The cold wind howled through the mountains, sweeping snow and ice across the dark sky like a frozen storm.
The towering trees outside stood stiff and silent, their branches heavy with snow, looking like white statues carved from ice.
To the east of Sky Mount Ridge, just outside a hidden cave, Henry slowly woke up—his body stiff and aching.
"Damm it, it's freezing…" That was his first clear thought.
His entire body felt like it had been dunked into a giant freezer. He couldn't feel his fingers or toes. Even moving his arms took effort. "Did I leave the window open? Wait, this isn't my bed. Where the hell am I?"
It was hard to think. There was a strange buzzing in his head, like some kind of blurry static, and pieces of information he didn't recognize kept flashing through his mind—names, places, memories, and feelings.
Then came the hunger. A deep, painful hunger that made his stomach cramp like it was trying to eat itself.
'Am I dying?' This is a symptom of the body's organs consuming energy such as fat stored in his own flesh and blood to maintain body activity.
Right then, he felt something—or someone—pressing against him. Instinctively, he jerked back and opened his eyes.
A small campfire flickered weakly nearby, barely more than glowing embers. Next to him, a young boy—no older than thirteen or fourteen—was curled up, shivering.
The boy had both arms wrapped tightly around him, trying to stay warm under a rough leather skin blanket.
The boy looked up, startled by the movement. His face was pale, his lips cracked from the cold, and his eyes were wide—not with fear, but with a desperate will to survive.
'Henry blinked at him, confused. Who is this kid? Why is he clinging to me?'
Then it hit.
A rush of memories poured into his brain, fast and overwhelming. Faces he didn't know.
A childhood that wasn't his.
A different mother, a different father, a younger brother—this same boy beside him—and a life filled with hunger, cold, and hardship.
No… this can't be real. He clutched his head, gritting his teeth through the splitting headache. The memories felt too real to be a dream.
'Did I… transmigrate?'
All those years of reading web novels about people waking up in different worlds—was this one of those moments? He tried to focus, tried to sort through the chaos in his mind.
But then another shock hit him like a slap in the face.
'Wait a minute…'
'What the hell?'
'Why do all these memories refer to me as… Monica?'
Multiple scenes of someone strange reeled in front of him like a recording scroll, flashing past, engraving deep into his mind.
He slowly looked down at himself—or rather, herself. The body was smaller, thinner, and unmistakably female.
"Fuck…" the word escaped from her dry lips before she could stop it. "I'm a girl now?!"
Yes, 'he' became 'she'.
The shock would have almost made her laugh if she hadn't been so cold and miserable. She lay there, half-frozen, barely able to move, her thoughts spiraling.
The only thing that kept her grounded was the boy still holding onto her for warmth—her new little brother.
"I don't have time for an identity crisis," she thought bitterly. Not even having patience to check her new body.
"I'm not alone here. We're all barely holding on." She looked around the cave. It was dark and quiet, filled with tired, cold people.
More than three hundred of them, all crowded around small dying fires. Most were women and children.
A few were older men, thin and worn out. Almost none looked strong enough to fight off the cold, let alone hunt for food.
No wonder they're all clinging to each other, Monica thought, pulling the leather skin tighter around herself and the boy. They're trying to survive. Just like me.
The air smelled of smoke, sweat, and faint rot. Everyone looked the same—faces pale, eyes hollow, too tired to talk, too hungry to cry.
"Where are the hunters?" she wondered.
From the new memories in her head, she knew that some of the stronger villagers had gone out over two weeks ago to search for food and firewood. But they hadn't come back.
No signals. No sounds. Nothing.
Usually, even if the hunters went out towards the nearby half-giants camp, they should have been back in four to five days unless something unexpected happened.
Some people were still hoping they'd return. But most had already given up. Their faces said everything—they were just waiting to die.
'And now I'm one of them,' Monica thought, her stomach growling painfully again. "What the hell am I supposed to do in a world like this?"
"Moni, eat these fruits and bring the rest of the firewood to the campfire," a voice suddenly came from behind.
It was her mother's voice—hoarse, weak, but still holding that firm tone a mother uses when she won't take no for an answer.
Monica snapped out of her daze. Her body was stiff and cold, her mind foggy, but hearing her mother's voice was like someone pouring a bucket of cold water over her head.
She turned around slowly, her joints aching, and saw her mother holding out her trembling hand.
In her hand were four small, dark blue winter fruits—the very last ones they had.
The fruits were shriveled, half-frozen, and no bigger than a thumb, but Monica's stomach growled just looking at them.
Not just her, even the nearby people who turned their faces towards them had some greedy look.
Her dry throat tightened as if it could already taste the faint sweetness.
"But mom, you…" she started to protest, her voice cracking.
She wanted to say, 'What about you? You haven't eaten either.'
But her mother cut her off with a tired but sharp look. "Shh. Don't argue," she said, her voice gentle but firm. "Share one with your brother. Eat the rest yourself. You need the strength."
Monica looked at her mother closely now.
She knew what her mother was trying to do: give them one last chance.
Even if others cannot survive, just by eating those remaining winter fruits, their chances of holding until someone from the hunting team arrives will increase.
She hadn't really noticed it before in her dazed state, but she looked terrible. Her lips were pale, her skin dry and cracked from the wind.
Her eyes were sunken, cheeks hollowed out. She was barely standing—only her will was keeping her upright.
"Eating three should be enough for you to move the rest of the firewood," her mother continued, almost like she was explaining it to herself.
"Don't hesitate. Even if I or someone else ate them, we wouldn't have the strength to move those heavy logs. But you, Moni… You still can. You have to."
Her mother paused, then raised her voice just slightly—not yelling, but loud enough so that the people sitting nearby could hear her.
"We all know what needs to be done. Moni's the only one who can still carry the logs. These fruits are for her."
The message was clear. She wasn't just giving Monica instructions—she was warning the others not to interfere, not to fight over the food.
Monica swallowed hard. She looked down at the fruits now in her hand. They were cold and sticky, but they smelled faintly sweet. Her hands were shaking—not just from hunger but from the weight of what her mother was asking her to do.
She glanced at her little brother, still curled up near the weak campfire, shivering. He looked so thin, so small… and so tired.
I can't let him freeze. I can't let Mom collapse either.
Monica forced herself to nod. "Okay… I'll do it," she whispered.
She bit into the first fruit slowly. The juice was sour and cold, but it woke her up more than anything else had in days. She gave one fruit to her brother, who opened his eyes and blinked up at her, confused but thankful.
Then she ate the other two as fast as she could, ignoring the ache in her jaw and the cramp in her gut. Warmth didn't return, but something stirred inside her—like her body was remembering how to move again.
She stood up, legs shaking but holding.
She looked at her mother again and this time, saw tears gathering in her eyes. But her mother didn't let them fall. She just gave a small, tired smile and turned back toward the wall of the cave to sit down, saving her strength.
Monica clenched her fists, feeling the familiar and unfamiliar love of her parents in this new life.
She then turned toward the pile of dry twigs and heavy logs.
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