The morning in the Cole family’s shack began quietly. There was no aroma of a hearty breakfast, no sizzling meat, no steaming bowl of porridge. Only the faint crackling of firewood came from the small kitchen, accompanied by the occasional cough of someone trying not to wake the others.
Ryan Cole slowly opened his eyes. For a moment he simply stared at the patched cloth ceiling above him. A few tiny holes allowed thin rays of morning sunlight to slip through, illuminating the dust that floated lazily in the air.
He turned his head toward the small wooden table beside his bed. There was nothing on it. Not even a piece of bread.
Ryan wasn’t surprised.
He sighed, taking a deep breath as he sat up slowly, feeling the familiar weakness spread through his body. His arms felt heavy. His chest felt slightly tight.
Even after a night’s sleep, his body often felt as though he had spent the entire night working. Being born prematurely had left him with a body far weaker than ordinary people’s.
When he was younger, his parents had spent nearly everything they had trying to treat him. In the end, they had only accumulated more debt.
And Ryan had learned something early. In a poor family, sickness was a luxury nobody could afford.
"Ryan." His mother’s quiet voice came from outside. He immediately got out of bed.
"Coming, Mom."
He opened the door and stepped into the small hall.
His mother Sarah was crouched beside the kitchen stove, carefully stirring a pot that contained a thin herbal soup. The amount of ingredients inside was pitiful; there were more leaves than actual medicinal herbs.
Still, she stirred it carefully, as though she were preparing some precious medicine.
Ryan’s gaze lingered on the pot. "Is that Ethan’s medicine?"
Sarah nodded. "His legs have been hurting more these past few days." She lowered her voice. "I used less water this time. It should be slightly stronger."
Ryan fell silent. He knew what that meant; they had less medicine left.
Sarah noticed his expression and immediately smiled. "It’s fine. Your father got some work yesterday. We’ll buy more when he gets paid."
Ryan didn’t expose the lie. He knew his father. He knew his mother. And he knew exactly how much money his father had brought home yesterday. Not enough. Not nearly enough.
"Mom, where’s Dad?"
"Already left." Sarah carefully poured the herbal soup into a chipped bowl. "He said there was another repair job in the wealthy district this morning."
Ryan nodded.
His father had been leaving earlier and returning later these days. Sometimes his hands were covered in cuts. Sometimes his back was so sore that he could barely straighten it. Yet he never complained, because complaining didn’t put food on the table.
Sarah picked up the bowl. "Help me take this to Ethan."
"Okay."
Ryan took it from her. The bowl wasn’t heavy, but his fingers tightened slightly around it anyway. He walked toward the hall.
At the end of the room, Ethan Cole sat quietly in his wooden wheelchair.
The chair itself had clearly been repaired countless times. One wheel was slightly crooked. The armrests had several layers of cloth wrapped around them. The wooden surface was old and worn smooth from years of use.
Ethan was looking through the window. Outside, several children from the neighborhood were chasing one another through the narrow streets. Their laughter occasionally drifted into the shack as Ethan watched them silently.
Ryan’s footsteps made him turn around.
"Brother."
Ryan smiled. "Ethan, drink your medicine."
Ethan looked at the bowl. His expression immediately became somewhat bitter. "Again?"
"Yes."
"I hate this stuff."
Ryan laughed softly. "I know." He pulled over a small stool and sat beside him. "Come on. Drink it while it’s warm."
Ethan reluctantly took the bowl and drank a mouthful. His expression immediately twisted.
"It’s bitter."
"Of course it’s bitter." Ryan smiled. "Medicine that tastes good is probably not medicine."
Ethan rolled his eyes. "You always say that."
"Because it’s true."
Ryan reached over and rubbed his younger brother’s head. Ethan reluctantly continued drinking. After finishing half the bowl, he suddenly stopped. His hands tightened around the bowl.
"Brother."
"Hmm?"
"When will my legs get better?"
Ryan’s hand froze. For a moment, he didn’t answer.
Ethan lowered his head as he continued, "I heard Mom and Dad talking yesterday." His voice became quieter. "They said the Limb Restoration Pill is very expensive."
Ryan’s expression gradually became complicated. Ethan was only fifteen, but because of his illness he had matured much earlier than most children his age. He knew exactly what poverty meant. He knew why his parents sometimes pretended they weren’t hungry. He knew why his mother carefully counted every grain of rice before cooking. He knew why his father continued working despite the pain in his back. And he knew why Ryan kept going to the garbage disposal site every day.
To earn money. To help the family. To find something valuable. Anything.
Ryan looked at his brother’s thin legs beneath the old blanket. They had been motionless for five years. Five years. At first, Ethan had cried every day. Then he had cried less. Eventually, he stopped crying altogether.
That was what frightened Ryan the most.
Ryan slowly lowered his gaze. The Second-tier Top Grade Limb Restoration Pill. That was the only real hope they had. According to the doctors they had consulted years ago, ordinary medicine couldn’t repair Ethan’s condition. His meridians had been damaged beyond what conventional treatment could restore. Only the Limb Restoration Pill possessed the medicinal power necessary to reconnect the damaged meridians and regenerate what had been lost.
But its price...
Ryan clenched his fingers beneath the table. It was simply too much. Even if his entire family worked from morning until night, saving every copper coin they could, they might spend decades without getting close to that amount. And Ethan couldn’t wait decades.
Ryan looked at his brother. He knew it was hopeless. At least, with their current circumstances, it was hopeless.
So what could he do?
He couldn’t awaken a Bloodline. He wasn’t strong. He wasn’t talented. He didn’t have a wealthy family supporting him. He was just a frail scavenger digging through garbage every day. Could someone like him really gather enough money to buy a Second-tier Top Grade treasure pill?
Ryan almost laughed at the thought.
"Will I really be able to get it...?"
The words escaped his lips unconsciously.
Ethan looked at him. "Brother?"
Ryan immediately came back to his senses. He smiled. "Nothing." He reached over and carefully wiped a little herbal residue from the corner of Ethan’s mouth. "Don’t think about it."
"But my legs..."
"I know." Ryan’s voice softened. "I know they hurt."
Ethan’s eyes gradually reddened. He quickly lowered his head. "I just..." His voice trembled. "I want to walk again."
Ryan’s heart seemed to be stabbed by something. He reached over and pulled Ethan into his arms.
"It’s okay."
Ethan’s shoulders trembled. A tear finally slipped down his cheek. Ryan quickly wiped it away.
"Don’t cry."
"But..."
"Don’t worry, little brother." Ryan smiled. The smile wasn’t confident. It wasn’t the smile of someone who had already found a solution. It was the smile of someone who had absolutely no idea how he would accomplish something, yet refused to let the person he loved see his despair.
"Wait for me."
Ethan looked up. Ryan gently patted his shoulder. "I’m coming."
Ethan stared at him for several seconds. Then he nodded. "Okay."
Ryan smiled again. He didn’t tell Ethan that he had no idea how he would obtain the money. He didn’t tell him that the price of the Limb Restoration Pill was so high that their entire family might never afford it. He didn’t tell him that sometimes, after returning from the garbage disposal site, he secretly wondered whether all his effort amounted to nothing.
He simply stood up. "I’ll go help Mom."