In the study.
Xiao Chengkun sat with a cup of hot tea in his hand, legs crossed, admiring the new plaque on the wall with smug delight.
Seven gold-embossed characters gleamed across it: "My Son Has the Bearing of a Titled Douluo."
He had written it himself two days ago.
The handwriting wasn't much to look at, but every stroke brimmed with pride.
Then he'd paid out of pocket for the finest frame, climbed a ladder to hang it himself, and stepped back three paces to admire it for a full half hour.
"Heh heh heh..."
Xiao Chengkun gazed at the plaque, his eyes narrowed into slits as he grinned like an old fox who'd stolen an entire henhouse.
He was so pleased that he didn't even notice his tea going cold.
"Dad."
"Oh! Chenyu, you're here!"
Xiao Chengkun set down his teacup, his smile growing even brighter.
"Come, come, have some tea with your old man. I'm in a good mood today—an exceptionally good mood!"
"Dad, I'll pass on the tea. I'm going on a trip."
"...Huh?"
Xiao Chengkun's smile faltered.
"About ten days to half a month. Could be a month, too."
Xiao Chenyu's expression stayed calm. "Can you ask the academy to give me leave?"
"What?"
Xiao Chengkun's smile finally faded a little. "You're going away? Where?"
"I have some personal business to take care of. It's related to my cultivation."
Xiao Chenyu was deliberately vague.
He couldn't exactly say, "I'm going to steal the Soul Bone of the Clear Sky Douluo's dead wife."
"..."
Xiao Chengkun studied his son for three seconds.
Not scrutinizing him, just observing.
He noticed the confidence and resolve in his son's eyes and brows.
His gaze was bright and steady, nothing like the utterly dejected little brat who'd awakened his Martial Soul four years ago.
Ever since his Martial Soul Mutation, the boy had seemed like a different person.
No, not a different person. He'd finally become the person he was meant to be!
Xiao Chengkun set down his teacup and nodded without hesitation.
"Fine."
"You've got a mind of your own now. Your dad won't pry."
He reached into his robes, pulled out a heavy money pouch, and shoved it into Xiao Chenyu's hand with such force that it was as if he feared his son might refuse it.
"Take plenty of money. Don't stint on yourself while you're away."
"Buy whatever you want to eat, and stay wherever you like. Your old man can spare a few coins!"
Xiao Chenyu weighed the pouch in his hand.
It was heavy.
Heavier than what he'd spent hiring the Soul Hunting Group last time.
His eyes stung, but he refused to let the feeling reach them.
That was his real dad.
"Thanks, Dad."
"What are you thanking me for?"
Xiao Chengkun waved a hand, his smug smile returning.
"My son has the bearing of a Titled Douluo. He's going to be a great man someday. What's a little money?"
"Once you become a Titled Douluo, you'll bring honor to our ancestors."
"Oh, right. Let me show you the plaque I just wrote."
Xiao Chenyu glanced up at the gold-embossed plaque proclaiming his "bearing of a Titled Douluo" and twitched the corner of his mouth.
"Dad, keep it low-key. Low-key."
"Like hell I will!"
Xiao Chengkun glared. "My son's a genius. I want the whole world to know!"
"That's why I told you to keep my Second Martial Soul a secret, Dad."
Xiao Chenyu gave him a sweating yellow-bean look.
This secret couldn't get out.
"I know, I know. I've kept it to myself, just like you asked."
Xiao Chengkun was entirely unapologetic. "I'm allowed to gloat in private, aren't I? Is it against the law to hang a plaque in my own study?"
Xiao Chenyu smiled helplessly, tucked the money pouch into his robes, and turned toward the door.
"Be careful on the road! Remember to pack what you need, and don't push yourself too hard!"
His father's voice rang out behind him.
"Got it!"
"And my son, Xiao Chenyu—"
"Has the bearing of a Titled Douluo! I know! You don't have to shout!"
Xiao Chenyu waved without looking back, but he couldn't suppress the smile on his face.
Time to set out.
Destination: the hills behind Holy Soul Village. The 100,000-Year Blue Silver Emperor Right Leg Bone.
Mission codename: rob the house.
Holy Soul Village, Tang Family Blacksmith Shop.
The clang of hammering echoed through the courtyard.
The rhythm was monotonous and heavy, like some ancient, weary ritual.
A burly but disheveled man swung his hammer, striking the red-hot iron again and again.
Sparks flew.
Their glow lit up his stubbly face and hair, which was as messy as a chicken coop.
His clothes looked as though they hadn't been washed in at least half a month, and he reeked of something between alcohol and sweat.
This was Tang Hao, once the mighty Clear Sky Douluo.
The peerless tough guy who, according to legend, had once beaten a Pope to death with his hammer.
Now, in Holy Soul Village, he was just a down-and-out blacksmith who spent his days getting drunk, swinging a hammer, and treating his own son coldly.
"Achoo!"
Tang Hao suddenly sneezed, rubbed his nose, and muttered, "Damn it, who's talking about me..."
"Dad!"
A childish voice came from outside.
At the sound of it, Tang Hao's expression darkened by reflex.
Five-year-old Tang San walked in steadily on his little legs, carrying a bundle of firewood taller than half his body.
"Dad, do you have a cold? I'll make you a bowl of ginger soup!"
A flicker of tenderness crossed Tang Hao's face—so brief it could have been an illusion.
Then he put on a stern expression and snorted. "What do I need ginger soup for? Your old man's fine! Have you made dinner? Chopped the wood? Stop slacking off!"
An ordinary five-year-old would have burst into tears at being scolded like that by his own father.
But Tang San merely lowered his head a little.
"Oh. I'll go make dinner."
He stacked the firewood neatly beside the stove, each piece placed just so, then quietly headed for the kitchen.
That little figure looked nothing like a child.
There was no hurt, no defiance, not even a trace of discontent.
Tang Hao stared at his son's small back, his hammer suspended in midair, forgotten.
An hour later.
The meal was on the table.
A plate of pickled vegetables, two bowls of coarse rice, and a pot of bland wild-vegetable soup clear enough to use as a mirror.
This was the standard fare of the Clear Sky Douluo and his future Sea God son.
Tang San sat on a little stool, holding his bowl in both hands as he ate in great mouthfuls, his cheeks bulging like a hamster's.
Tang Hao, meanwhile, drained bowl after bowl of liquor.
He drank as though it were plain water.
As though his stomach weren't a stomach, but a bottomless wine jar.
"Dad, you should drink less." Tang San put down his bowl and gently reminded him.
"Mind your own business!"
"Bang!"
Tang Hao slammed his liquor bowl onto the table. Alcohol splashed across its surface.
His eyes were already a little unfocused, but his violent aura still made him impossible to approach.
"..."
Tang San said nothing more.
Tang San went back to eating with his head down.
After the meal.
Tang San cleared away the bowls and chopsticks without being asked, moving with practiced efficiency.
He also wiped the liquor Tang Hao had spilled from the table, picking dust from the seams with the corner of a cloth.
"Dad, I'm going to train in the hills."
"..."
There was no reply.
Tang Hao had already passed out on the bed, snoring like thunder.
The room was thick with the stench of alcohol and sweat, so strong it made a person's eyes water.
Tang San stood by the door and looked back at the man who had once stood tall beneath the heavens.
There was no disappointment or resentment on his five-year-old face, only a pool of stillness with no visible bottom.
Then he turned and closed the door behind him.
"Creak—"
The door shut softly.
His footsteps gradually faded.
On the bed.
Tang Hao, who should have been dead drunk, slowly rolled over.
He opened his eyes and stared at the old wooden door.
His eyes, cloudy just moments before, were now startlingly clear.
They held guilt, pain, bitterness, and another complicated feeling that defied description.
"San..."
His lips moved slightly. His voice was so hoarse it sounded like sandpaper scraping over iron.
Then he closed his eyes again.
In the alcohol-soaked blacksmith shop, only a man's silence remained, pressed down to its breaking point.