Oliver had come to a stark realization: progress through farming alone was impossible. Toiling in the soil day after day was not only backbreaking work, but it also meant his life was entirely at the mercy of others.
The land belonged to the Village Chief. If others willed you to live, you lived; if they willed you to die, you died. This situation was utterly unacceptable to Oliver, and he instinctively sought a way out.
Cultivation and mastering supernatural powers were undoubtedly the most direct methods. In fact, it was the only path Oliver could see before him. Even if it meant risking his life, he wouldn't hesitate. With the Rebirth Codex in his possession, what was there to fear about death?
Facing danger head-on was the only way. Even if he perished, he'd gain valuable experience. The next time he encountered a similar deadly situation, he could face it calmly and seize the sole chance of survival.
So, Oliver made his way to the Village Chief's house.
Willowbrook was no small settlement, boasting nearly a thousand inhabitants and vast stretches of fertile fields and ponds. After a long walk, Oliver finally arrived at the Village Chief's residence in the heart of the village.
As befitting the leader of Willowbrook, the Chief's home was far more imposing than the rest, constructed entirely of dark green iron bamboo. This legendary material was said to be impervious to water and fire, and resistant to blade and sword. It took a full day for an adult to cut even a small amount.
A house built from this bamboo was akin to a fortress of fine brick and stone. It was the epitome of security.
Two guards stood watch outside the bamboo structure. One recognized Oliver and said curtly, "Oliver Greene? See that tree? Hit it with all your might. If you leave a mark, you pass."
Oliver followed the guard's gaze to an ancient tree so thick that several people couldn't encircle it with their arms. Its surface was pockmarked with fist imprints, clearly a long-standing test for aspiring hunters.
The most impressive mark sunk a full three inches deep – a terrifying sight. Three inches, or about ten centimeters in modern measurements, was equivalent to an entire fist punching through. If such a blow struck a person...
Oliver, refraining from using his internal energy, threw a few tentative punches. The ancient tree didn't so much as quiver. Realizing the challenge before him, he took a deep breath and summoned his internal energy.
Ten gossamer-thin strands of energy coalesced in his fists, accompanied by an intense burning sensation.
"BANG!"
His fist connected with tremendous force. The seemingly indestructible bark suddenly gave way like rotten wood, caving in under the impact.
However, this moment of triumph was fleeting. The punch's momentum was abruptly halted as the powerful force rebounded from the tree trunk, dissipating without a trace.
Oliver examined his handiwork. Though he'd left a mark, it was shallow – perhaps only two or three centimeters deep.
"You've cultivated for a year and can already channel energy to leave a mark. You pass. Follow me," the guard said, turning towards a side courtyard.
"Yes, sir!" Oliver hastily complied.
The side courtyard housed a simple building. Upon entering, Oliver found himself surrounded by an array of weapons: longbows, spears, longswords, short swords, hammers, staves... An armory?
The talkative guard, a middle-aged man named Thomas, settled into a wooden chair. He fixed Oliver with a appraising look before speaking. "The Hunting Team's job is to eliminate monsters and evil spirits that threaten our village. This requires real combat ability."
"The Village Chief has no desire to see you dead, so you'll have a year to master swordsmanship before your first official mission. The Chief's rule is simple: we'll provide food and lodging for a year while you train. After that, your performance will determine your fate."
"Listen, kid. Choose a sword and train hard. If you die later, you've only yourself to blame!"
"I understand. I'll train diligently and repay the Village Chief's kindness!" Oliver replied, clasping his fists respectfully.
It was clear that despite the variety of weapons available, newcomers were limited to short swords – the easiest to master.
"Good. Go choose your blade, and I'll teach you the Monster-Slaying Sword Technique," Thomas nodded, seemingly satisfied with Oliver's attitude.
Oliver approached the weapons rack, uncertain how to choose. He tried each sword in turn.
"This one doesn't feel right..."
"Too heavy..."
Eventually, Oliver selected a weapon that felt manageable. At just 13 years old and not yet fully grown, he opted for a shorter blade that would be easier to wield.
Thomas didn't seem to care which sword Oliver chose – perhaps it made no difference to him. He simply barked an order, led Oliver to an open area, and began demonstrating the sword technique.
"The mindset for attacking humans and beasts is completely different, so the sword techniques vary accordingly," Thomas explained. "The Monster-Slaying Sword Technique is purely for beasts. It emphasizes simplicity and directness – kill with a single strike."
"A human might fall to one blow, but monsters are often tenacious. They can survive being cut in half. You must focus on vital areas – the head, the heart. Either cleave with overwhelming force or pierce through in one thrust!"
"This technique favors the former approach. Each strike must be powerful and weighty, aiming to bisect the target!"
Thomas demonstrated, his style mirroring that of Master William – fierce, fast, opening and closing in rapid succession.
"Memorize these movements and practice them!" he commanded.
After a full day of training, with Thomas constantly correcting his form, the Monster-Slaying Sword Technique began to take shape in Oliver's mind. But it was still just mimicry, far from mastery.
As evening fell, Thomas abruptly announced, "That's enough for today. Let's head to the mess hall for dinner."
"Yes, sir..." Oliver nodded weakly. There had been no meal at midday, and he suspected Thomas had been trying to work him to death.
The mess hall sat at the village's outskirts, adjacent to a training ground and a pond. As they approached, the air filled with the sounds and smells of cooking. With over a thousand villagers and a Hunting Team of twenty or thirty members – not to mention the voracious appetites that came with cultivation – a small army of cooks was needed. The atmosphere was lively and bustling.
"Captain Thomas! You're late – new recruit?" A portly cook emerged, brandishing a spatula.
"Indeed. Get him a token," Thomas replied. "A farmer who cultivated internal energy in a year – quite impressive."
"Heh, looks like two or three layers at most." The rotund chef fished an iron plate from his pocket, scratched it with his fingernails, and tossed it to Oliver.
Oliver caught it reflexively, but was unprepared for the surprising force transmitted through the small iron plate.
"Thud! Thud! Thud!"
His face contorted with effort as he quickly circulated his internal energy to resist. Even so, he stumbled back three steps before regaining his balance.
"Three steps, and still standing. Not bad at all. Let's serve him up!" The cook rapped his spatula on a table, then turned back to his massive pots, a whirlwind of ingredients in motion.
Thomas turned to Oliver. "From now on, you'll eat here. Two meals a day, no waiting around. Eat your fill – the ability to eat well is a talent in itself!"
With a resounding clang, the cook set down a heaping platter of food. Though it lacked enticing aromas, the portion size was generous.
Thomas wasted no time on conversation. He grabbed a large bowl of rice and began shoveling food into his mouth.
Oliver's stomach growled in response. Famished, he too seized a bowl and dug in.
Compared to the meager fare of the Greene household, the Hunting Team's mess hall was a veritable feast. The dishes were rich with oil and seasoning, accompanied by side dishes resembling potatoes. It was addictively satisfying.
For thirteen years in this life, Oliver had subsisted on plain rice. Meat was unheard of, and even vegetables were a rarity. Such a harsh existence had all but crushed what might have been exceptional innate talent.
The rapid clinking of chopsticks filled the air as Oliver devoured his meal with wolfish intensity. In mere minutes, he had polished off an entire large bowl.