Chapter 3: Three Days Until Freedom
The first day of freedom began with a bucket of cold water.
Tang Wukong woke choking, rolled off his bed, and struck the floor hard enough to rattle the wooden frame.
For three seconds, he lay motionless.
Then he lifted his head.
Old Chen stood beside the bed with an empty bucket in one hand.
"Good morning."
Wukong wiped water from his eyes.
"I hope your pillow catches fire."
"Get dressed."
"I hope both pillows catch fire."
"You own one pillow."
"Then I hope it burns twice."
Old Chen turned toward the door.
"Breakfast is in ten minutes. After that, you're helping repair the eastern fence."
Wukong sat up.
"Why?"
"Because you broke it."
"I didn't break it. My arm broke it."
"Your arm belongs to you."
"That sounds like a philosophical problem."
Old Chen pointed at the door.
Wukong went.
He went because he was hungry, not because he had accepted the legitimacy of the order. There was a difference, and he intended to preserve it.
At breakfast, he ate two bowls of rice, half a boiled egg, and the piece of salted fish that one of the younger children had abandoned after discovering a bone. Then he carried a hammer and a bundle of wooden stakes to the eastern fence.
The fence was in poor condition before his involvement. After his involvement, it was worse.
He drove one stake into the earth, struck it crooked, pulled it out, and struck it again. The second attempt split the wood. On the third, he hit his thumb.
He stared at his hand.
The thumb stared back.
"Traitor."
From the other side of the yard, a girl named Mei laughed so hard she nearly dropped her laundry basket.
Wukong pointed the hammer at her.
"Laugh now. When I become a famous Spirit Master, you'll regret this."
"What will you do?"
"Hire someone to repair fences."
"You can't even repair one."
"That's why I'll hire someone."
Mei shook her head and carried the laundry away.
Wukong returned to the fence with renewed determination.
He would leave in three days. Three days to prepare for the forest, the Spirit Ring, and whatever else lay beyond the village. Three days to become better at using his strange new abilities.
He could not afford to waste them.
Unfortunately, the fence had other plans.
By noon, Wukong had learned that a hammer was an unforgiving teacher.
He had also learned that stretching his arm did not make his fingers any more skilled. When he tried to drive a nail from a distance, the hammer swung wide and struck a post. When he tried using both hands, he stretched his left arm too far and sent a plank spinning into a pile of buckets.
Old Chen watched the entire disaster from the doorway.
"Perhaps you should stop."
Wukong pulled a nail from the ground.
"Perhaps you should stop watching."
"I want to know how much of the fence remains standing."
"Most of it."
"Which part?"
Wukong glanced over his shoulder.
The eastern fence leaned at an angle that suggested it had recently survived a siege.
"That's an unfair question."
Old Chen took the hammer from him.
"Go to the village. Buy salt and lamp oil."
"With what money?"
Old Chen handed him a small pouch.
Wukong weighed it in his palm.
"Is this a test?"
"It's money."
"Those aren't mutually exclusive."
"Bring back the change."
Wukong tucked the pouch inside his shirt and started toward the gate.
"And don't buy anything else," Old Chen called.
Wukong kept walking.
"Wukong."
"I heard you."
"Say it."
"I won't buy anything else."
"Look at me when you say it."
Wukong turned around, put a hand over his heart, and gave Old Chen the most solemn expression he could manage.
"I swear on my honour."
Old Chen narrowed his eyes.
"That's exactly what worries me."
The village market was crowded by the time Wukong arrived.
Farmers sold vegetables beneath faded awnings. A blacksmith hammered a glowing piece of iron inside an open workshop. Two merchants argued over the price of silk, each convinced the other was personally responsible for the decline of civilization.
The smell of fried dough drifted between the stalls.
Wukong stopped.
His stomach, which had been quiet since breakfast, immediately remembered every injustice it had ever suffered.
He looked at the pouch.
He looked at the fried dough.
He looked at the pouch again.
"Salt and lamp oil," he muttered. "A noble mission. A mission of vital importance to society."
A vendor lifted a fresh piece from the pan.
Wukong approached.
"How much?"
"Two copper coins."
Wukong stared at him.
"For one?"
"For one."
"Does it come with a second one hidden inside?"
The vendor blinked.
"No."
"Then your business model needs work."
He walked away before the man could answer.
At the salt stall, Wukong purchased a small sack. At the oil merchant's table, he bought a clay bottle of lamp oil and carefully counted the change.
He even resisted a tray of honey cakes.
It was the hardest thing he had done all week.
Then a commotion erupted near the blacksmith's workshop.
A boy about two years older than Wukong stood in the road, holding a wooden practice sword. He wore a clean blue tunic and leather boots that had never seen a muddy ditch. Two other boys stood behind him, laughing at a smaller child crouched beside a fallen basket of apples.
"Pick them up," the older boy ordered.
The smaller child scrambled to gather the fruit.
One apple rolled beneath a cart.
The boy with the sword planted his boot on the child's hand.
"Faster."
Wukong stopped walking.
The market continued around him. A woman haggled over carrots. Someone shouted about fresh fish. A mule snorted beside a stack of barrels.
Nobody intervened.
The child tried to pull his hand free.
"Please. I didn't mean to spill them."
"You should have watched where you were going."
"I was carrying them for my mother."
"And now you're making me wait."
The boy pressed harder.
Wukong felt his fingers tighten around the pouch.
He had been hungry. He had been chased. He had been grabbed by adults who thought a child's silence was the same as permission. He knew the particular humiliation of standing in the dirt while someone bigger decided how much pain you deserved.
He stepped forward.
"Move your foot."
The older boy looked up.
"What?"
"Your foot. Move it."
The boy examined Wukong's worn clothes, bare ankles, and unruly hair.
Then he laughed.
"Who are you?"
"Someone who can see you're standing on a hand."
One of the boys behind him snickered.
The older boy's smile thinned.
"This is none of your business."
"Then why are you making it everyone's problem?"
He lifted his practice sword.
Wukong glanced at it.
"Is that supposed to scare me?"
"It should."
"It's made of wood."
"Do you want me to show you what it can do?"
Wukong tilted his head.
"Not particularly."
The older boy took a step toward him.
Wukong did not move.
The boy's eyes flickered toward the pouch tucked inside Wukong's shirt.
"Give me that."
"No."
"Then I'll take it."
He lunged.
Wukong reacted without thinking.
His right arm stretched forward, palm open, and caught the boy across the chest. The impact was clumsy but forceful enough to send him stumbling backward into his companions.
The three boys crashed together.
The practice sword clattered across the road.
For one heartbeat, the market went quiet.
Wukong stared at his extended arm.
He had meant to push the boy away.
He had not expected his hand to travel halfway across the road.
The older boy scrambled upright, face flushed with humiliation.
"You freak!"
Wukong retracted his arm.
"That's not a very original insult."
The boy charged again, this time with his fists raised.
Wukong tried to dodge.
He misjudged the distance.
The punch struck his cheek.
Pain burst beneath his eye.
He staggered sideways, surprised less by the impact than by the fact that he had failed to avoid it. His rubber body could stretch. It could soften certain blows. It could not make him clever enough to dodge every attack.
The older boy swung again.
Wukong ducked too late. The fist grazed his ear.
Something hot stirred in his chest.
He could stretch his arm farther. He could strike from outside the boy's reach. He could knock him into a wall and make sure he never tried this again.
The temptation came quickly.
Too quickly.
Wukong clenched his teeth, grabbed the boy's wrist, and pulled him off balance. The boy stumbled forward. Wukong planted his foot against the ground and shoved him away.
The older boy fell onto his backside.
His companions stopped laughing.
Wukong stood over him, breathing hard.
"Leave him alone."
The boy looked up, his eyes bright with anger.
"You'll pay for this."
"Get in line."
A hand caught Wukong's shoulder.
He spun around, ready to strike.
A middle-aged man in a dark robe stood behind him. A bronze badge hung at the man's waist, marked with the insignia of the local Spirit Hall.
Wukong's stomach sank.
The man looked at the fallen boy, the scattered apples, and the frightened child still clutching his injured hand.
Then his gaze settled on Wukong.
"What happened here?"
The older boy answered first.
"He attacked me!"
Wukong opened his mouth.
The man raised one hand.
"Quiet. I'll hear everyone."
He listened to the witnesses, inspected the bruising on the older boy's chest, and examined the younger child's scraped fingers. His expression grew increasingly displeased.
Finally, he turned to Wukong.
"You used your martial soul in a public disturbance?"
"He attacked me first."
"That does not automatically justify your response."
Wukong's jaw tightened.
"So I should have let him keep stepping on that boy's hand?"
The Spirit Hall man studied him.
"No. You should have stopped the assault without turning the road into a battlefield."
"I tried talking."
"And when that failed?"
"I stopped him."
"Then you must learn the difference between stopping someone and losing control of yourself."
Wukong looked away.
He hated how familiar that sounded.
The man asked for his name, his age, and his place of residence. When Wukong mentioned the orphanage, the man's expression shifted.
"You are the child who awakened the unusual martial soul yesterday?"
"Depends who's asking."
"Someone who would prefer not to write a report about a six-year-old breaking another child's ribs."
"I didn't break anything."
"Good. Keep it that way."
The man sent the older boy and his companions away with a warning, then helped the younger child gather the remaining apples. Before leaving, he gave Wukong a final look.
"Power makes people notice you. That does not mean they will understand you. Remember that."
Then he returned to the Spirit Hall office.
Wukong watched him go.
The smaller child stood beside him, rubbing his hand.
"Thank you."
Wukong shrugged.
"He was being an idiot."
"You could have been hurt."
"I wasn't."
The child glanced at the bruise darkening Wukong's cheek.
Wukong followed his gaze.
"It's nothing."
The child picked up the final apple and placed it in his basket.
"My name is Liang."
"Wukong."
"I know. Everyone's talking about you."
"Good things, I hope."
Liang hesitated.
"They said your arm can stretch across a house."
"Across a house? That's ridiculous."
Relief spread across Liang's face.
"So it isn't true?"
"Not yet."
Liang laughed.
Wukong grinned, though his cheek hurt when he did.
They walked together to the end of the market road. Liang's mother was waiting beside a vegetable stall, her face pale with worry. When she saw her son, she hurried over and pulled him into an embrace.
Wukong watched from a few steps away.
For a moment, something uncomfortable settled behind his ribs.
He had no memory of anyone running toward him like that.
He looked down at the pouch in his hand, checked that the salt and lamp oil were still there, and turned toward the orphanage.
He had completed his errand.
He had also acquired a bruise, a reputation, and a new understanding of how easily a small disagreement could become a fight.
It was an irritating amount of education for one afternoon.
Old Chen noticed the bruise immediately.
He was sitting outside the orphanage, repairing a broken stool. The moment Wukong stepped through the gate, the old man's hammer stopped moving.
"What happened?"
"Nothing."
Old Chen set down the hammer.
"Try again."
"A boy tried to rob me."
"Did he?"
"Technically, he threatened to rob me."
"And the bruise?"
"He punched me."
Old Chen stared at him.
Wukong placed the salt and lamp oil on the steps.
"I won."
"Your face suggests otherwise."
"My face is a poor judge of victory."
Old Chen rose slowly.
"Did you hurt him?"
Wukong hesitated.
"A little."
"How much is a little?"
"He can still walk."
"That is not the measurement I was hoping for."
Wukong explained what had happened. He did not mention the satisfaction he had felt when the boy fell. He did not mention how close he had come to striking him again.
Old Chen listened without interruption.
When Wukong finished, the old man picked up his hammer and returned to the stool.
"You did right to stop him."
Wukong blinked.
"I did?"
"You stopped someone from hurting a smaller child."
"So why do you look angry?"
"Because you enjoyed being stronger."
Wukong's mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
Old Chen tapped the broken stool leg into place.
"There is nothing wrong with being strong. There is nothing wrong with defending someone who cannot defend themselves. But if you start enjoying the moment another person realizes they are helpless, you will become the very thing you hate."
Wukong scowled.
"I didn't enjoy that."
Old Chen looked at him.
Wukong looked away first.
Outside the fence, the wind stirred the dry grass.
Finally, Wukong muttered, "He deserved it."
"Perhaps."
"Then what's the problem?"
"The problem is that you are already looking for permission to do it again."
Wukong went still.
He wanted to argue. He wanted to say that the older boy had started the fight, that the smaller child had needed help, and that no one else in the market had moved until he did.
All of it was true.
None of it answered the old man's question.
Old Chen returned the hammer to the toolbox.
"Wash your face. Supper will be ready soon."
Wukong stood there for another moment, then went inside.
He washed the blood from the corner of his mouth with cold water.
It stung.
He pressed two fingers against the bruise and frowned at his reflection in the basin.
He wanted to be strong enough that no one could hurt him.
But he had also wanted the older boy to be afraid.
That was the part he could not easily explain away.
The following morning, Wukong woke before sunrise.
Old Chen found him in the courtyard, standing beside the crooked eastern fence.
The boy had drawn a line in the dirt and placed three stones at different distances. His right arm stretched toward the nearest stone, missed it by several centimetres, and snapped back.
He tried again.
Missed.
Again.
This time, his fingers brushed the stone, knocking it over.
Wukong swore under his breath.
Old Chen watched from the doorway.
"Having trouble?"
"No."
The boy reached for the second stone.
His arm shot forward and struck the ground short of the target.
Old Chen folded his arms.
"Clearly."
Wukong glared at him.
"I know what I'm doing."
"Then why is the stone still standing?"
Wukong stared at the stone.
Then he picked it up, placed it farther away, and tried again.
His arm stretched.
His hand passed the stone.
He clenched his fingers too late and caught only air.
The limb snapped back.
Wukong stumbled, nearly fell, and recovered with an indignant noise.
Old Chen chuckled.
Wukong pointed at him.
"Don't."
"I didn't say anything."
"You were thinking loudly."
The old man approached and crouched beside the line in the dirt.
"What are you trying to do?"
"Control the distance."
"How?"
"I tell my arm to reach the stone."
"And does it listen?"
"Sometimes."
"Perhaps you should stop thinking about where your arm ends."
Wukong frowned.
"Then what should I think about?"
"Where your hand needs to be."
The boy stared at the stones.
It sounded like the sort of advice adults gave when they wanted to appear wise without explaining anything useful.
Still, he tried it.
He fixed his attention on the first stone. Not the length of his arm. Not the distance between his shoulder and his hand. Only the place where his fingers needed to close.
His arm stretched.
His hand reached the stone.
His fingers curled around it.
For a moment, Wukong forgot to breathe.
Then he pulled the stone toward himself and laughed.
Old Chen smiled.
"There."
"I did it."
"You did."
Wukong threw the stone into the air, caught it, and immediately tried the trick on the second stone.
He missed.
The stone struck him on the forehead.
Old Chen walked away laughing.
Wukong rubbed his head.
"One day," he promised the departing figure, "I will become powerful enough to make you regret every laugh."
"Learn to catch a stone first!"
Wukong returned to practice.
He worked until the morning sun climbed over the roof. He learned to reach for stones, then sticks, then a cup balanced on the fence. Each success came with a dozen failures. His arms overshot. His fingers closed too soon. His body recoiled at awkward angles, leaving him sprawled in the dirt.
But little by little, the distance between intention and movement grew smaller.
He could not yet control his power perfectly.
He could, however, begin to understand it.
And that was enough to keep him practising.
On the second evening, Su Yiming returned to the village.
He found Wukong sitting on the orphanage steps, holding a wooden stick in one hand and a bruised apple in the other.
The Spirit Master glanced at the boy's cheek.
"What happened?"
"Someone punched me."
"Did you win?"
Wukong considered the question.
"I didn't lose."
"That is not the same thing."
"Everyone keeps saying that."
"Perhaps everyone has a point."
Wukong bit into the apple.
Su Yiming sat beside him.
"I spoke with the Spirit Hall representative. He mentioned the disturbance at the market."
"Did he also mention that the other boy started it?"
"Yes."
"Good."
"He also mentioned that you need to learn restraint."
Wukong groaned.
"Is there a village meeting about me that I don't know about?"
"Not yet."
"Give them time."
Su Yiming almost smiled.
Then he grew serious.
"I have arranged for us to visit the Spirit Beast Forest tomorrow morning. We will look for a suitable spirit beast for your first Spirit Ring."
Wukong stopped chewing.
"Tomorrow?"
"If you are ready."
The boy glanced toward the forest beyond the village. Its distant hills were dark beneath the evening sky. He had heard stories about the creatures that lived there: wolves with blades along their backs, poisonous snakes that could kill a grown man, and enormous apes capable of tearing trees from the earth.
His stomach tightened.
He swallowed the bite of apple.
"What happens if I can't absorb the ring?"
"Then we stop and reconsider. We will not choose a spirit beast simply because it is convenient. The ring must suit your martial soul, and the process must be within your ability to survive."
"And if the beast is stronger than me?"
"Then you stay behind me."
Wukong frowned.
"I don't want to hide behind someone."
"You do not need to like every sensible decision."
The boy looked away.
Su Yiming let the silence remain for a while.
"You have unusual talent," he said eventually. "But talent is only the beginning. You will encounter people stronger than you, creatures stronger than you, and situations you cannot solve by stretching your arm farther than everyone else."
Wukong glanced at his hand.
"What if I keep getting stronger?"
"Then the challenges will change."
"Will they ever stop?"
Su Yiming looked toward the distant hills.
"No."
Wukong considered this answer.
Then he smiled.
"Good."
The Spirit Master turned to him.
"Good?"
"If the challenges stop, what am I supposed to do?"
Su Yiming studied the boy's face. There was a bruise beneath one eye, a smear of dried apple juice on his chin, and a small cut across his knuckle. He looked nothing like a future legend.
But his eyes were bright.
Not with certainty.
With appetite.
The kind that could carry a person through hardships, or lead him straight into disaster.
Sometimes there was little difference between the two.
"Get some sleep," Su Yiming said. "We leave at sunrise."
Wukong stood.
"One more question."
"What?"
"Will there be food?"
"Yes."
"Good food?"
"Probably."
"Can I have your share if you don't like it?"
"No."
"Then I'll pack my own."
He hurried inside before the Spirit Master could change his mind.
Su Yiming remained on the steps, listening to the boy's footsteps fade down the corridor.
The forest waited beyond the village.
Tomorrow, Wukong would enter it with no Spirit Ring, no combat experience worth mentioning, and a power he barely understood.
He would return changed.
Whether that change made him wiser or merely more dangerous remained to be seen.
That night, Wukong packed his belongings.
A blanket.
A spare shirt.
A small knife Old Chen had reluctantly allowed him to borrow.
Two pieces of dried meat he had acquired through perfectly legal means, if one accepted that taking something from the kitchen before anyone noticed was a form of legal acquisition.
He tied everything into a cloth bundle.
Then he sat on his bed and looked at the other children.
Mei slept with her back to the wall. Liang, who had visited the orphanage that afternoon to thank him again, snored through his open mouth. The youngest child had kicked off her blanket and was curled into a ball near the window.
Wukong pulled the blanket back over her shoulders.
She stirred.
"Where are you going?"
He froze.
"Nowhere."
"Old Chen said you're leaving."
"Just for a little while."
"Will you come back?"
Wukong looked at her.
He could have promised.
It would have been easy. A few words, a smile, and she would have gone back to sleep.
But he had no idea what waited in the forest. He had no idea how long it would take to obtain his Spirit Ring, or what would happen after that.
So he sat beside her bed.
"I'll try."
The little girl frowned in her sleep.
"That's not a promise."
"No."
She turned over.
"Bring me something."
"What?"
"Something nice."
Wukong looked around the shabby room.
"What if I bring you a rock?"
"Then I won't like it."
"What if it's a really good rock?"
She pulled the blanket over her head.
"Go away."
Wukong smiled.
"Fine. I'll find you something better than a rock."
He returned to his bed and lay down.
For a long time, he watched the ceiling.
Tomorrow, he would enter a forest where things could kill him. He would face his first real test as a Spirit Master, and there was a chance he might fail before he had even begun.
He was afraid.
He did not like admitting it, even to himself.
But the fear did not erase his curiosity. It did not erase the thrill that ran through him whenever his arm stretched farther than it should, or the fierce satisfaction of discovering something new.
He thought of the name that had appeared in his mind during the awakening ceremony.
Monkey D. Luffy.
He still did not understand why the name belonged to him.
Perhaps he would never find out.
Perhaps the answer waited beyond the hills.
Wukong closed his eyes.
At sunrise, he would leave the village.
He would enter the forest.
He would obtain his first Spirit Ring.
And if the world expected him to kneel before he had even learned how to stand, then the world would have to learn to ask more politely.
Outside, the wind stirred the trees.
Far away, a spirit beast roared.
Wukong smiled beneath his blanket.
"Tomorrow," he whispered.
This time, the forest answered.