The first thing I felt when I woke up… was dirt.
Not a bed. Not a pillow. Just dirt. Cold, damp, and faintly smelling of mushrooms and despair.
Then came the smoke. Then the headache—like I'd been spiritually slapped by my thesis advisor.
I opened my eyes.
Above me was a sky the color of early bruises. Strange leaves, broad as banana palms, swayed overhead. The air was warm and humid, thick with the scent of ash, bark, and some kind of… roasting meat?
My brain, still half-asleep, tried to process this.
Hospital?
Park?
Illegal camping site?
None of the above. Because when I sat up and looked down, I almost screamed.
These weren't my hands.
They were too small. Thin. Callused in the wrong places. My legs were equally mismatched—bare, bony, caked with dried mud and old scars. A ragged strip of leather was the only thing pretending to be clothing. My whole body looked like it had walked through a thorn bush, starved for three weeks, and then been dragged out for a village performance as "The Suffering Child #3."
And then, the memories hit.
Not mine.
Memories of smoke. Of mud huts and stone knives. Of being mocked for chewing grass. Of being handed meat—and promptly vomiting it back up in front of a warrior's feet.
The name they shouted in those memories was:
Mu.
Also known as "Grass-Eater."
Also known as "The Boy Who Spits Meat."
Also known as "Idiot."
I clutched my head.
This wasn't a dream.
I was no longer Li Xiu, exhausted final-year engineering student at Zhejiang University, last seen passed out on a lab desk over a report about off-grid microgeneration in post-disaster zones.
No.
I was… Mu. The village joke. The weakling. The boy whose idea of breakfast was apparently leaves.
And speaking of breakfast—
"Oi, Mu! Still breathing?" a man's voice barked. Something thumped against my leg.
I looked down.
A hunk of raw meat. Half-cooked. Still bleeding. Flies already buzzing nearby.
"Eat up," the man grunted. "Before the dogs beat you to it."
I looked up. A broad-shouldered, eyebrow-less man was already walking away, snickering. Around him, others bustled—some cleaning weapons, others skinning the morning's kill.
No one paid me any more attention.
I picked up the meat. Sniffed it.
Put it back down.
Rotting sinew. Nerve twitches. Slight whiff of urine. Not appetizing.
The old Mu apparently had a very delicate digestive system. The kind that went on strike at the smell of blood. I wasn't sure if it was trauma or allergy, but either way, I knew how this story ended: violently, and out both ends.
I stood up, wobbling a little on weak legs, and wandered off.
Toward the edge of the village, where the moss grew thick and the kids didn't usually play, there was a patch of low-growing silvery weeds. I crouched down beside them.
Yarrow.
Edible. Bitter. Good for digestion.
I picked a handful, shoved some into my mouth, and chewed thoughtfully.
Behind me, someone giggled.
"There he goes again," a child whispered. "Grass-boy."
"Maybe he's not really human," another replied. "Maybe he's a deer in disguise."
"Let's throw a beetle at him," one suggested with great enthusiasm.
I ignored them.
This wasn't my first humiliation. I had survived thesis defenses, four-hour lab exams, and one group project where no one but me did the work.
I could handle a few beetles.
I took another bite of yarrow.
Still bitter.
Still better than bloody meat.
Somewhere behind me, a small fist chucked something wet in my direction. I ducked reflexively.
Splat.
A fat bug exploded on a tree trunk beside me. Delightful.
I kept chewing.
The memories from the old Mu were still fuzzy. But the emotional imprints remained: fear, ridicule, isolation. And yet, the kid had survived.
No family. No friends. No protein.
Just plants. And instincts. And apparently, an unusually stubborn gut.
I looked down at my hands. Dirty, but steady.
This body may be weak, I thought, but it has potential.
Not the kind of potential that leads to heroic mammoth hunts or tribe leadership.
More like… compost potential. Herbal medicine potential. Maybe even early agrarianism, if I played my cards right.
I glanced back toward the village.
The huts were small and uneven, made of mud and woven leaves. Tools were crude—mostly stone, bone, and sheer willpower. Fires were open pits, constantly belching smoke. Children ran around half-naked, armed with sticks. The men grunted. The women shouted. The goats bleated in the distance, unimpressed by everything.
So. This was my new home.
Great.
No Wi-Fi.
No electricity.
No soy sauce.
No toilet paper.
But I had yarrow.
And a brain full of engineering theory.
If I survived long enough, I could change things.
Not with brute strength.
With logic. And maybe vinegar.
First step: survive.
Second step: gain a reputation slightly higher than "useless goat boy."
Third step: not die.
I stood up, brushed off my hands, and walked back toward the village center. A few warriors were laughing over a pot of boiling meat. The smell alone made my stomach curl, but I forced myself to keep walking.
If I wanted to live here, I couldn't hide forever.
Even grass had to grow in the open.
I passed by the elders' hut—where a shriveled old woman sat fanning herself with a strip of bark. Her eyes narrowed when she saw me.
"Still chewing weeds, boy?"
"Yes, Elder," I said, bowing slightly. "High in fiber."
She cackled. "At least you'll have regular bowel movements."
Progress.