consciousness like shit, dragged him out of the mire. He blinked a few times, the world still blurry. Only after some time did he recognize the rough bark of the old locust tree under his hands, and the swampy air filled with the stench of decay and damp earth.

"Shit..." Zhang San cursed, his voice hoarse. He slowly pushed himself up, his movements stiff and painful. A glance down revealed his sorry state. The coarse hemp clothes he wore were riddled with holes, revealing the torn muscles and bleeding arms and legs underneath. The wound oozed sticky, disgusting blood that clung to his skin. He pinched himself hard—"Ah!" A strangled scream escaped his throat as the intense pain confirmed he wasn't dreaming.

How the hell did he get from sorting out firewood outside the sect gate to winding up in this鬼 forest? His last clear memory was seeing the sect master's grumpy face, then a sharp pain, and then... darkness. Did someone deliberately push him down the hill? Or did he faint from exhaustion and hit his head?