David's last memory was stupid.
Not heroic. Not tragic in the way stories pretended death should be.
Just rain, a cracked sidewalk, and the sour smell of wet cloth as he pulled his hood tighter and thought, I should've charged my phone.
Then light—too bright—then nothing at all.
When he woke, the world was… quieter.
Not silent. Just cleanly quiet, like a room where people had learned to breathe carefully.
He tried to move and discovered his arms were short. His fingers were small. His chest rose and fell too quickly, like he'd been running.
He blinked.
A canopy of dark stone and blue crystal veins stared back at him. The crystals glowed faintly, like lightning trapped in ice.
David didn't know how he knew what it was. He just did.
Blue Lightning Tyrant Dragon Sect…
The thought came with a headache, and a second later, another set of memories poured in—smooth and merciless—like someone had tipped a bucket into his skull.
A name.
Yu Xiaogang.
A life.
A mountain sect where thunder rolled even on clear days.
A father whose voice was law.
David swallowed and tasted something unfamiliar: air that felt sharper, thinner, cleaner. And then he heard a soft footstep.
A girl in a plain blue servant's robe pushed the door open and froze when she saw him sitting upright.
"Young master!" she blurted, then caught herself, pressing her hands together as if she'd spoken too loudly in a temple. "You— you woke early."
Her accent was strange, the cadence formal, each word placed like it mattered.
David stared at her. She couldn't be much older than fifteen. Her hair was braided simply, her face earnest in a way people weren't when they wanted something from you.
Servant, the memories supplied. Maid. Assigned to the young master's courtyard.
He tried to speak.
What came out was smaller than he expected. "Where am I?"
The girl blinked, startled. "In… your room, young master."
David's throat tightened.
That answer made sense here. Of course it did. Why would a child ask where he lived?
He tried again, slower. "What day is it?"
The girl hesitated, eyes flicking toward the hall as if searching for permission. "Awakening Day. The elders said you should rest. You fell asleep after the prayers."
Prayers.
Awakening.
David's stomach dropped.
No. Not today. Not already.
He swung his legs over the bed. His feet didn't reach the floor properly. That hit him harder than anything else—being small, being helpless in the stupidest way.
The girl rushed forward. "Young master, you should—"
"I'm fine," he said, too sharply. He softened it because her face tightened. "I'm… fine. What's your name?"
"Lin'er," she said quickly. "Lin'er serves the young master."
The way she said it—serves—wasn't dramatic. It was ordinary. That scared him more.
David sat back down, forcing his breathing to slow.
Okay. Think. If this is Soul Land…
The memories he brought with him—anime scenes, plot points, debates, comments sections—floated up like scraps.
Blue Lightning Tyrant Dragon Sect. Yu Xiaogang. The "Grandmaster." The pig spirit.
His hands clenched.
I'm him.
Lin'er watched him like someone watches a pot about to boil over.
"Are you afraid, young master?" she asked.
David wanted to say, You have no idea. Instead, the child's voice came out honest.
"A little."
Lin'er relaxed, as if that made him normal again. "Everyone is afraid. Even the young masters who pretend they aren't."
He stared at her. "Young masters?"
Her eyes widened. "Ah— I meant— the other young lords of the branch families. Not you—"
"It's fine," he said, and meant it. Her panic was real; she could be punished for speaking carelessly.
A heavier step sounded in the outer hall.
Lin'er straightened instantly, hands folding at her waist.
Two men entered without knocking.
They wore sect guard uniforms—dark leather reinforced with metal plates, the dragon crest at the shoulder. Their posture was disciplined, not hostile.
One of them spoke first, voice level. "Young master."
The other bowed a fraction later. "The sect master requests your presence."
Lin'er paled.
David's heart thumped.
My father.
He stood up, wobbled slightly, and the first guard stepped forward—not to touch him, just close enough that David understood: if you fall, you won't hit the floor.
That wasn't kindness. It was duty.
Still… it steadied him.
"I'll go," David—Xiaogang—said.
Lin'er hurried to fetch his outer robe, hands moving fast but careful, as if the cloth itself could offend him.
As she tied the sash, she whispered, "Young master, don't argue with the sect master today."
David looked at her. "Do I argue with him often?"
Lin'er's mouth opened, then closed. "No."
Which meant: you used to try, and it ended badly.
He nodded once. "Alright."
The guards escorted him through corridors cut into the mountain, lit by crystalline lamps that hummed faintly. Servants and disciples stepped aside as they passed.
Some bowed.
Some stared.
Some looked away too fast.
David felt it like pressure on his skin: status.
He was a child, yes—six years old, small and fragile.
But he was also the sect master's son.
Even when people pitied him, they still had to pretend they didn't.
They reached a wide hall with a polished stone floor veined in blue. The air smelled of incense and something sharper—ozone.
At the far end stood a man in a dark robe trimmed with silver thread.
Yu Yuanzhen.
His father was tall and broad-shouldered, hair tied back neatly, face carved into the kind of calm that didn't require raising its voice. The man looked like the mountain: solid, old, unmoved by weather.
Yu Yuanzhen's eyes fell on David.
Not warm. Not cruel.
Measured.
"Xiaogang," he said.
David bowed because the memories insisted on it. His spine bent too quickly, too deep. The motion felt practiced.
Yu Yuanzhen's gaze flicked briefly to Lin'er, then to the guards. "Leave us."
Lin'er's hands tightened on her robe. She bowed and backed away without a word.
The doors closed.
Yu Yuanzhen studied his son for a long moment.
"You slept poorly," he said.
David almost laughed. I died yesterday. Instead he said, "I'm fine."
A faint narrowing of his father's eyes. "Lies are wasted in this hall."
David swallowed.
He wasn't used to adults who could see through tone, posture, everything. On Earth, most people were too busy to notice you properly.
Here, being noticed was a kind of danger.
Yu Yuanzhen spoke again, voice even. "Today your martial soul awakens. Whatever appears… you will not lose composure."
David looked up. "And if it's bad?"
Yu Yuanzhen's jaw tightened slightly. "Then it is bad."
That was all.
No comfort. No reassurance. No soft lie about potential.
David felt something cold settle in his stomach.
A child's part of him wanted to beg—Please, don't look at me like I'm already broken.
But another part—older, David's part—knew begging didn't change worlds like this.
He bowed again. "Yes, father."
Yu Yuanzhen paused.
The smallest thing changed in his expression—something like fatigue, like he wanted to say more but didn't know how.
Then he turned away. "Go prepare."
David was dismissed.
Not rejected.
Not accepted.
Just… processed.
The Awakening Hall sat at the heart of the sect like a sealed temple. It was larger than any room David had ever stood in. The ceiling arched high, carved with dragon reliefs that looked ready to move if you stared too long.
Elders stood in a semicircle, robes embroidered with lightning patterns. Their eyes tracked him as he entered, not unfriendly but not gentle either.
They were evaluating a resource.
David's escort guards stopped at the threshold. Lin'er remained behind them, face pale, hands clasped.
A boy about David's age stood nearby with his mother, his martial soul already awakened—tiny blue scales shimmering on his arm. The boy's eyes flicked to David and away again, as if looking too long might be contagious.
David's cheeks warmed.
So it begins.
An elder stepped forward, holding a crystal sphere. "Yu Xiaogang. Place your hand."
David walked to the center.
His feet sounded too loud on the stone.
He placed his palm on the awakening crystal.
The crystal flared.
For a heartbeat, David felt something inside him respond—an eager pull, like his body had been waiting for this moment its entire short life.
Soul power surged.
The air grew faintly warmer.
Then—
A small pink creature popped into existence at his feet.
Round. Snorting. Slightly smug.
It blinked up at him.
And oinked.
Silence.
Not immediate laughter. Not at first.
The elders stared, the way people stare at a cracked relic.
Then someone in the back—too young to have mastered restraint—made a sound like a choked laugh.
"A pig?"
"A mutated beast spirit…"
Lin'er's breath caught behind him. One of the guards shifted his stance, subtle, protective.
David didn't move.
He looked down at the pig.
Luo San Pao wagged its tail and sat as if it belonged in a hall of dragons.
David felt… something strangled in his chest.
Not surprise.
Not even despair.
Just the bitter sting of being right.
The elder cleared his throat, forcing order into the room. "Martial soul: mutated beast spirit. Name it."
David's voice came out steady. "Luo San Pao."
The pig oinked again, pleased with itself.
The crystal flickered a second time.
"Innate soul power…"
The elder frowned, checking the crystal as if it had made a mistake.
"…Level eight."
That changed the room.
Whispers shifted from mockery to confusion.
Level eight was too high for trash. Too high to dismiss cleanly.
Yu Yuanzhen's gaze sharpened from the front row, a storm gathering behind his calm.
And then David felt it.
Not the elders.
Not the crystal.
Something behind the world.
A pressure that didn't belong inside a child's body.
The air seemed to slow.
The lighting in the crystal veins deepened, turning almost red at the edges of his vision.
A presence brushed the scarlet mark in his soul like a claw tapping glass.
"So this plane accepts you," something murmured inside him—ancient, amused.
David's throat tightened.
Great Red.
Not appearing. Not roaring. Not showing off.
Just… watching.
"Remember," it said, almost lazily.
"You are small. Do not try to be large too early."
David's fingers curled against the crystal.
A hairline crack crept across the awakening stone with a soft tick.
The elder recoiled. "What—"
The pressure vanished.
Time resumed.
Luo San Pao sneezed.
One elder coughed awkwardly and forced his voice into steadiness. "The stone is old. Record the result."
Yu Yuanzhen did not react outwardly.
But David saw it: the slight tightening at his father's jaw, like a man hearing thunder from a clear sky.
The ceremony ended quickly after that.
David was led out.
People made space for him. Some bowed. Some looked at the pig and then away, embarrassed to be seen staring.
Lin'er rushed forward the moment he crossed the threshold. "Young master—are you hurt?"
"No," David said.
His voice wavered, and he hated that it did.
Lin'er bit her lip. "It's… it's fine. Many strong people—"
"Don't," David said gently.
She stopped.
He looked down at Luo San Pao.
The pig looked back, blissfully unaware of disgrace or destiny.
David exhaled slowly.
He wasn't crying.
But his eyes stung.
I'm really here.
In the distance, thunder rolled through the mountain, as if the sect itself was laughing at him.
And deep inside his chest, something enormous shifted, amused and patient, like a dragon settling in for a long story.
"Begin," Great Red murmured.
David—Yu Xiaogang—straightened his small shoulders.
He didn't know how long he would remember Earth.
He didn't know how much of "David" would survive.
But he knew one thing with terrifying clarity:
This world would not pity him into safety.
He would have to earn a future with whatever he had.
Even if what he had was a pig.