Another three months passed, marking my seventh month in this strange and unforgiving world.
Time had flowed quietly, measured not by calendars but by pain endured and small victories won. Each day was a battle between patience and desperation, hope and fear. And now, at last, the day I had both longed for and dreaded had arrived.
Today was special.
Today, I would take my first step.
The early morning light spilled through the wooden window slats, painting pale gold lines across the floor. The air smelled faintly of dried herbs and medicine—Elder Martha's constant companions. She stood nearby, arms folded, her sharp eyes missing nothing, though she said nothing to disturb my focus.
My legs no longer felt foreign to me.
Months of careful treatment had repaired the fractured bones, nourished them with mana, and strengthened them far beyond their original state. The muscles, veins, and tissues had been rebuilt slowly, layer by layer, guided by Elder Martha's medicines and my own circulation of mana. What remained was not healing—but memory.
Would my body remember how to walk?
My heart pounded as I shifted toward the edge of the bed. The simple motion sent a ripple of tension through my chest. Slowly, carefully, I lowered my feet until the soles touched the wooden floor.
The sensation was overwhelming.
Cold.
Solid.
Real.
I inhaled sharply and pushed myself upright.
My legs trembled violently, as if protesting the weight placed upon them. My balance wavered, the world tilting slightly as my vision swayed. For a terrifying moment, I thought I would fall immediately.
But I was standing.
"I'm… standing," I whispered, hardly daring to believe it.
Elder Martha's lips curved upward, though she remained silent.
Encouraged, I shifted my weight forward.
One step.
The world lurched.
Why did the room suddenly tilt?
Before I could react—
Boom.
Pain shot through my side as I crashed onto the floor.
It wasn't the house that tilted.
It was me.
I lay there, stunned, staring at the ceiling as understanding slowly dawned. My legs had healed, yes—but my body had forgotten how to use them. I had been disabled for nearly my entire life. The last time I had truly walked, I had been five years old.
Nearly a decade had passed since that accident.
Healing flesh was one thing.
Relearning movement was another.
A soft chuckle broke the silence.
"Hohoho… easy, boy. Easy."
Elder Martha knelt beside me and helped me back onto the bed with surprising strength for her age.
"Just because your legs are healed doesn't mean you can walk right away," she said gently. "Your body has forgotten the motion. You'll need to teach it again—slowly."
I nodded, my throat tight.
Yet despite the fall, despite the failure, my heart was overflowing.
When my foot had touched the ground—when my body had responded—I had felt it.
It worked.
"Hahaha… yes… yes!" I laughed, the sound breaking free before I could stop it. "Thank you, Elder Martha! Thank you so much!"
Before I realized what I was doing, I leaned forward and hugged her tightly. Tears streamed down my face, soaking into her robes.
"Sister… I can walk," I sobbed. "Thank you… thank you…"
She froze for a brief moment, then sighed and patted my back.
"There, there," she murmured. "You've done well."
This moment—this single step—meant more to me than any cultivation breakthrough ever could.
Back on Earth, I had never shown my family how deeply the accident had wounded me. I didn't want them to worry. I smiled, joked, pretended I was fine. But inside, I cried every single day.
I watched children run and laugh.
I watched parents chase after their sons and daughters in open fields.
I could only sit and smile, while something heavy and aching pressed down on my chest.
Now, that burden was finally lifting.
I clenched my fists.
I wanted to find my family.
I wanted to show them that I could walk—run—even play with them beneath an open sky once more.
After calming myself, I wiped my tears away and hardened my resolve.
If necessary, I would become strong enough to cross oceans…
Even the sea of stars itself.
I needed power.
---
In the days that followed, I focused on standing and balance training. Using the edge of the bed and nearby furniture, I practiced shifting my weight, strengthening my coordination, and reawakening dormant muscle memory.
Progress was slow.
Frustratingly slow.
Then, one afternoon, a memory from Earth surfaced—clear and sudden.
A walking aid.
In hospitals back home, patients used simple support frames to relearn how to walk. The design was crude but effective. Stability over speed.
Excited, I asked Sister Jean for bamboo or wooden sticks—preferably about an inch and a half in diameter. For fasteners, I repurposed arrowheads to bore holes, then inserted solid wooden pegs as nails. Old hide was cut into strips and soaked before being used as binding straps.
At first, both women looked at me skeptically.
"A walking… frame?" Sister Jean repeated, raising an eyebrow.
Once I explained its purpose, Elder Martha's expression changed.
"This could help many people," she said slowly. "Especially the elderly."
Her words made me pause.
I had only thought of myself.
Yet she saw beyond that—toward the tribe.
I smiled faintly. "If it works, I can teach others how to make it."
I was honestly amazed by her medical insight. As for me, I was merely drawing from fragments of a past life—hours spent buried in books, watching random projects online, absorbing information without knowing it would one day save me.
Still, knowing and doing were very different things.
As I tried assembling the frame, several joints came out loose. The structure wobbled slightly when pressed.
I frowned. "I think… I don't know how to tie this tightly enough."
Sister Jean clicked her tongue in irritation and stepped forward.
"Tsssk… first you didn't know the basics of this world," she muttered, expertly tightening the hide straps. "And now you can't even tie a proper knot. Honestly… you're like someone from another planet."
I laughed awkwardly. "Hihihi…"
She had hit the mark again.
How could I be good at this? On Earth, I had only watched others work. Practical skill required experience—and I was lacking.
After several hours of adjustments, tightening, and reinforcing, it was finally finished.
The first prototype stood before me—simple, rough, but sturdy.
I placed my hands on it and slowly stood.
This time, the frame held.
So did I.
For the first time since coming to this world, I wasn't just surviving.
I was moving forward.