When the morning mist, laden with the fresh scent of straw, drifted into the shed, Pi Yanlin rolled over in the hay.
He pinched the piece of copper he had pried from the gap in the iron coffin last night, his thumb tracing the blurry patterns on its surface. His eyelids felt heavy, as if weighted with lead—ever since he activated the System, this body had a penchant for "lying flat," which suited him just fine.
"Ding—daily check-in completed." When the System prompt echoed in his sea of consciousness, he had just finished counting the thirty-seventh blade of grass.
Chapter 61