The first thing Ethan noticed was the smell. It wasn't the sterile tang of the hospital room where he'd last closed his eyes, nor the acrid burn of smoke from the car accident that had ended his life. It was earthier—crisp grass, damp soil, and the faint sweetness of wildflowers carried on a cool breeze. His eyes fluttered open, and instead of a ceiling or a sky choked with smog, he saw a canopy of stars, brighter than he'd ever seen, winking against a velvet night.
He sat up, heart pounding. His hands felt wrong—too small, too smooth. He looked down and froze. These weren't his hands. His calloused, keyboard-worn fingers, scarred from years of clumsy accidents, were gone, replaced by the soft, unblemished hands of a child. Panic surged through him, sharp and cold. He scrambled to his feet, nearly tripping over legs that felt too short, too weak. His clothes were rough-spun, a simple hemp tunic and trousers that hung loosely on a frame far smaller than his own.
"Where the hell am I?" he muttered, his voice high-pitched and unfamiliar. It wasn't his voice—not the gravelly baritone he'd grown into after years of late-night coffee and coding marathons. This was the voice of a kid, maybe six or seven years old.
He spun around, taking in his surroundings. He stood in a small clearing, surrounded by dense trees that loomed like silent sentinels. A dirt path snaked away into the darkness, faintly illuminated by moonlight. In the distance, he could make out the faint glow of lanterns and the silhouette of low, tiled rooftops—a village, maybe. The air was alive with the chirps of insects and the occasional rustle of leaves, but it felt too real, too vivid, like a dream that refused to fade.
Ethan's mind raced. The last thing he remembered was the screech of tires, the blinding flash of headlights, and then… nothing. He'd been driving home from a late shift, exhausted but wired, replaying scenes from *Soul Land* in his head. He'd been rereading the novel for the third time, losing himself in Tang San's journey, the intricate soul rings, and the dazzling martial souls. And now—
"No way," he whispered, a wild theory forming. He pinched his arm, hard, and winced at the sharp sting. Not a dream. He looked at his hands again, then touched his face, feeling smooth skin and a small nose. His hair, when he tugged a strand into view, was jet-black and slightly coarse, tied back in a messy knot.
A memory surfaced, unbidden, from the novels he'd devoured. The Douluo Continent—a world of soul masters, where martial souls defined your worth, where spirit beasts roamed and power was measured in rings and ranks. It was a world he'd escaped into countless times, but it wasn't *real*. Or it wasn't supposed to be.
"Reincarnation?" he said aloud, the word tasting absurd on his tongue. He laughed, a sharp, nervous sound that echoed in the quiet. "You've got to be kidding me."
But the evidence was undeniable. The body, the setting, the sheer *feel* of this place—it was too much like the Douluo Continent he'd read about. He wasn't Ethan Caldwell anymore, not entirely. He was someone else, someone younger, someone in a world where survival meant mastering a martial soul and facing dangers he'd only imagined from the safety of his couch.
He took a shaky step toward the village, his mind a tangle of fear and curiosity. If this was Douluo, he needed answers. Who was he now? Did he have a martial soul? Was he in the timeline of Tang San, or some alternate version of the continent? And most importantly—how was he supposed to survive in a world where kids his age were already training to hunt soul beasts?
The dirt path led him to the edge of a small village, its wooden houses clustered around a central square. Lanterns hung from eaves, casting warm light on cobblestone paths. A few villagers moved about, their silhouettes draped in traditional robes, their voices low and melodic. The architecture was unmistakably Chinese-inspired—curved roofs, red pillars, and paper windows glowing softly. It was like stepping into a historical drama, except the air thrummed with something more, something alive. Soul power, maybe. Ethan's pulse quickened.
He crept closer, sticking to the shadows. His new body was agile but weak, his steps unsteady. He needed to figure out who he was supposed to be. As he neared the square, he caught sight of a small stream running through the village, its surface reflecting the moonlight. He knelt beside it, peering at his reflection.
The face staring back was unfamiliar—a boy of about six, with sharp, dark eyes and a slightly upturned nose. His features were delicate but not frail, with a hint of stubbornness in the set of his jaw. His black hair was tied back with a strip of cloth, and a faint scar traced his left temple, barely visible. He touched it, frowning. A memory flickered—not his own, but this body's. A fall from a tree, a sharp rock, blood trickling down his face. The name came with it: **Chen Yu**.
"Chen Yu," he repeated softly, testing it. It felt right, like slipping into a well-worn coat. But the memories were fragmented, like pieces of a shattered mirror. He saw flashes of a small house, a woman's gentle voice, and then… nothing. No parents, no family. Just a vague sense of being alone, scraping by in this village.
A sudden shout snapped him out of his thoughts. "Oi, Yu! What're you doing out here so late? You trying to get eaten by a spirit beast?"
Chen Yu turned, startled, to see a burly man approaching, a lantern swinging in his hand. The man was middle-aged, with a weathered face and a thick beard, dressed in a patched robe. His voice was gruff but not unkind, and his presence carried a faint pressure—soul power, Chen Yu realized. This guy was a soul master, probably low-ranked, but still far stronger than a kid like him.
"I… I was just…" Chen Yu stammered, his mind blank. He didn't know how to act, how to be this kid.
The man squinted at him, then sighed. "Gods, boy, you look like you've seen a ghost. Come on, get back to the orphanage before Old Mei skins you alive. Tomorrow's the awakening ceremony, and you're out here wandering like a lost puppy."
"Awakening ceremony?" Chen Yu echoed, the words igniting a spark of excitement. He knew what that meant. In *Soul Land*, every child at six underwent the martial soul awakening, where their innate soul power and martial soul were revealed. It was the moment that determined their future—whether they'd be a farmer or a soul master, a nobody or a legend.
"Yeah, don't play dumb," the man said, waving a hand. "Whole village is buzzing about it. You and the other brats get your shot tomorrow. Now move it."
Chen Yu nodded, his mind racing as he followed the man toward a small, rundown building at the village's edge. The orphanage, he guessed. His new reality was sinking in, and with it came a mix of dread and anticipation. The awakening ceremony was his first step into this world, his chance to discover what kind of martial soul he'd inherited. In the novels, protagonists always got something special—Tang San's Blue Silver Grass and Clear Sky Hammer, Huo Yuhao's Spirit Eyes. But Ethan—Chen Yu—was no protagonist. He was just a guy who'd read the books, not lived them. What if his martial soul was trash? A hoe or a broken spoon, like the useless souls so many were stuck with?
Inside the orphanage, a stern woman—Old Mei, presumably—scolded him in hushed tones before pointing him to a straw mat in a cramped room shared with five other kids. They were already asleep, their soft snores filling the air. Chen Yu lay down, staring at the ceiling, his heart pounding. The weight of it all pressed against him—this wasn't a game or a story. This was his life now, and tomorrow would decide whether he had a chance to rise or would be doomed to scrape by in the shadows.
He closed his eyes, trying to calm his racing thoughts. Fragments of Ethan's knowledge mixed with Chen Yu's instincts. He knew the rules of this world: soul masters needed innate soul power to cultivate, and a strong martial soul could make or break you. Spirit Hall was out there, a looming power that crushed anyone who didn't fit their mold. And soul beasts… he shivered, remembering descriptions of ten-thousand-year beasts that could tear a village apart.
But there was something else, a faint hum in his chest, like a whisper he couldn't quite hear. It wasn't just nerves. It was deeper, tied to this body, to Chen Yu's soul. Was it his martial soul, stirring even before the ceremony? He pushed the thought away. No use speculating. Tomorrow, he'd know.
As sleep tugged at him, a single thought lingered: he wasn't Ethan Caldwell anymore, not really. He was Chen Yu, a kid with no family, no strength, and no clue how to survive in Douluo Dalu. But he had one thing—knowledge of this world, its heroes, its dangers. If he could use that, maybe, just maybe, he could carve out a place here. Or at least avoid getting eaten by a soul beast.
The stars outside faded as dawn crept closer, and Chen Yu drifted into an uneasy sleep, dreaming of rings of light and a power he couldn't yet name.