007’s attributes continued to rise.

His speed grew faster and faster, until he was nearly sprinting at his absolute limit.

Back in school, Chen Anquan was never a particularly fast runner. At best, he was a little above average—a thoroughly unremarkable student in the crowd. He remembered clearly that during his college days, the eight-hundred-meter run for the physical exam always hovered around four minutes—just enough to scrape a passing grade.

He fit the typical southern physique: average height, neither tall nor short, with no sign of defined muscles—if anything, he was a touch on the plump side.

Thankfully, the gravel road from Ao Bei Village to the neighboring Maplewood Village sloped steadily downhill, sparing him a good deal of effort compared to running on level ground.

Behind him, clouds of dust billowed upward, and his feet sent small pebbles flying in his wake. The little stones rattled and skittered away in the opposite direction as he pounded down the road.

After running about two hundred meters, Chen Anquan began to feel his breath hitching and growing rapid. He opened his mouth to draw in more air, hoping to ease the tightness in his chest.

But breathing through his mouth was a miserable experience. Soon, his lungs felt parched and raw, as if a fire had been lit inside them, burning with a searing ache.

He had no choice but to slow his pace. He dropped into a jog, gulping down the cool morning air in great drafts until his ragged breathing finally began to steady.

“It seems my constitution still needs a lot of work,” he thought, undaunted. He kept a close watch on the attribute panel in his mind.

After another mile or so—about a kilometer in all—his brows knit together in frustration.

His attribute panel showed no change.

Effort should yield results—this was the unshakeable belief Chen Anquan held as a young man of his generation.

“How can I not have improved at all? Am I not running fast enough, or haven’t I been at it long enough?” he wondered. Gritting his teeth, he bent his elbows to right angles and lengthened his stride.

“Ah…”

On the winding gravel road through the mountain fields, a youth with a flair for the dramatic neither rode nor drove but ran at full tilt, leaving a wake of dust and pebbles behind him.

By the end, his voice was almost a groan—like a drowning boy crying out in his last desperate moments.

Ahead, at the base of the mountain, neat rows of small Western-style houses spread across the land.

He was nearly at Maplewood Village.

Maplewood Village lay on level ground, surrounded by fertile fields. Four roads passed through this large village, three of them paved with concrete wide enough for two cars to pass at once.

“Come on! Not much further!”

Chen Anquan’s pace was now less than a third of what it had been at his peak, yet he never stopped running.

He knew that even if he didn’t complete the three-kilometer run perfectly, he had given it his all—never once had he let his stride falter.

Diligence must be maintained; this was a principle he had cultivated over his twenty-four years of life.

As he reached the edge of Maplewood Village, a few elderly women playing mahjong at a doorway eyed him with puzzled curiosity.

In these parts, hardly anyone ran for exercise. Life in the countryside was slow—people whiled away the day playing cards or tending their gardens. Who had the leisure to go running?

Chen Anquan ignored their panda-watching stares. He remembered that the village’s small grocery store was just a few dozen meters ahead.

He stopped outside the little store.

Sweat dripped from his forehead, his shirt clung wet to his back, and his arms were slick with a mix of dust and perspiration.

“Hello, handsome! Looking to buy something?” The shopkeeper’s wife was far more welcoming than the one in his own village. Seeing him run up, she greeted him with a cheerful smile.

“I’m here to shop,” he replied softly.

Then his face lit up with pure delight.

The shopkeeper’s wife was startled by his sudden shift in expression, giving him a perplexed look. Was this young man simpleminded?

But Chen Anquan didn’t care how she saw him. His gaze was fixed on the attribute panel in his mind:

Name: Chen Anquan
Age: 24
Strength: 1.21
Agility: 1
Spirit: 1
Constitution: 0.87
Unused attribute points: 0.01
Skill: [Tai Chi LV0 (15/100)]

After sprinting three kilometers, his Constitution had increased by 0.01, and he’d gained an extra 0.01 unused attribute point—he’d earned 0.02 attribute points in total. What a windfall!

Chen Anquan kept grinning foolishly, utterly delighted.

The shopkeeper’s wife grew speechless as he continued to stand in her doorway, neither entering nor leaving, just chuckling to himself.

Chen Anquan was a perfectionist. Seeing the unused attribute point at the bottom of his panel unsettled him—he couldn’t resist allocating it at once.

If he were told to keep training for a long time and stockpile a hundred increments of 0.01, then assign them all at once, he’d go mad.

“I’ll put it into Constitution!”

At once, the number in the Constitution field jumped to 0.88.

The shopkeeper’s wife was baffled. In her heart, she muttered, “Is this boy addicted to the internet? I’ve heard Professor Yang’s bioelectrotherapy works wonders for internet addiction…”

Despite her thoughts, she wisely kept silent. Such things were best discussed with his parents, not in front of the supposed addict.

Chen Anquan pulled his mind back, happiness bubbling inside him. In a few strides, he entered the little supermarket.

A true supermarket!

There were three full aisles of shelves—not just three shelves!

He selected a brand-new black iron padlock, three red plastic buckets, ten assorted stainless-steel bowls, chopsticks, hangers, and other necessities, then headed to the counter.

Just then, he noticed a wooden table to the right of the entrance laden with fresh meat and vegetables.

A supermarket indeed—even selling meat and produce!

“Handsome, would you like some pork? The pig was slaughtered just this morning—it's very fresh.”

But there was no pot or gas at home. Even if he bought pork, he couldn’t cook it—would he eat it raw?

He put the idea aside and replied, “No, just these things.”

Noticing his glance at the pork, the shopkeeper’s wife knew he’d been tempted. She picked up a palm-sized piece of pork with skin, “It’s nicely marbled—this is all that's left. Ten yuan, only ten yuan!”

Without waiting for his agreement, she licked her thick lips, grabbed a white plastic bag from behind the counter, placed the piece of pork inside, and set it in front of him.

This palm-sized piece must have weighed at least three or four hundred grams—ten yuan was a bargain.

Chen Anquan wasn’t sure why, perhaps from excitement, but he reached out, hooking his index and middle fingers into the loop below the shopkeeper’s finger.