Rescued

What does it feel like to be woken up by hunger?

It's like having your stomach clamped in a vise, then twisted 360 degrees, 720 degrees, over and over in that agonizing rotation.

It's the kind of pain that makes you grit your teeth, clutch your belly, and curl up into the shape of a boiled shrimp.

The person who woke up, of course, wouldn't think about how lucky he was to even be woken by hunger at all.

He just intuitively registered the difference in his surroundings—lying on a different mattress, looking at a different room. But he didn't dwell on it. He just saw it, felt it.

"Awake, are you, stranger?"

The hoarse voice came from a frail old man with snow-white hair. The only thing on him that seemed carefully tended was a pair of thin mustaches. The rest wasn't exactly slovenly, but it wasn't well-kept either.

He sat by a fireplace with no fire burning, holding a transparent glass filled with cheap amber whiskey.

So, was that him talking just now?

His thoughts, coming back online, only brought a sharp stab of pain to his head, almost making him forget the twisting in his stomach.

But his brain, having reorganized its management zones, wasn't as chaotic as before. The waking man didn't know if he'd adapted or if those super abilities had temporarily shut down, but either way, he felt like he'd returned to normal, carefully observing his surroundings.

So, that old man had stopped speaking Russian and switched to English?

As someone who'd gone through exam-oriented education, he'd studied English. But his grades were terrible—normal conversation left him missing pieces, understanding maybe one sentence out of ten.

Just now, the old man had asked if he was awake. Right.

Huh, why did he understand this time?

Because his train of thought suddenly took a sharp turn, another wave of pain slammed into his head, making him grind his teeth.

The old man's greeting got no response, but he did get to enjoy a full show of facial expressions that rivaled a face-changing performance.

First, a blank, stupid look. Then pain twisted his whole face into a wrinkled chrysanthemum. Next, a bewildered stare around the room, mixed with confusion and surprise. Finally, pain again, his face screwing up like he'd stepped in something.

The old man started to wonder if he'd picked up some mental patient. These days, aside from those obviously inhuman freaks, the last people you wanted to mess with were the crazy ones.

Thinking this, his hand crept toward the shotgun hidden in the corner of his chair, ready to blast any patient who lunged at him in a fit.

Finally, the waking man remembered he was so hungry his stomach was practically touching his spine. He spotted a round loaf of bread and some cold fries on the bedside table, and without a second thought, he grabbed handfuls and stuffed them into his mouth.

If he had an ordinary digestive system, after such a long period of starvation, he should only be eating liquid food—anything solid would come right back up from indigestion.

But with his steel-like guts now, even if he swallowed actual iron, he could digest it for show, let alone some bread and fries.

The food on the plate wasn't much; a few mouthfuls and it was gone. But the eating process wasn't pleasant either.

Starting from his mouth, every organ and cell in his digestive system was upgrading again under the guidance of his super senses. If they didn't, the cells couldn't handle the stimulation and would break down.

At the same time, the upgrade process, the taste stimulation from the food, every change during eating—all that information flooded into his brain.

Luckily, his brain, now back online and dividing labor, didn't let this stimulation and change send his body into total chaos again. It just left a jumble of messy thoughts that made his mind a bit confused.

The waking man spent some effort sorting through his thoughts, adapting to all the stimulation.

It felt like, once food entered his mouth, the whole process played out like a video turned into pictures, frame by frame.

And then each picture had detailed annotations added to everything. Whether he needed the information or not, it all got crammed into his head.

This massive amount of data seemed redundant, but it actually had plenty of blind spots.

For example, when the fries hit his mouth, he could tell the main component was starch. But there were plenty of other distinguishable flavors and components whose content was unknown.

It wasn't that this world lacked the means to analyze those components—it was just that he didn't know. Neither the version of him from this world nor the one from his previous life had any relevant memories.

It was like a puzzle that should have a complete picture but was missing a lot of pieces, leaving big empty gaps.

This situation naturally brought confusion, even a little annoyance.

But strangely, this kind of "emotion" acted like a stabilizer, giving his chaotic thoughts a thread to follow. From there, he could unravel everything, clearing it all into a set of mental rules, instead of letting his thoughts run wild.

In reality, all of this probably took less than a breath in the old man's eyes. He just saw the man on the bed calm down.

Then the guy realized he wasn't wearing any clothes! He was so startled he yanked the blanket up to his chest like a scared little girl.

The old man was speechless at the reaction. He couldn't just say nothing, so he explained:

"Yesterday, when I found you, you were lying naked on the beach, getting washed by the tide.

"I figured no normal person bathes like that, so I dragged you to my car and brought you back.

"Drying off your nearly hypothermic body and tossing you onto my only bed took most of my strength.

"You can't expect a dying old man to dress you too, can you?—"

As he spoke, the old man tossed a set of clothes onto the bed.

"—Since you don't seem to have any other luggage, just make do with these."

Back in his past life, he was the kind of useless guy who watched free American shows and still needed subtitled versions. But just now, that whole spiel from the old man—he felt like he understood it.

Without a second thought, he grabbed the shirt first to pull it on. But his damn strength wasn't adjusted yet, and with one bad control, as he pulled the shirt over his head, he tore it to shreds.

With strips of cloth hanging on him, barely covering anything, the man on the bed and the old man stared at each other in awkward silence.

Without much thought, the old man grabbed another random piece from a pile of clothes—washed or not, who knew—and tossed it over.

From the smell, the clothes were clean, just not folded properly.

This time, the dresser knew to control his strength. He carefully pulled the shirt on. Then he slid the pants under the blanket and worked his legs into them. No underwear, but he couldn't worry about that.

The clothes were the old man's, so they were a size too small for the guy on the bed. But since the waking man was skinny to the point of being unrecognizable, they fit well enough—just the cuffs and pant legs stuck out a little.

New book, requesting follow-up reads, collections, and recommendations. Thank you~~