“Looks like there’s no chance anymore!” Ou Tao thought as he descended the mountain. He’d overheard their plan to hunt a rare BOSS. Mistaking him for just an ordinary farmer, they hadn’t given him a second glance.
But Ou Tao had other plans. Since the group had no healer, he figured he could swoop in and finish them off if the fight left the BOSS weakened.
Then he spotted the spiral spike mounted on the artificer’s mechanical bird’s rear—and the cluster of splash-type healing potions. Ou Tao knew his window had closed. He’d read Hamiyou’s guides on known potions in this world and common local tactics.
He deduced their poverty came from stocking up: potion bottles strapped to the bird’s rear, splashing healing liquid mid-flight. Basically, throwing money at healing—a costly but practical move early game.
This was a no-respawn exploration game. If Rod died, Ou Tao back in reality would be fine… but Ke Er would be gone for good.
Ou Tao played aggressively, yet he was a big-picture thinker. As his e-sports coach used to say: *“When the enemy spends big on potions for safety, forcing a kill isn’t bold—it’s stupid.”*
Right now, his only hope was to complete his class change ASAP. *Let the Mutated Bamboo Boar King go.*
At the church, villagers urged him to force a Hunter class. Ou Tao refused. His confidence? Hamiyou was a publicly listed giant with billions in capital and over 700 R&D and management staff. They wouldn’t make a rookie mistake like assigning a sword-user a self-class change into Archer.
*Rod would get a perfectly matched class. They must’ve calculated it. Broke early game? Every coin counts.*
“Self-class change requires the World Will’s blessing. Lie on the sacred bed—it’ll be over in a moment,” the priest said. Ou Tao obeyed.
Meanwhile, the village pond had frozen solid. Ke Er, hands caked in mud, trembled slightly on her short legs as she walked slowly across the ice.
Winter bamboo shoots—a local delicacy. Kids dug them up in summer to eat or sell. They granted a nutritional buff: delicious cooked, and boosted stamina recovery for any dish they accompanied.
But their thorny husks made digging risky. Everyone handled them carefully in summer. Winter shoots? Buried under snow by the riverbank.
Digging meant standing on slick ice, scraping snow away. Imagine frozen-red, stiff fingers sliced by the shoot’s razor-sharp skin—how sharp the sting would be.
Yet Ke Er endured the stings on her tender hands, all to ease Father’s burden. Her small palms were crimson, dotted with frozen blood streaks. Every clenched fist brought a dull, itching ache.
Last night, Bika spent two silver coins to fully restore her HP. Now it read (17/18).
*“It’s okay. Just a tiny wound. Ke Er can endure it—all for Father!”*
Just then, Bonn—the landlord’s son—blocked her path with four or five tall boys. Extra coins bought trinkets; among kids, he ruled like a king.
His gang mocked Ke Er for her silver hair. While others had black, gold, or red locks, hers was white. *“Trying to stand out?”* they’d sneer.
Ke Er lowered her head, sidestepped left—Bonn mirrored her. She tried right—he blocked again.
She knew escape was impossible. Bonn felt flustered. He didn’t understand “liking” yet—just couldn’t look away from pretty Ke Er. So he chose his usual tactic: bullying.
He snatched the basket of winter bamboo shoots from her hands.
“No! That’s for Father!”
“Now it’s mine! Call it a tax. My father taxes yours—I tax you too!”
“You liar! I dug these all morning! Give them back!”
Ke Er stepped forward—but a tall boy shoved her from the side. She tumbled into the snow.
*“Village witch with white hair, ugly and cold, spreads chills wherever she goes!”*
Bonn’s lackeys circled her, chanting the taunt, jumping like crashing waves. Ke Er stared at the stolen shoots meant for Father, wanting to fight back—but trapped in their jeering ring.
She crouched, grief swelling. She wanted to sob like before.
*“Ke Er, don’t cry. Tears just invite more bullying. Think of the one you love most.”*
Father’s voice echoed in her mind.
She bit her lower lip hard, blinking back tears. Lifting her small head, she met Bonn’s gaze with quiet resolve—her father’s image burning bright behind her eyes.
