Yu Xiaogang's Change

"He rephrased common knowledge, packaged it as theory, and then called himself a master."

"That chart of his regarding soul ring absorption limits? To put it bluntly, it's just statistical data. Anyone could summarize that by flipping through the archives at any branch of the Martial Soul Hall."

"He spent his entire life proving his own theories wrong. I almost want to applaud him for such a self-sacrificing spirit of falsification."

These barbs, while none were fatal, each one struck at his softest spot.

Now, even a few low-life bandits could trample him underfoot, grinding their soles into his face and slapping his head with the flat of their blades.

They were laughing, mocking him for being a piece of trash.

They couldn't even be bothered to take him seriously, because putting effort into dealing with trash would only lower their own standing.

Yu Xiaogang closed his eyes, his mouth twisting into a curve more wretched than tears.

There are no useless martial souls, only useless soul masters.

This sentence had been the declaration he was most proud of in his life, the sturdiest shield he held against all mockery.

Yet in the end, he himself was the greatest counter-example to this very declaration.

His martial soul was trash, and he was trash himself.

Two pieces of trash huddled together; neither could save the other.

If he couldn't even deceive himself, how could he expect to deceive others?

The bandits had had their fill of fun, snatched up Yu Xiaogang's few dozen Gold Soul Coins, and swaggered off, whistling as they disappeared deep into the woods.

Luo Sanpao scrambled up from the ground, shook the dirt from its short purple fur, and limped over to Yu Xiaogang's side. It nudged his arm with its wet nose and let out a low whimper.

Yu Xiaogang turned his head, looking into Luo Sanpao's large, deep-blue eyes, which reflected his own bruised and swollen face.

In this moment, Yu Xiaogang felt utterly ridiculous.

Theory?

It was useless—he would have been better off just enjoying life.

In this world where strength reigned supreme, those theories were worth nothing; even if you told them to a dog, the dog wouldn't listen.

Luo Sanpao nudged Yu Xiaogang's arm with its nose, a low whimper vibrating in its throat, its large, deep-blue eyes filled with undisguised worry.

It didn't understand why its master was lying on the ground instead of getting up; it only knew that its master was hurt, bleeding, and clearly in pain.

Luo Sanpao lowered its four short legs, pressing its round body tightly against Yu Xiaogang's side, trying to offer him some comfort with its own body heat.

Yu Xiaogang turned his head to look into the eyes that reflected his own pathetic state.

A smile suddenly appeared on his bruised and swollen face—a smile that was neither bitter nor relieved. As his lips moved, the motion tugged at the wounds on his face, causing him to gasp in pain.

"Sanpao," Yu Xiaogang said in a low voice, "tell me, what exactly have I been holding onto all my life?"

Luo Sanpao tilted its head and wagged its short tail.

It couldn't understand such complex words; it only knew that its master had spoken, so things probably weren't as bad as they looked.

Yu Xiaogang lay flat on the muddy ground, gazing through the layers of the canopy at the sky, which was sliced into fragments.

Sunlight leaked through the gaps in the leaves, casting dappled light and shadow across his face.

Yu Xiaogang thought of Bibi Dong.

If he hadn't met Bibi Dong back then, would he still be in this state?

There was no need to even think about the answer.

Without Bibi Dong, he would still be trash.

His martial soul was trash, his theories were garbage, and his life from beginning to end was a joke.

Bibi Dong's appearance had merely added an even more ironic footnote to that joke; even the only woman who claimed to admire him had turned out to be a lie.

He had blamed all his misfortune on Bibi Dong's schemes, on Deng Tianxin's mockery, on the bandits' fists, and on the injustice of this world.

But after all the blaming, he finally realized that the most useless thing of all was himself.

If he were a Title Douluo, would Bibi Dong have dared to scheme against him?

If he were a Title Douluo, would Deng Tianxin have dared to belittle his theories in front of so many people?

If he were a Title Douluo, would those low-life bandits have dared to grind their soles into his face?

So much for theories changing the world, so much for there being no useless martial souls—in the end, he couldn't even change himself.

After half an hour, Yu Xiaogang sat up. He had made a decision in his heart.

He would return to the Blue Lightning Tyrant Dragon Clan, marry, have children, and raise his son to be a powerhouse.

His own life was already ruined, and Luo Sanpao was ruined too; no matter how he struggled, he wouldn't make a splash.

But he could have a son—a son with a brand-new martial soul and brand-new talent.

Though his knowledge of theory couldn't make him strong, it was more than enough to cultivate the next generation.

He knew what age one should absorb what limit of soul ring, what environment was best suited for which martial soul to cultivate, and the principles of soul bone compatibility and the techniques for combining soul skills.

These things couldn't help him defeat a two-ring Soul Grand Master, but they could save his son a dozen years of taking the wrong path.

As long as his son became a powerhouse, he could wash away his shame.

He had never considered this path before.

It wasn't that he couldn't think of it; it was that he was unwilling to accept it.

He had always felt that he still had a chance to turn things around, that his theories would eventually be recognized by the world, and that one day he would stand before everyone and slap those who had mocked him across the face with undeniable achievements.

But now, he no longer wanted to slap anyone. He had been slapping that face for so many years, and the only one it had hurt was himself.

Returning to the Blue Lightning Tyrant Dragon Clan—this thought made him feel both resistant and desperate.

His father's disappointment, the elders' contempt, the whispers of his peers—those images still stung like needles whenever he thought of them.

Yet the longing was real, too. After wandering outside for so many years and being called a waste for just as long, he wanted a place to shelter from the wind and rain more than anyone.

And the Blue Lightning Tyrant Dragon Clan, regardless of everything else, was ultimately his home.

As long as he lowered his pride, stopped arguing about the great significance of his martial soul theories, and honestly admitted that he was a waste—returning to live out his days as a good-for-nothing—the clan wouldn't truly cast him out.

After all, the blood of the Blue Lightning Tyrant Dragon flowed through his veins, and his father was the clan leader.

Even if the people in the clan looked down on him, for the sake of his father, they wouldn't go so far as to deny him a meal.

Once he returned, he would beg his father to find him a wife.

She didn't need to be beautiful, nor did she need high talent; she just needed to be someone who could live a steady life with him.

He didn't even dare to ask for someone from a prominent family; a commoner would do, as long as she didn't mind that he was a waste.

Then, he would have a son and pin all the dreams he hadn't realized and the curses he hadn't broken onto this child.

Thinking of this, Yu Xiaogang suddenly froze.

Yu Xiaogang looked down at his own hands, then at Luo Sanpao, who was lying at his feet.

A pig that could fart, a waste who could never break through level thirty—what right did he have to think he could father a genius son?