Chapter 2: The Nameless Child

The village where Luo Ling (who didn’t have a name yet) was brought back by Granny Wang was called “Village of Falling Winds.”

As its name suggests, it was a small settlement perched on the edge of a border mountain range, buffeted by fierce winds all year round.

The village wasn’t large, with only a few dozen households.

Most of the houses had walls of yellow mud mixed with straw, and roofs covered in thatch or stone slabs, giving them a simple and rustic appearance.

There were no high-rise buildings that Luo Ling was familiar with, no blaring car horns, and certainly no mobile networks.

All he could see were endless mountains, vast forests, and a patch of barren land outside the village that barely managed to sustain life.

Granny Wang was the village’s only elderly woman living alone.

Her husband had died early, and she had no children.

She got by patching and washing clothes for villagers and gathering herbs in the mountains to trade for a meager income.

When she brought Luo Ling back, she immediately drew the attention of the entire village.

The news spread through the small Village of Falling Winds as if it had grown wings.

Villagers put down their work one after another and gathered in Granny Wang’s cramped earthen house, curiously sizing up the mysterious child.

“Wang Auntie, where did this child come from?”

“Looks so pitiful, being beaten by parents at such a young age.”

“Is it a boy or a girl?”

Granny Wang busied herself wiping Luo Ling’s body with warm water as she explained how she had found the child.

Her face was full of tenderness.

“No matter if it’s a boy or a girl, a life is a life. I’ll just take care of him with these old bones for now.”

A skinny old man who looked like the village chief stroked his sparse chin beard and spoke thoughtfully.

“Village of Falling Winds is on the border—it’s not unheard of for children to be abandoned in times of chaos. Since you picked him up, Wang Auntie, it’s fate. But you’re alone…”

“That’s right, Granny Wang. You’re getting on in years. How can you care for a little one?”

A young woman holding a child chimed in.

“My Zhuzi just weaned. How about… I help feed him?”

“I still have some millet at home. I’ll cook some Nourishing Soup and bring it over.”

“My man caught a rabbit yesterday. We made soup with it last night. I’ll save the top layer of oil for the child.”

“I have some old, clean cloth left. It’s good for the baby.”

In no time, Granny Wang’s small house was crowded, with everyone offering ideas and help, concern and kindness flooding in like a tide.

No one doubted. No one refused. No one suggested sending the child away or handing him to the so-called “Official.”

In this impoverished little village, there seemed to be a tight bond and simple goodwill between people—a kind Luo Ling had never experienced in his previous life.

Luo Ling lay in a warm bed (though it was made of dry grass, it was a hundred times better than the cold bamboo basket), listening to the noisy yet gentle voices around him, feeling the warmth of the young woman as she held him and fed him with her breast.

Shame?

Of course.

A grown man’s soul being nursed by a strange woman—this was the ultimate humiliation.

But the urge to survive overpowered everything.

He instinctively sucked, feeling the energy of life slowly return to his body.

He knew that his hope of survival rested on these kind villagers.

In the days that followed, Luo Ling began his “infancy” in this new world.

Granny Wang became his “grandmother” in name.

But in truth, every villager in the Village of Falling Winds was his “parent” in daily life.

Today, this household would bring him Nourishing Soup.

Tomorrow, another would send a sweet potato.

Auntie Zhang came by to change his diaper, and Uncle Li, returning from hunting, would save the tenderest piece of meat for Granny Wang to make meat porridge for him.

He had no name.

The villagers called him “child,” “little one,” or “the one who was brought back” as the mood struck.

These names were simple, even casual, but carried no malice—only affection.

And so, Luo Ling began his life “eating the Hundred-Family Meal.”

He worked hard to adapt to a baby’s body, to learn the language of this world (fortunately, it seemed to be a kind of common tongue, with subtle similarities to his previous life’s language, making it not too difficult), and to observe this world.

He discovered that there was some kind of “extraordinary power” here.

Occasionally, he’d see hunters using an arrow glowing with faint light, or watch Granny Wang murmuring strange words over wounds, her hands emitting a soft white glow.

That was probably the “Magic” or “Dou Qi” of this world.

But it didn’t seem common, nor as earth-shattering as described in novels—more like a supporting skill woven into daily life.

Villagers worked at sunrise and rested at sunset.

Most men farmed the fields or hunted and chopped wood in the nearby mountains. Women handled household chores, wove cloth, and cared for children and the elderly.

Life was slow and monotonous. Resources were scarce. Each day was a struggle.

In winter, there was no heating—only firewood for warmth.

Nights were often spent shivering.

In summer, mosquitoes were rampant, and without nets, skin was always covered in red bumps.

Food was mostly coarse grains.

A meal with meat was a rare luxury.

This was the true face of the world.

No food appeared out of thin air.

No potions healed with a single touch.

Everything had to be fought for with your own hands.

Survival itself was a daunting task.

Yet, strangely, despite the hardship, Luo Ling saw little resentment or despair on the villagers’ faces.

They rejoiced at a good harvest, cheered for a successful hunt, and worried and helped each other when illness or misfortune struck.

Their smiles were honest.

Their sorrow was real.

Their goodwill was pure.

Luo Ling gradually grew from a crying infant to a toddler who could waddle around.

He could finally move freely and experience village life more directly.

He would follow Granny Wang to the river to wash clothes, run to the fields to watch adults work, or squat at the village entrance to listen to elders tell hazy tales of distant Kingdoms, monsters beyond the mountains, and ancient heroes.

He learned that this world was called “Airea,” that they lived on the border of the human “Atlan Empire,” and that beyond the northwest lay the “Dark Forest,” where Demon King Castle stood at its center.

He also learned that this world was not peaceful.

War, monster attacks, and the shadow of noble oppression hung over everyone like distant storm clouds.

But at least here, in the remote Village of Falling Winds, they could still live difficult but relatively peaceful lives.

Luo Ling—or rather, “the child” as he was now—began to try helping in whatever small ways he could.

Handing something to Granny Wang, watching the neighbor’s child for a moment, or collecting dry branches in the mountains for firewood.

He no longer clung to his past identity or memories.

That pain, humiliation, and regret—like faded old photos—still existed but were no longer blinding.

He began to truly see himself as a part of the Village of Falling Winds—a child who grew up “eating the Hundred-Family Meal.”

He even started to think about what he might do in the future.

Perhaps, like other men in the village, he’d become a farmer or a hunter, marry, raise children, and live out his life peacefully in this little village.

The very thought brought Luo Ling a strange sense of peace.

In his previous life, he was tossed about like a spinning top, never able to choose his path.

But here, though it was poor and backward, he seemed to see the possibility of a simple and stable future.

He longed for that stability.