He was weak, a nobody from a world of microwaves and Wi-Fi, not swords and sorcery. What could he do?

Then he saw the old woman’s grandson—Jun, a scrawny kid with a mop of dark hair and a stubborn streak Ethan had noticed while chopping wood. The boy darted from the crowd, clutching a stick like it was a sword, his voice shrill with defiance. “Leave him alone, you bully!” He swung at the cultivator’s leg, the stick snapping harmlessly against the armor. The man laughed, a low, cruel sound, and backhanded Jun with a casual flick. The boy flew, slamming into a stack of firewood with a sickening thud. He didn’t get up, a thin trickle of blood seeping from his temple.

Rage flared in Ethan’s chest, hot and unfamiliar, drowning out the fear. He’d never been brave—hell, he’d once hidden in a bathroom to avoid a schoolyard fight—but seeing Jun crumple lit something primal. “Screw it,” he muttered, activating Minor Heal. [HP: 10/10.] A faint glow washed over his bruised hands, steadying them. He slipped out of the barn, sticking to the shadows cast by the flickering torches the villagers had lit in their panic.

The cultivator paced the square, his armored boots gouging the dirt as he barked orders. “Line up your offerings, or I’ll take your lives instead!” His qi pulsed stronger, a wave of pressure that made Ethan’s ears pop. Up close, the man reeked of sweat and rust, his armor patched with dents but still imposing. Ethan darted behind an overturned cart, its splintered planks offering scant cover. His heart hammered so loud he was sure it’d give him away, but he gritted his teeth and lunged, stabbing at the cultivator’s calf.

The dagger sparked against the armor, the impact jarring Ethan’s arm up to his shoulder. It barely scratched the metal, a faint gouge that mocked his effort. But a wisp of gray qi flared from the hit—Ethan’s qi, raw and unrefined, flickering like a candle in a storm. The cultivator whirled, eyes narrowing beneath his helm. “A pest with tricks?” His voice dripped with disdain, and he swung a fist, qi coiling around it like a serpent.

[Dodge Instinct Activated.] Ethan’s body moved before his brain caught up, ducking under the blow. The fist smashed the cart to kindling, splinters flying past his face. He slashed again, aiming for a seam at the knee where the armor gapped. The blade bit flesh this time, sinking an inch into muscle. Blood welled up, dark against the steel, and the cultivator roared, “You little rat!” [Strength +1. Qi: 1/100.] The system’s ping was a lifeline in the chaos.

Ethan danced back, but the cultivator’s qi erupted—a dark wave that slammed him into a hut’s straw wall. The impact drove the air from his lungs, and he crumpled, vision swimming. [HP: 6/10.] Pain radiated from his ribs, sharp and searing, but the villagers seized the moment. Two men—burly farmers with calloused hands—charged, tackling the cultivator’s arms. They pinned him, grunting with effort, as his qi lashed out, scorching the ground.

Ethan staggered to his feet, every breath a knife in his side. The dagger trembled in his grip, slick with sweat and a smear of blood. He stumbled forward, spotting a gap at the armpit where the armor buckled. With a hoarse yell, he drove the blade in, twisting it with all his pitiful strength. The cultivator bellowed, blood gushing hot over Ethan’s hands, and collapsed, his qi fading like smoke on the wind. The farmers released him, stepping back as the armored figure twitched once and stilled.

[Quest Complete. Reward: 50 XP, Basic Qi Cultivation Manual.] [Level Up! Level 3. Strength: 7/100. Qi: 3/100.] A thin scroll materialized in Ethan’s hands, its parchment glowing faintly with golden script. He sank to his knees, panting, as the villagers stared in stunned silence. “He… saved us?” a woman whispered, clutching a toddler to her chest. Others murmured, their eyes wide—fear mixing with something like awe.

The old woman hobbled forward, her cane tapping a steady rhythm in the dirt. She stopped before Ethan, squinting down at him. “Guts, outsider,” she rasped, her voice carrying a grudging respect. “You’re no warrior, but you’ve got fire. Stay with us, and we’ll teach you what we know.” She nodded at the scroll in his hands. “That’s a start.”

Ethan wiped blood—his and the cultivator’s—from his face, the metallic tang stinging his nose. He unrolled the scroll, its words shimmering: Breathing Techniques of the Lesser Qi Flow. They sank into his mind, a rhythm of inhales and exhales that tugged at the faint qi in his chest. It was weak, a spark against the inferno he’d just faced, but it was his. The system, the dagger, this world—they were forging him, blow by bloody blow.

The villagers dispersed, dragging the cultivator’s body away and tending to Jun, who groaned as they lifted him. Ethan stayed kneeling, the scroll clutched tight. He was still a weakling—Level 3 meant nothing against real power—but he’d survived again. “Adaptability,” he muttered, recalling the system’s hidden trait. “Guess I’ll need it.”

The crimson sky darkened overhead, stars piercing through like distant eyes watching his stumble toward something greater—or his fall.

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