It Is Said That I Have Been Crushed By Dimensionality Reduction (Quick Travel) - Chapter 5

Bai Yuan tilted his head, puzzled.

He had just displayed inhuman strength, effortlessly lifting the heavy cart. Yet instead of being afraid, his parents only grew more affectionate—more determined to protect him.

Why? He didn’t quite understand it.

Still, he didn’t press the question. Instead, he looked up at them, his voice soft but firm. “I’ll become stronger, so I can protect you.”

Lin Cuiniang almost burst into tears again.

How could she not? Her son—her strange, strange little boy—was trying so hard to reassure her. He wasn’t asking to be comforted. He was offering to be her shield.

Even if she no longer needed to shelter him, her heart melted all the same.

She blinked back tears. “Of course your mother believes in you. You’ll grow up and support the family. You’re the most precious treasure your father and I have.”

Zhao Ping’an didn’t say much. He rarely did. But he nodded, slowly and solemnly, his eyes softening with pride.

Bai Yuan absorbed their love like sunlight, storing it deep within him as fuel. Then, without hesitation, he began to seriously consider how to take on the role of provider.

Meanwhile, the burden that had weighed so heavily on the couple’s hearts—the fear of their son dying, the constant humiliation under the Zhao family’s roof—lifted.

Bai Yuan was not only alive, but healthy and astonishingly strong.

The two of them felt something they hadn’t in a long time: hope.

They decided against taking Bai Yuan into town for medical treatment.

He was… not quite human. What if his oddities were discovered? His pulse, his energy—it might not resemble a human’s at all.

But to satisfy the village chief, they still needed to buy some herbs from the barefoot doctor. That would make it look like they were caring for him in the usual way.

So they stayed busy as the sun lowered.

Soon, villagers began to trickle in, bringing small offerings. Some left side dishes. Others brought bundles of straw. No one lingered long, and few dared meet Bai Yuan’s eyes—those unnatural white eyes.

They said little. Just dropped things off and hurried away.

Among them was Liu Ermei.

She had grown up in the same village as Lin Cuiniang and had married into Zhao Village. Her own life was hard—her husband beat her, her in-laws cursed her for not producing a son.

Still, she showed up quietly and slipped an egg into Lin Cuiniang’s hand. “I’ll make egg soup for your son later.”

Cuiniang was moved beyond words. She tried to push it back. “You need this more than we do…”

But Liu Ermei smiled, though her smile was worn thin by suffering. “Don’t argue. It’s not going into my belly or my daughter’s. It’s better off with Brother Yuan—let him rebuild his strength.”

Cuiniang finally relented and smiled through misty eyes. “Then I’ll hold onto it for now. Come over tomorrow with your daughter—we’ll share the soup together.”

Liu Ermei nodded, then glanced around nervously. She couldn’t stay long—her in-laws would find out. She wasn’t afraid for herself. But if trouble fell on Cuiniang’s family again because of her, she wouldn’t forgive herself.

“Brother Yuan, Auntie’s leaving,” she called, waving toward the boy.

He didn’t speak, only raised a tiny hand in a gesture of farewell, mimicking the prayer posture he’d seen before. The warm feeling radiating from Liu Ermei’s body transferred to him and was quickly stored as energy.

Soon after, more villagers came and left—one carrying firewood, another with dry thatch.

The house was in shambles, but it was still a home.

Cuiniang and Zhao Ping’an got to work, patching holes in the roof, sealing cracks in the windows, and sweeping out years of weeds and filth. They burned dried deworming herbs into ash and spread it into every corner.

Especially the kang—the heated bed-platform. That needed to be reinforced right away.

By nightfall, the house was warm.

A fire glowed in the kang, dry straw lined the surface, and a thin mattress lay on top. The couple was exhausted but uplifted.

Their emotions were a mixture of joy, anxiety, and deep uncertainty.

They were no longer slaves to the Zhao family. That brought relief.

But they were also living at the edge of the mountain now, vulnerable to wild animals—and perhaps worse.

And then there was their child.

He had once been called a disaster star simply because of how he looked. The villagers had nearly drowned him for it.

Now, it was no longer just superstition.

Brother Yuan truly was different.

What if someone found out?

Could they protect him?

The moon climbed into the sky.

The couple eventually drifted to sleep, unaware that the small figure lying between them had already slipped out.

Under the silver light of the moon, Bai Yuan looked ethereal—white hair, white eyes, and pale skin giving him a ghostlike appearance.

He raised his head, quietly absorbing moonlight.

A dark mist began to swirl in his palm, condensing into a mysterious energy form.

The system couldn’t stay silent anymore.

“Host… What are you?”

It had scanned countless races across countless worlds.

Emotion absorption alone was rare—but absorbing moonlight as well?

Unprecedented.

“No race in the entire multiverse matches your abilities,” the system whispered, clearly both excited and terrified.

Then, as if realizing the danger, it quickly backtracked.

“Wait—don’t tell me. Don’t say a word. It’s safer that way.”

Bai Yuan regarded the flickering system light floating in his mind. He gave a small nod. “Alright.”

He was quietly amused.

He had chosen not to devour this system upon arrival—and now, he was glad. This strange little world was fascinating. So full of things he had never seen.

He stood and wandered toward the river.

This body was still small, and his steps were clumsy. Every attempt to move faster turned into a near stumble.

The system fretted.

“Host! Where are you going in the middle of the night?”

“Fishing,” Bai Yuan said simply.

He remembered the taste of dried fish from a long-forgotten moment in a long-forgotten life. That single flavor had cut through years of hunger and stayed with him.

Now, he wanted to taste it again.

The system, eager to help, scanned the data for ancient, seasoning-free recipes. It quickly presented hundreds of easy ways to prepare fish with minimal ingredients.

Bai Yuan’s pace quickened.

When he reached the riverbank, he paused, taken aback.

The river wasn’t special—it wound gently under the moonlight—but to him, it was beautiful.

Even a world without spiritual energy can hold such wonder… he thought.

Suddenly, a fish leapt from the water, catching moonlight on its scales.

Without blinking, Bai Yuan flicked his hand. A flash of invisible force sliced through the air, and the fish was dragged to the riverbank, already lifeless.

The system stared in silence.

…Let’s pretend we didn’t see that.

It carefully suggested, “You can thread a grass stem through the gills to carry it.”

Bai Yuan nodded solemnly and took note.

Then the system gently reminded him, “Fish doesn’t keep well overnight. Don’t catch too many. If only there were a refrigerator…”

That word confused him.

He thought of ice, of snow, of cold winters in ragged clothes. In the original memories, “cold” had always meant suffering.

He looked down at his palm and concentrated.

With a shimmer of energy, snowflakes began to form. Slowly, they merged into a transparent block of ice, shimmering in the moonlight.

“This… is ice?” he asked quietly, almost reverently.

He pressed the fish into the ice, freezing it to preserve freshness. Then he continued catching more, stuffing them into the growing block of ice until it couldn’t hold another.

He was having… fun.

That rare, giddy feeling of discovery lingered.

He watched the river a little longer, then—under the system’s urging—returned home, dragging the ice block behind him.

He tucked it near the hearth and climbed into bed.

The system whispered, “Good night, Host.”

He echoed back, softly: “Good night.”

Morning.

Cuiniang and Zhao Ping’an woke quietly. They crept off the kang and gently shut the door to keep from disturbing the child.

Then they turned—and froze.

Their eyes locked on the giant, shimmering ice block sitting in the middle of the room.

Fish. Dozens of them. Some with open mouths, some bent and frozen mid-wriggle, all encased in clear ice.

It was summer.

There was no sign of forced entry. No broken windows. No unlocked doors.

Cuiniang’s knees nearly gave out.

Ping’an grabbed a stick, scanning the room with suspicion and dread.

“Dear,” she whispered, “go get Brother Yuan. We can’t stay here.”

But before he could move, the inner door creaked open.

There stood Bai Yuan, sleepy-eyed and tousled.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

He felt no danger. But the emotions coming off his parents—panic, fear, the urge to protect—were palpable.

The system whispered, “Maybe… they were scared by the fish and ice?”

Cuiniang started to reach for him, as if to shield him.

But Bai Yuan tilted his head, then suddenly understood.

“Oh,” he said softly. “Don’t be afraid. I caught those.”

Silence.

Cuiniang blinked at him, then back at the ice. Her voice was a whisper.

What…?

Her child—just five years old—had not only caught the fish… he’d made the ice?

Her legs trembled again.

How… how could such a thing be possible?