The days began to blur together, each one following the same pattern as the last. Time seemed to move quickly, slipping through his fingers like the few coins he earned, and in what felt like the blink of an eye, two full months had passed.
Hun Jiang's life in those months was a cycle of three things. Every morning, without fail, he was on the hilltop at dawn. He would shoot his homemade bow until his arms trembled, retrieve his arrows, and shoot again. His target shifted from the knot on the tree, to specific leaves, to stones balanced on a distant log. In the afternoons, he would work. He'd go into the woods, find the dead, dry trees, and with his new strength, cut and haul the timber down to the collection point for the middleman. The work was hard and dirty, but it paid. Then, in the evening, he would often go back to the hill for a final round of archery practice as the sun set, the fading light making his shots a test of feel and instinct more than sight.
This relentless routine and earrings' continuous powers reshaped him, inside and out. The most obvious change was in his appearance. The streaks of gold in his hair had slowly taken over. All his hair was now a bright, shining gold, the color of ripe wheat under the sun. His skin, once pale from hunger, had transformed into a clear, smooth white, like fresh cream. Even dressed in his same old, patched clothes, he stood out. If you passed him on the village path, your eye would catch on him. He had the kind of sharp, handsome face and unusual coloring that made people give him a second, longer look, wondering where this striking boy had come from.
His skill with the bow had grown even faster than his hair changed. The hours of daily practice, guided by his unnaturally clear and quick-learning mind, had honed his ability to an incredible degree. It was no longer about hitting a tree. If you gave him the task of shooting the eye of a flying bee, he could do it. He had practiced in low light, against the wind, and even with his eyes closed, relying only on the sound of the wind and the memory of the target's position. His hands, his arms, and his mind were now perfectly aligned with the act of shooting. The wooden bow was like an extension of his will.
On the final morning, Hun Jiang sat at his small table, drinking his usual bowl of vegetable soup. The hut felt different. All his few possessions—his second set of clothes, his small pouch of earned coins, his flint for making fire—were neatly bundled in a cloth on his bed. His homemade bow and quiver of good arrows leaned against the wall by the door, ready to go.
This was the day. The day he would leave Holy Soul Village and step into the wider world. He knew the map of the Douluo Continent from a novel he read in his past life. He knew the cities, the sects, and the major events that were supposed to unfold. But knowing something from a book and seeing it with your own eyes, smelling its air, and walking its roads, were two completely different things.
…
The sun was just beginning to properly warm the village lanes when Old Jack arrived at Hun Jiang's hut. The old village chief was dressed with unusual care. His clothes, while simple, were freshly washed and free of the usual patches and stains, making him look more energetic and serious. Following a step behind him was Tang San, carrying a small pack of his own. He had finally convinced his father, Tang Hao, to let him go. Whether it was due to Tang San's persuasion or some private reason of Tang Hao's own—perhaps a desire to finally be alone—the result was the same. The boy was ready.
"Hun Jiang! Time to leave!" Old Jack's voice called from outside the door, loud and clear in the quiet morning.
Hun Jiang opened the door. He had his cloth bundle slung over one shoulder and his homemade bow and quiver in his other hand. The morning light caught his bright golden hair and white skin, making him look almost out of place against the dusty, brown backdrop of the village. His expression was calm and ready. He looked at Old Jack, then at Tang San, and gave a single, decisive nod.
"Let's go."
The journey from Holy Soul Village to Nuoding City was not a great distance, but it was a full walk. For two boys and an old man, it would take about half a day. Old Jack led the way, setting a steady, manageable pace on the dirt road that wound through fields and low, forested hills.
They walked in comfortable silence for the most part, the only sounds being their footsteps, the distant calls of birds, and Old Jack's occasional comment about a landmark. Halfway, they stopped by a small stream to rest. Old Jack pulled some travel rations from his bag—simple, hard oatcakes and a few pieces of dried fruit. They sat on the grass, washing the dry food down with cold water from the stream. Hun Jiang ate comfortedly, his eyes already looking ahead down the road.
By the afternoon, the view began to change. The wild fields gave way to more tended plots, then to scattered farmsteads. Finally, they crested a low hill, and there it was in the distance: Nuoding City.
Even though it wasn't considered a major city, its position near the border of the Heaven Dou Empire meant it was built for defense. The walls were high and thick, made of solid, grey stone. From a distance, it looked imposing, a man-made mountain against the sky. As they drew closer, the road became busier, joining with other paths filled with farmers bringing carts of goods, merchants with pack animals, and other travellers.
They joined the line of people waiting to enter at the main gate. City guards in worn but official-looking uniforms stood at the entrance, inspecting people and goods with bored efficiency. When it was their turn, the guards gave Old Jack and the two boys a quick, routine look over. Their eyes lingered for an extra second on Hun Jiang's striking appearance and his crude bow, but seeing nothing threatening in an old man and two village boys, they waved them through with a grunt.
Once inside the city walls, the world changed completely. The quiet of the countryside was swallowed by a wave of sound and smell. The air was filled with the calls of street vendors, the clatter of cart wheels on stone, and the mingled scents of cooking food, animals, and too many people in one place. Buildings of wood and stone lined the streets, leaning close together. People hurried everywhere.
Old Jack navigated the bustling streets with the confidence of someone who had made this trip many times before. As they walked, he began to give his final instructions, his voice raised slightly to be heard over the noise.
"Tang San, Hun Jiang, listen now," he said, looking back at them. "I will take you straight to the academy. Once you're registered, I'll have to return home. The journey is long, and I must start before dark."
He focused on them, his kind face serious. "When you are alone at the academy, you must listen to your teachers. Do what they say. Do not leave the school grounds without permission. It's not safe, and it's against the rules." He paused, letting the importance sink in. "When the semester ends, around the New Year, I will come back to this very gate to meet you and bring you home."
For Tang San, this was the final moment. He was really leaving, not just for a day, but for months. He was leaving his father, , the only home he could remember in this life. A wave of nervous fluster hit him. He looked up at Old Jack, the reliable anchor in this noisy, unfamiliar sea.
"Grandpa Jack," Tang San said, his voice betraying a hint of a child's worry. "Are you leaving so soon? Right after?"
On the other hand, Hun Jiang simply listened, his face calm. He felt no such fluster. For an orphan, the concept of "home" was fragile. The village was just a place where he had survived. The only thing truly tying him to it was the kindness of the old man walking beside him. The memories he remembered were clear on that point: when there had been nothing, Old Jack had made sure he had something to eat. That was a debt, a thread of gratitude. He was sure that when he achieved something in this new life, he would return and repay that kindness. For now, there were no tears, no anxious questions. He just stored the old man's instructions away and continued staring at the city, his golden eyes taking in the strange, new world of the city.
Old Jack gave a wry, knowing smile at Tang San's question. "A hotel?" he said, shaking his head. "That's not for poor folk like us to stay in. Too expensive by half." He came to a stop in the busy street, turning to face both boys. He looked at Hun Jiang for a long moment, taking in the boy's calm, expectant face, then turned his gaze back to Tang San, his expression growing earnest.
"You, and Hun Jiang," he said, his voice low and serious, "you must focus. You must try your hardest to win credit at the academy. Study, train, do everything they ask." He placed a hand on each of their shoulders, his grip firm. "When grandpa sees you again at the New Year, I hope to see two spirit masters standing before me. That would make our Holy Soul Village prouder than it has been in a hundred years."
In his heart, Old Jack knew the chances were uneven. Hun Jiang, with his amazing martial soul and full innate power, had a 100% chance of becoming a soul master if he simply followed the path. Tang San was the question. The full spirit power was a gift, but the Blue Silver Grass martial soul was a heavy burden. The old chief's focus was more on Tang San, because he knew that if by some miracle both boys succeeded, it wouldn't just be pride—it would be a transformation. Two soul masters emerging from their poor village would bring prestige, perhaps even support from the city or the Spirit Hall. It was a dream he barely let himself imagine, but it was there.
The Nuoding Primary Spirit Master Academy was located in the western district of the city. Old Jack, who only came to the city once or twice a year, wasn't entirely sure of the way. He stopped several times, politely asking passersby for directions. "Pardon me, friend, which way to the spirit master academy?" Each time, he'd listen carefully, nod his thanks, and lead the boys on, following the new instructions.
After a few wrong turns and backtracking through the winding streets, they finally found themselves on a broad, clean avenue. In the distance, they could see it.
A massive gate arch marked the entrance. It was enormous, easily twenty meters wide and over ten meters high, constructed from solid, pale grey stone that spoke of wealth and permanence. Set into this grand stone arch were two towering gates made of forged iron, their surfaces a deep, jet-black. Hun Jiang's eyes, sharp from hours of focusing on distant targets, could see the meticulous craftsmanship in the metalwork—the smooth seams, the sturdy hinges. Through the gaps between the iron bars, a wide, paved path was visible, leading straight into the grounds. The path was lined with tall, neatly trimmed trees on both sides, creating a formal and impressive approach.
And there, carved into the center of the stone archway, were four large, imposing characters:
Nuoding Academy.
....
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