The moment his consciousness sank into the point of light, Ye Wudao felt as though he had been cast into a boundless expanse of warm water.
There was no light, no sound, no time, no space.
He merely floated there, like an unborn infant curled up in warm amniotic fluid.
This sensation lasted for an unknown length of time.
Perhaps an instant, perhaps ten thousand years.
Then, he heard a sound.
Crying.
The loud, hoarse cries of an infant, crying with all its strength.
Ye Wudao abruptly opened his eyes.
What he saw was a dilapidated roof.
The roof was thatched, with several holes through which he could see the gray, murky sky.
Several blackened rafters crisscrossed overhead, draped in cobwebs.
The air was filled with the smell of firewood, medicine, and another scent he could not describe—a scent belonging to a poor household.
He tried to move, only to discover that his body was pitifully small.
He raised his hand and saw a wrinkled, bright-red little hand, no bigger than a palm.
An infant's hand.
Ye Wudao froze.
Had he become a baby?
Just then, a rough female voice rang out beside his ear.
"It's born! It's born! It's a boy!"
There was exhaustion in that voice, but also joy.
A man's voice followed immediately after, deep and muffled, like the tolling of a bell.
"Good! Good! Give my son a name!"
"What should we name him..." The woman thought for a moment. "Let's call him Goudan. A lowly name is easy to raise."
"Goudan?" The man chuckled. "Good, Goudan it is! A lowly name is easy to raise!"
Ye Wudao... no, he should be called Goudan now... twitched at the corners of his mouth when he heard those two names.
Goudan?
He was a mighty expert of the