"Soul Refusal: The Reader Who Defied Fate"
Chapter 1: The Book That Chose Anger
The night over the city was thick with silence—the kind that settles only after midnight, when even the stray dogs have stopped barking. In a small room on the second floor of a cramped house in Uttar Pradesh, the cold blue light of a mobile screen cut through the darkness, painting sharp shadows across the face of a young man named Ayush.
On the screen, the last paragraph of a fan-translated Soul Land 2 novel disappeared as he scrolled. Huo Yuhao's story had ended—godhood, victory, peace—but Ayush's chest felt tight, hollowed out by a quiet, consuming rage.
"So that's it?" he whispered into the dark, his voice rough with sleeplessness. "Tang San gets to be the benevolent God King… and Yuhao spends eternity as a leashed dog?"
He shut his eyes, but the images refused to leave: a father dissecting his daughter's soul into three fragments; a spirit beast forced to merge with a human consciousness against its will; a boy who fought for his entire life only to have every choice, every love, every sacrifice orchestrated by a god playing puppeteer from a higher realm.
Ayush's hands trembled around the phone.
"This isn't a story," he hissed. "This is a rigged execution."
He thought of Huo Yuhao's first soul ring—a million-year miracle that should have been freedom, but became just another link in Tang San's chain. He thought of Wang Qiu'er burning her life away, of Tang San quietly rewriting cosmic rules whenever the narrative threatened to stray from his design.
Outside, the city's thin blanket of clouds shifted. Far above them, beyond the breathable air and the flicker of airplanes, the sky became something else entirely—the true void, scattered with uncountable stars. And somewhere in that silent ocean, something moved that was not a star.
It looked like a book.
Not paper, not metal, not stone—a rectangular absence, a space where light went in but never came back out. Around it, starlight bent strangely, as if afraid to touch it. It drifted past burning giants named Surya, past the cool silver glow of a smaller moon named Chandra, and descended toward a blue-green world called Prithvi.
On Prithvi it crossed mountains, rivers, borders that meant everything to humans and nothing to it. Over India's crowded plains, over highways and sleeping towns, until it reached one particular city, one particular house, one particular roof where a young man sat alone, furious at a story.
The book paused.
Inside Ayush's chest, something answered—a hot, wordless refusal. Refusal to accept that some beings are born to write the rules and others only to suffer under them. Refusal to accept that a character's pain is less important than an author's ending. That raw, stubborn anger rose like a signal flare in the dark.
The black book responded.
It thinned into a strip of shadow and slipped straight through concrete, steel, and brick as if they were smoke. It hovered for a heartbeat above Ayush's bowed head—then flowed down, like ink poured into water, vanishing into the center of his forehead.
Ayush jerked. A coldness bloomed at the back of his skull, then faded. For a second the screen blurred, comments and letters smearing together.
"Too much screen time," he muttered, rubbing his eyes. "Now even my brain's lagging."
From downstairs, his mother's voice rose: "Ayush! Food is getting cold! Put the phone down and come downstairs!"
"Coming!"
He locked the phone, stuffed it into his pocket, and stood. For one brief moment, there was a sensation like standing on the edge of a cliff—weightless, off-balance. Then his foot found the stair, the light from the hall flooded over him, and the feeling vanished.
Unbeknownst to him, in the quiet space behind his thoughts, a new landscape had opened—a small, dim Sea of Consciousness. And above that shallow pond floated the black book, now solid again, its cover shut tight. No title. No symbol. No light. It simply existed, radiating the silent pressure of something that came from far beyond this world's sky.
---
Ayush washed his hands, ate his dal and rice, answered his parents' questions on autopilot. But every time his mind slipped, it fell back to the same images: Tang San pulling strings from the Divine Realm; Huo Yuhao bleeding, obeying, loving on command.
When he finally lay down again, the anger had cooled but not gone out. It had settled deeper, like a coal pushed under ash—still hot, still waiting.
"If I ever got the chance," he thought, staring at the ceiling, "I'd change that story. Not by begging the god to be kinder. By making sure the god can't do it again."
Sleep took him mid-sentence.
At exactly midnight, the Sea of Consciousness stirred.
The black book's cover slid open by a fraction. A faint outline drifted up from Ayush's sleeping body—a translucent shape carrying memories like flickering lanterns: school, exams, anime, the taste of chai, the sting of unfair endings. And burning brighter than all the rest, that single thought:
This is wrong. It should be different.
The book drank that light—not to erase, but to preserve. A new page appeared inside its endless dark, and Ayush's soul settled onto it, sleeping but intact, its anger and stubbornness pressed into the fibers like ink.
Then the book moved.
It rose through the roof, through the atmosphere, back into the starry void. It tore open a crack in space—a jagged rip that showed infinite darkness—and slipped inside.
Somewhere in the Douluo Continent's deep future, where a young man named Huo Yuhao had already lived, loved, died, and torn through the God Realm's lies, a broken, furious divine soul also stirred. A fragment of the future God of Destiny, who had fought Tang San and lost.
The book passed by the fragment, and the fragment clung to it, drawn along like wreckage in a ship's wake. It did not know where it was going; it only knew it had one last thing to do.
Together, book and fragment traveled through the void between worlds, through layers of reality, until a new sky unfolded below—blue, crisp, carrying the scent of sea and forest.
The Douluo plane. But not the one from the fragment's memory. Another branch. Another timeline, clean and early, full of dangers he knew too well.
The fragment extended a thread of divine sense. The world's rules pushed back—rejection of an intruder with god-rank energy—but the book wrapped him in shadow, dulling the alarm.
His sense swept the land. Shrek's walls existed, but the Huo Yuhao of this world was not yet born. The God Realm above was intact, Tang San's line of fate still bright and untouched.
The sense followed one thread down, into a poor district of a city, into a cramped courtyard where a thin woman sat, one hand on her lower belly.
The fragment's breath caught.
"Mom…"
It was her. Different details, same warmth in the eyes. In this branch, too, she would die for him.
He pressed forward—and slammed into something invisible but absolute.
The rule of this world. The plane's will.
This child is ours. His soul is in place. You will not overwrite him.
The fragment withdrew. He could force it—burn his essence, shove himself into the fetus—but that would be theft. And he had already seen enough stolen agency for one eternity.
"So I don't get to live it this time," he whispered. "Fine. Then I'll clear the path."
He looked back at the book. Inside, Ayush's soul slept. An outsider. A reader who had raged for a fictional boy.
"You be the one who lives it better."
---
The fragment worked fast. The world's rejection grew fiercer, but the book's shadow shielded him.
In an auction house vault, a soul-carving knife vanished.
Beneath a sect's ancestral hall, fifty-five pieces of ten-thousand-year Frozen Marrow disappeared.
From a northern blizzard, a Ten-Thousand-Year Ice Lotus was taken.
In the hidden Dragon Valley, seven dragon souls of the Dragon God's sons, a fragment of the Dragon God's own soul, two divine crystals of gold and silver, and mountains of dragon bones were lifted from where they'd rested for millennia.
In the Sunset Forest, from the depths of the Yin-Yang Love Eyes, two more dragon souls and samples of every extreme water were harvested.
The plane howled. The fragment's soul was fracturing, cracking with white pain. He rushed back to the book and poured everything he had stolen into its inner sea—a treasure trove orbiting the space where a future "Huo Yuhao" would exist.
In the center of that space, the outline of an unborn child's soul flickered.
"Listen," the fragment said, his voice imprinting as thought alone. "Child. Stranger. Me, but not me."
"I couldn't beat him. Not with the rules as they were. So I stole the pieces I could and stacked them under your feet."
"I am not your past life. You are not my second chance. You are you. Ayush. Huo Yuhao. Whatever name you take."
"These treasures, this Black Book—they're not shackles. They're tools. Don't let anyone, god or human, tell you your role. Don't let any 'father' wrap a leash around your neck."
"If you ever hear the name Tang San and feel your chest burn… that's not destiny. That's just me, hoping you'll punch harder than I did."
The message sealed.
The fragment looked up one last time. The world's rejection pierced the book's shadow and touched him directly.
His soul, already hanging by a thread, shattered completely—this time with no pieces left to cling. What remained of the future Huo Yuhao scattered into fine dust, becoming nameless spiritual energy in the fabric of this new universe.
Inside the book, the stolen essences began to spin, guided by a will not their own.
And deep within the Sea of Consciousness now anchored in an unborn child, the black book rested, waiting for its new reader to awaken.
---
Chapter 2: Awakening in Two Worlds
Eleven years later
A boy with messy black hair and eyes the color of a clear sky sprinted through the back alleys of Star Luo City, his heart pounding against his ribs. In his hands he clutched a small cloth bundle—three steamed buns, still warm.
"Stop, thief!" roared a heavyset baker from behind, his face red with fury.
Huo Yuhao didn't look back. He ducked under a laundry line, vaulted a low wall, and slipped into a narrow gap between two buildings. He pressed himself against the cold stone, holding his breath as the baker's footsteps thundered past.
When the sound faded, he let out a shaky breath. His stomach growled, a sharp, painful reminder of why he'd risked it. He unwrapped the bundle and took a small bite of a bun, forcing himself to chew slowly. He needed to make this last.
This body is so weak, he thought, not for the first time. And so hungry.
But it wasn't just the body's hunger he felt. There was another hunger—a deeper, stranger one. A thirst for knowledge he shouldn't have, memories that felt both his and not his. Scenes of a boy reading novels on a rooftop under a different sky. Feelings of rage at a story's injustice. And always, at the edge of his consciousness, the feeling of a presence. A quiet, dark weight in the back of his mind.
He finished one bun, carefully rewrapped the other two for his mother, and began the cautious journey back to the White Tiger Duke's estate—or more accurately, the drafty, leaky shack on its farthest outskirts that he and his mother called home.
His mother, Huo Yun'er, was waiting by the door, her face pale with worry that melted into relief when she saw him. "Yuhao! Where have you been?"
"I found some work, Mother," he lied smoothly, handing her the buns. "They paid me in food."
She took them, her eyes sad. She knew he was lying. She always knew. But she also knew their reality—the disdain of the Duchess, the meager scraps they were allotted, the cold that seeped into their bones every winter. She hugged him tightly. "You must be careful. Your safety is all that matters."
That night, as Huo Yuhao lay on his thin pallet, listening to his mother's quiet breathing, he let his mind drift inward.
The Black Book.
He didn't know why he called it that. The name had simply appeared in his thoughts one day, along with the certainty that it was there, in a space that wasn't a space inside him. He'd learned to touch it, to feel its cool, silent presence. It didn't speak. It didn't offer power. It just… was. A repository. A vault.
And recently, he'd begun to sense other things within it. Glimmers. A cold, crystalline lotus. The deep resonance of ancient bones. The echo of draconic roars. They felt like promises. Like a legacy left for him.
He also felt the two fragments—the purple shard of Rakshasa divinity and the golden shard of angelic power—that had been with him since birth, humming with latent energy. And deeper still, the gray mass of dense, sleepy consciousness that was Electrolux, the Necromancer Holy Mage, not yet awakened.
I have all the pieces, he thought, a plan solidifying in his eleven-year-old mind. But I'm on the wrong board. If I stay here, I walk the same path. I become the same puppet.
He thought of Tang Ya and Bei Bei, who he would meet soon if the story held true. He thought of Shrek Academy, of the Tang Sect, of the gentle trap of belonging they would offer.
No.
The refusal was instant, visceral. It came from the part of him that remembered being Ayush, the reader on the rooftop.
He sat up. The decision was made.
He gathered his few possessions—a change of clothes, the White Tiger Dagger his mother had given him, a small pouch with a few copper coins. He wrote a short note for his mother, promising to return when he was strong enough to protect her, to give her the life she deserved. Tears blurred his vision, but he blinked them away. Sentiment wouldn't change their fate. Action would.
He kissed her forehead as she slept, shouldered his pack, and slipped out into the pre-dawn darkness.
He didn't head for the Star Dou Great Forest, the first stop in the original tale.
He turned south.
He was going to the Sun Moon Empire.
---
The journey was harsh. He traveled on foot, working odd jobs for food, relying on the sharp senses granted by his still-dormant Spirit Eyes to avoid danger. Weeks turned into a month. His body grew leaner, tougher.
Near the border of the Sun Moon Empire, in a bustling town called Yu Ming, he put his one marketable skill to use. He built a small grill.
"Xiao Huo's Roast Fish," his sign read.
The first day, people were skeptical. The second day, a line formed. By the end of the week, he was sold out by noon. The fish were perfectly cooked, the spices balanced—a skill honed in a duke's kitchen and refined by an otherworldly sense of perception.
It was here that Zhang Jin found him.
The man was unassuming, with a square face and careful eyes. He bought a fish, complimented it, and struck up a conversation. He asked careful questions. Where was Huo Yuhao from? Did he have family? What was his Spirit?
When Huo Yuhao demonstrated his Spirit Eyes, Zhang Jin's eyes lit with a keen, calculating interest.
"A mental-attribute Body Spirit," Zhang Jin said, his voice low. "A rare treasure. You know, in the Sun Moon Empire, such a gift is valued. You could become a Soul Tool Master. A respected profession. A real future."
Huo Yuhao played the part of a desperate, gullible boy. He spoke of a dead mother, an absent father, a longing for a place to belong.
Zhang Jin ate it up. "For a small fee," he said, "I can arrange passage. Get you to Mingdu. The Sun Moon Royal Soul Engineer Academy takes in talented youths. Especially those with… useful attributes."
Huo Yuhao scraped together ten gold coins from his fish earnings. Zhang Jin took them with a smile.
The "passage" involved hiding in a merchant caravan's cargo hold, crossing the Mingdou Mountain Range under cover of night. It was uncomfortable, but it worked.
Five days later, Huo Yuhao stood before the grand, metallic gates of the Sun Moon Royal Soul Engineer Academy in Mingdu. The architecture was stark, angular, full of gleaming brass and humming energy—a world away from the organic, tradition-bound aesthetics of Shrek.
A teacher with a stern face, Teacher Tang, led him to a testing room filled with strange instruments.
"Spirit: Spirit Eyes. First soul ring: white, ten-year. Innate spirit power: level one." Teacher Tang recited the results, his tone dismissive. "Physical strength, level ten. Overall evaluation: mediocre."
Huo Yuhao kept his face blank. He had asked Tianmeng Iceworm, sleeping in his spiritual sea, to suppress his spirit ring's true appearance. The white ring was a disguise. The "level one" spirit power was a fiction. He was already at the bottleneck of level 10, thanks to the constant, subtle nourishment from the treasures in the Black Book and his own relentless cultivation.
"However," Teacher Tang continued, "as a mental-attribute Spirit Master, you are eligible for admission. Wait here. Teacher Xuan wishes to see you."
Xuan Ziwen arrived shortly, his expression one of sharp, impatient intelligence. He looked Huo Yuhao up and down. "A Body Spirit of the eyes. Demonstrate."
Huo Yuhao summoned his Spirit Eyes. The pale gold glow lit the room. The white ring rose at his feet.
"A ten-year ring," Xuan Ziwen sighed, disappointment clear. "And level one innate spirit power? A waste of a rare Spirit." He was about to turn away. "Show me a soul skill, then. For completeness."
This was the moment.
Huo Yuhao nodded. "Teacher Xuan, my soul skill is… peculiar. Please do not resist."
He activated Spiritual Detection.
It wasn't the weak, short-range scan of the original Huo Yuhao. Fed by the vast, pre-expanded spiritual sea left by the Life Gold and the sleeping power of the Black Book, his mental force surged out.
To Xuan Ziwen, the world changed.
He was suddenly, acutely aware of everything. The dust motes dancing in a sunbeam across the room. The microscopic wear on the teeth of a gear in a wall-mounted spirit tool. The faint, rhythmic vibration of the academy's main power core three buildings away. The exact number of threads in Teacher Tang's coat. The quick, double-beat of his own surprised heart.
It was a flood of perfect, three-dimensional information, covering the entire building and beyond. Not just sight, but sound, temperature, texture, even the flow of faint spirit power in the air.
Xuan Ziwen staggered, his stern face slack with shock. "This… this range… this clarity…"
Huo Yuhao cut off the skill, swaying slightly for show. "I call it Spiritual Detection."
Xuan Ziwen stared at him, his earlier dismissal utterly vaporized. His eyes held a new, fierce light. "Mediocre? Mediocre?" He shot a sharp look at Teacher Tang, who looked equally stunned. "This is the most powerful, most precise sensory skill I have ever witnessed in a Spirit Master of your level! A ten-year ring? Impossible!"
He stepped closer, his voice intense. "Your spiritual force… it's monstrous. It dwarfs your physical cultivation. How?"
Huo Yuhao gave a shy, confused shrug. "I… I don't know, Teacher. It's always been like this. It just gets stronger when I practice."
Xuan Ziwen began to pace, muttering to himself. "A mental force reservoir of this magnitude… the control to manage such detailed input… This changes everything. The precision for spirit tool inscription… the potential for remote sensing arrays…" He stopped and pinned Huo Yuhao with a look. "You will be my direct disciple. Starting now. Forget the standard curriculum. You will study under me at Mingde Hall."
Teacher Tang's jaw dropped. Mingde Hall was the research heart of the Sun Moon Empire's soul tool industry. Direct discipleship to Xuan Ziwen, an eighth-rank soul tool master, was an honor reserved for the most brilliant prodigies from the empire's great families.
Huo Yuhao bowed deeply, hiding his smile. First move complete.
He was in.
---
That night, in his new, private dorm room (another privilege of being Xuan Ziwen's