Rebirth in a Courtyard: I Am a Little Hunter

Wei Chen rode his bicycle out of Beiping City, along the bumpy dirt road, towards his hometown, Baoyuquan Village, deep in the Western Hills. He didn't choose the main road, but instead opted for some relatively secluded but more convenient side roads. With his physical strength, cycling skills, and internal martial arts, it wasn't too strenuous.

The further west you go, the more desolate the scenery becomes. In the late autumn of the northern land, everything withers. The fields are bare, with only some withered yellow stubble remaining, shivering in the cold wind.

The distant mountains appeared a lifeless grayish-brown, the trees had lost all their leaves, and their gnarled branches pointed toward the sky like pairs of desperate arms.

The villages are sparse, with only a few wisps of smoke rising from chimneys. Occasionally, one can see farmers, dressed in rags and with pale faces, hunched over, rummaging through the fields for something—perhaps a few forgotten vegetable roots or edible grass seeds.

A heavy, almost stagnant atmosphere of desolation permeated the air. This was in stark contrast to the situation in the city, where, although life was difficult, there were still basic supplies and black market transactions. The countryside, especially remote mountain villages like Baoyuquan, was the most direct and brutal victim of this famine.

As Wei Chen drew closer to his hometown, his heart grew heavier. In his memory, Baoyuquan Village, though impoverished, was a picturesque place with clear waters and lush mountains. The villagers were hardworking and simple, and in spring and summer, there were wild animals in the mountains and fish and shrimp in the river, enough to barely make ends meet. But the scene before him only made his heart sink deeper.

Finally, after nearly several hours of bumpy travel, Wei Chen saw the familiar yet unfamiliar outline of Baoyuquan Village. The village was nestled in a valley between two mountains, with dozens of mud-brick and stone houses built against the mountainside, appearing dilapidated and silent. When he returned last year, although he could sense the hardship, at least there were still children playing at the village entrance, smoke rising from the rooftops, and scattered patches of green on the field ridges.

And now...

The old locust tree at the village entrance had long since lost all its leaves, its bare branches groaning in the cold wind, and there wasn't a soul in sight beneath it.

Along the dirt road leading to the village, fields that should have been neatly tended are now largely barren, overgrown with weeds. Only a few scattered plots show sparse, drooping winter wheat, in extremely poor condition. Further on, many terraced fields on the hillsides are abandoned, exposing cracked yellow soil.

The village was eerily quiet; you could barely hear roosters crowing or dogs barking, and there was no smoke rising from chimneys—perhaps because it was still early, or perhaps because… there was simply no food to cook.

Occasionally, one or two villagers would hurry by, their figures hunched over, their clothes tattered and thin, patched upon patched, their faces showing the numb, sallow complexion of someone suffering from prolonged hunger. Several had swollen cheeks and eyelids, typical symptoms of malnutrition.

The children, who used to play and frolic, were no longer there. Some hid in the doorway, staring at the outsiders with empty eyes, while others leaned weakly against the wall to bask in the sun, their little faces so thin they were unrecognizable. They wore old, worn-out cotton-padded jackets that had been passed down for generations, offering no protection against the cold.

A sense of despair and death permeated the air. There was none of the joy that should have come with the year drawing to a close; only the fear of hunger and cold weighed heavily on everyone's hearts.

Wei Chen pushed his bicycle along the village's only main road, the wheels crunching over gravel and dust with a monotonous sound. Villagers passing by recognized him, but merely glanced at him with lifeless eyes, their lips moving as if they lacked even the strength to greet him, before lowering their heads again and hurrying away. Their eyes had lost their former enthusiasm and curiosity, leaving only deep weariness and a sense of bewilderment about survival.

Wei Chen's heart felt as if it were being squeezed tightly by an invisible hand, aching in waves. This was the true face of difficult times, stripping away the city's carefully maintained facade to reveal its brutal, bloody essence.

In such a remote mountain village, there is no black market for speculation, no factories to supply goods, and the wild animals in the mountains have long been plundered; the streams are almost dried up, and fish and shrimp have disappeared. The land yields poor harvests, or even no harvest at all, and the villagers have almost no other way out but to endure it.

The horrific scene before him was several times more shocking than any impression he had from the original owner's memories. An indescribable sense of sorrow and anger welled up within him, but even more so, a profound feeling of powerlessness. What could he change? Perhaps, he could only take care of those closest to him first.

He didn't linger in the village. Pushing his cart, he headed straight for the ancestral home at the village entrance. It was where his grandparents and uncle's family lived—a typical northern farmhouse. The earthen walls were already mottled, and the paint on the wooden doors had long since peeled off.

Before entering the village, he had already found a secluded and deserted place and taken out some things from his "backpack" in the game world: twenty pounds of cornmeal in an old cloth bag, which was not the finest but definitely solid; five pounds of whole wheat flour wrapped in oil paper, which was slightly dark in color but had a strong wheat aroma; a small piece of cured meat wrapped in dried lotus leaves, weighing about four or five pounds, which was dark red and shiny; and two wild rabbits and a pheasant that had been dried and tied with straw rope.

He had prepared all of this in advance. The cornmeal was saved from his family's food ration. In fact, his family rarely ate cornmeal, and he kept all of his monthly ration.

The white flour and meat came from the "productions" of the game world, which he processed to make them look like "ordinary" goods obtained from the black market or the mountains.

It wasn't that he couldn't offer anything better, but in the current situation, in such an impoverished mountain village, offering rice, flour, and large chunks of fresh meat would be like a child carrying gold through a bustling market—it would only bring trouble to the elderly. These "low-key" but practical things were the most effective way to solve their immediate crisis without drawing too much attention.

He packed these items into bamboo baskets on either side of his bicycle, covering them with tattered burlap sacks and hay, making them look like ordinary luggage.

Arriving at the familiar, creaking wooden door of the ancestral home, Wei Chen stopped the car, took a deep breath, and patted the door knocker.

"Who is it?" came an old and wary voice from inside. It was Grandma. "Grandma, it's me, Xiao Chen!" Wei Chen called out.

There was a moment of silence inside the door, followed by hurried and slightly chaotic footsteps, and Grandma's trembling voice filled with disbelief: "Xiao Chen? Is...is Chenwazi back?"

"It's me, Grandma! I've come back to see you and Grandpa!" Wei Chen called out again, a pang of sadness in his heart. Grandma's voice was less loud than usual, and more weak and hesitant.

The sound of the latch being pulled open rang out, and the wooden door opened a crack, revealing a thin, aged face covered in deep wrinkles. It was Wei Chen's grandmother, Wei Zhao Shi. The old woman's eyes were somewhat cloudy, but she tried to open them wide, staring intently at Wei Chen outside the door. When she recognized him as her grandson, whom she hadn't seen for over a year, tears instantly welled up in her cloudy eyes.

"Chenwa! It really is my Chenwa!" Grandma's voice choked with emotion. She reached out her hand tremblingly, wanting to touch her grandson's face, but then stopped in mid-air as if in disbelief.

"Grandma!" Wei Chen quickly stepped forward and grasped his grandmother's withered, cold hand. "It's me, I'm back! How are you and Grandpa?"

"Good, good... It's good that you're back, it's good that you're back..." Grandma nodded repeatedly, tears streaming down her face. She grabbed Wei Chen's hand and pulled him into the yard. "Quick, quick, come in! It's cold outside! Old man! Old man! Come see who's back!"

Hearing the noise, the curtain of the main room was lifted, and an equally thin old man with a slightly hunched back came out. It was Wei Chen's grandfather, Wei Laoshuan.

Grandpa looked much older than last year, his wrinkles were deep as if etched by a knife, and his eyes were somewhat dull. But the moment he saw Wei Chen, his eyes suddenly lit up, and his lips trembled as he said, "Chen boy? You...you're back?"

"Grandpa!" Wei Chen's nose tingled, and he quickly stepped forward to help his grandfather. "The factory was on holiday, so I came back to see you!"

At this moment, the door to the west wing opened, and Uncle Wei Changsheng and Aunt Zhao Jinhua came out upon hearing the noise. Uncle Wei also looked pale, and his cotton-padded coat was loose, clearly indicating that it wasn't very lined. Aunt Zhao looked even more haggard, with sunken eyes. When she saw Wei Chen, she forced a smile, but it was more of a look of surprise and a barely perceptible expectation—had her nephew from the city brought some food?

"Uncle, Aunt," Wei Chen greeted them quickly.

"Xiao Chen's back? Come on in! It's cold outside!" Uncle Wei Changsheng's face showed a genuine smile, but the smile also carried a deep weariness. He helped Wei Chen push the bicycle into the yard, and when he saw the burlap sack covering the bicycle basket, his eyes flickered, but he didn't ask any questions.

The family ushered Wei Chen into the main room. It was darker and colder inside than outside. A worn-out reed mat covered the earthen bed, and two patched quilts were piled in the corner. A chipped earthenware pot sat at the head of the bed, probably containing cold water. Farm tools and miscellaneous items were piled in the corner. A faint, indescribable scent permeated the air.

Wei Chen's heart sank further. He remembered when he returned last year, although the house was still poor, at least there was some life in it; the kang (heated brick bed) was warm, and the water vat was full. Now…

"Chenwa, why are you back at this time? Was the road difficult? Are your mother and Xiaoran alright?" Grandma pulled Wei Chen to sit down on the edge of the kang (a heated brick bed) and asked a series of questions, her withered hands tightly gripping her grandson's hand, as if afraid that if she let go, her grandson would disappear.

"It's all good, it's all good. My mother asked me to give her regards to you two." Wei Chen forced a smile, suppressing his heartache. "The factory sent me on a long business trip, and since it was on my way, I came back to visit first. Are you and Grandpa still in good health?"

"What's so tough about it? Just getting by." Grandpa sat on the kang (a heated brick bed), sighed, his voice hoarse, "In these times... just being able to breathe is already a blessing." His words carried a sense of world-weariness and desolation.