The air in the small hut was cold and still. A little boy, dressed in thin, worn clothes that did little to keep out the chill, pushed himself up from a rough bed made of straw and old blankets. He was small for his age, with the thin arms and careful movements of someone who hadn't had enough to eat.
He sat on the edge of the bed, his bare feet touching the hard-packed dirt floor. His head felt foggy, like he was waking from a very long, deep sleep. He looked slowly around the room.
Where is this?
The thought was clear in his mind, but it felt separate from the place his body was in. The room was simple, almost shockingly poor. The walls were made of woven straw and mud, with daylight peeking through small gaps. The roof was thatched, and he could see bits of dust dancing in the weak beams of light coming through a single small window. There was a rickety wooden stool, a crude table, and a cold hearth with a blackened pot. That was all.
His name, he knew from the jumble in his head, was Hun Jiang. But that knowledge felt new, like a label stuck onto him. He closed his eyes and tried to sort through the memories. They came in pieces.He saw flashes of a hard life: scrounging for food, the kindness of neighbors leaving a bowl of porridge by his door, the feeling of constant, slight hunger. The most solid piece of memory was a name: Holy Soul Village.
He sat there for a long while, putting the pieces together. The poor hut. The fragmented memories of an orphan's life. The name of the village. A deeper, older part of his mind, a calm and rational voice from somewhere else, began to connect the dots.
Holy Soul Village. Douluo Continent. This was the starting point. The beginner village. This was where the story began. And he was now a part of it. He was the orphan, the child who had survived only because the villagers, led by their chief, had taken pity on him. This hut itself had been built for him by their hands.
The chief's name was Old Jack. The memories showed a man with a wrinkled, kind face, who would sometimes bring an extra piece of bread or a pat on the head. Hun Jiang's survival was tied to that man's goodness.
Just as this understanding settled in his consciousness, a voice called from outside the flimsy door.
"Hun Jiang? Are you in there? It's Village Chief Jack."
The voice was old and familiar, warm with concern. Hun Jiang's body tensed. He wanted to answer, to call out 'I'm here!' But the words stuck in his throat. He physically couldn't say them.
The problem was language. The thoughts in his head were clear, in a modern, structured language. But the words the old man had used, and the words he knew this body should speak, were different. They were the local "dialect" of this world, Douluo Continent. He had the child's muscle memory for it—his mouth and tongue knew the basic shapes—but his mind, the conscious part that formed sentences, couldn't yet bridge the gap. It was like knowing the notes of a song but not being able to play the melody.
He was also sharply aware of another fact, a secret knowledge from his past life: Tang Hao and his son, Tang San, were here in this village. They were living quietly, but they were dangerous. Drawing any unusual attention, like speaking in a strange way, was a risk he couldn't take. Whether they understood him or not, being noticed was the problem.
But Old Jack was here. He had to respond now.
Hun Jiang stood up, his legs a bit shaky. He walked to the door, pulled it open, and stepped outside. The daylight was brighter out here. Standing before him was Old Jack, exactly as the memories showed: an elderly man with a weathered face and gentle eyes, dressed in simple village clothes.
Hun Jiang didn't try to speak. Instead, he did what he felt a respectful village child would do. He bowed his head slightly, a gesture of greeting and thanks. Then he looked up at the old man and gave a slow, serious nod, trying to convey that he was listening.
Old Jack smiled, his eyes crinkling. He was a kind man, not a suspicious one. He didn't notice anything strange in the boy's silence; he probably just thought the child was being shy or quiet, which wasn't unusual for an orphan.
"Tomorrow is the big day," Old Jack said, his voice full of earnest importance. "The day for your martial soul awakening. You mustn't oversleep!"
He leaned in a little, as if sharing a great secret. "If we miss the soul master's schedule, we'll have to wait a whole year for the next chance. A whole year!" He repeated the warning, his tone a mix of excitement and worry. "You must take this seriously, child. If one of our village children awakens a martial soul with soul power, it will bring great glory to all of Holy Soul Village!"
Hun Jiang stood and listened. He understood every word. More than that, he felt the shape of them in his mouth. If he had to, he could probably repeat the last few sounds he'd heard, mimicking the old man's speech like an echo. But forming his own thoughts into new sentences in this language? That was impossible right now. The time since his arrival in this world was still measured in minutes. His mind and his mouth weren't in sync yet.
So he didn't speak or argue. He just kept listening intently, meeting the old man's eyes, and nodding every so often to show he was paying attention.
After a few more reminders, Old Jack seemed satisfied. He gave the boy's thin shoulder a comforting pat. "Get some rest, now. Big day tomorrow." With that, he turned and walked back toward the center of the village.
Hun Jiang watched him go. Then he stepped back inside his hut and closed the door quietly. He let out a long, slow breath he hadn't realized he was holding and sat back down heavily on the bed.
Alone again, he started to practice. He moved his mouth silently, shaping the sounds he'd heard from Old Jack. He tried to put a simple thought into words.
"At worst," he thought to himself, the modern language clear in his mind, "I just won't say anything. It's no big deal."
He tried to say the equivalent in the local dialect. It came out halting and awkward, just a series of sounds. But it was a start.
And he was right. It wasn't a big deal. In a village like this, a child who had lost both parents, with no one to constantly talk to him, growing up quiet and withdrawn? That was normal. No one would find it strange.
The next morning, Hun Jiang was ready. He followed Old Village Chief Jack as they walked through Holy Soul Village toward its center. The other nine children from the village who were also six years old this year joined them, forming a quiet, nervous little group led by the old man.
In the middle of the village stood a building much larger than the surrounding huts. It was a large, solid log cabin. Above its door hung a wooden plaque, more elegant than anything else in the village, with three carved characters: Martial Soul Hall.
Old Jack walked up to the heavy wooden door, which had already opened a crack. He pushed it open the rest of the way and gestured for the children to file inside. Hun Jiang entered with the others.
The inside was a single, open room. The air was still and carried a faint, clean smell of wood. Standing in the center of the room was a young man. He looked to be just over twenty years old. He had sharp, handsome features with expressive eyebrows and clear, bright eyes. His clothes were completely white and looked new and clean. A long black cloak was fastened around his shoulders, adding a touch of seriousness.
This was the Soul Master from the Spirit Hall.
Old Jack immediately stepped forward, his posture becoming deeply respectful. He bowed to the young man. "Greetings, esteemed Soul Master. We thank you for your trouble this time."
The villagers of Holy Soul Village, and Old Jack himself, felt a powerful gratitude toward the Spirit Hall and the Soul Masters it sent. These low-level masters came to their poor village every single year without fail, just to help the children awaken their martial souls. To the village, this wasn't just a service; it was their only thread of hope. Without it, they would have no chance at all.
A flicker of pride showed in the young man's eyes, Su Yuntao, at the village chief's deep respect. He gave a short, formal bow in return. "There's no need for thanks. My time is limited, so let's begin."
Old Jack turned back to the huddle of children. His kind face was etched with seriousness. "Now, you must all listen carefully," he said, his voice low and earnest. "Cooperate fully with Lord Soul Master. Do exactly as he says. This is the most important day of your lives." He repeated variations of this warning several times, wanting to impress its importance on each young mind.
Su Yuntao waited patiently for the old man to finish. Then, without further ceremony, he began. He gestured for the first child, a small boy, to step forward to the center of a simple diagram drawn on the wooden floor.
"Lone wolf, possess me," Su Yuntao said quietly. In a flash of light, his own martial soul appeared—a powerful aura briefly filling the room—as he began the awakening ritual for the child.
With a dazzling display of energy, the process unfolded. The child's body glowed briefly. When the light faded, a simple farming tool, a scythe, materialized in the boy's hands.
"A weapon martial soul," Su Yuntao noted, his voice neutral. "That's fortunate. But we must see if you have soul power."
He produced a dull blue crystal ball from his cloak. "Place your hand on it," he instructed.
The boy did so, his face full of hope. The crystal ball remained dark and inert. No light, not even a glimmer.
"No soul power," Su Yuntao stated, his tone matter-of-fact. He motioned for the child to step aside.
The boy's shoulders slumped. The hope in his eyes vanished, replaced by a dull disappointment. Old Jack quickly came over, putting a comforting hand on his back and leading him to the side of the room, whispering words of consolation.
This was how it went, one child after another. A small hoe. A cooking ladle. A common blue silver grass plant. Each time, a martial soul would appear, but each time, the blue crystal ball remained dark and dead when the child touched it.
"no soul power... no soul power..."
Su Yuntao's announcements became a cold, rhythmic refrain. The air in the hall grew heavier with each failure. Old Jack's hopeful smile gradually faded into a look of resigned sadness. The vast majority of people had no soul power. Holy Soul Village hadn't produced a soul master in generations. It seemed this year would be no exception.
Finally, it was Hun Jiang's turn.
He stepped forward calmly. Su Yuntao, his own expression now one of routine boredom, began the ritual again. "Don't be nervous. Relax," he said, though his voice held little warmth.
A warm, powerful energy rose from the diagram on the floor, enveloping Hun Jiang. He felt a strange heat seep into his bones, a tingling sensation spreading through his limbs. He closed his eyes, focusing on the feeling.
Then, a voice that was not Su Yuntao's sounded clearly inside his own head.