You're Six and You Got a Tattoo?

Outside the ancestral hall, the sunlight was just right.

Tang San touched the three bumps on his head, silently listening to the conversation coming from behind him.

Old Jack was pleading, "Lord Deacon, about that child Tang San..."

"Give it to him." Su Yuntao's voice sounded somewhat distracted, clearly still shocked by the shattering of the crystal ball. "Although a higher soul power usually means a stronger martial soul, a trash martial soul is useless no matter how high the power is. It's just a pity that the child Su Mo didn't want the spot... Sigh, just give it to Tang San."

Trash martial soul.

Useless no matter how high.

Tang San clenched his fists, the Blue Silver Grass in his hand swaying gently in the breeze. He looked down at the plant that everyone had judged to be "trash," then touched the three bumps on his forehead that were still throbbing with pain.

Suddenly, he froze.

Three bumps, arranged in a neat row.

The person had knocked him out, yet used just enough force to cause unconsciousness without inflicting any actual injury.

Given that physique and strength, achieving such precision was incredibly difficult.

And those three sleeve arrows that had been rolled into balls and flicked back at him.

Tang San's eyes gradually brightened, the light within them growing sharper and more resolute.

"I... understand."

He cast a deep, lingering look in the direction Su Mo had left.

On the other side.

When he emerged from the ancestral hall, Su Mo was wrapped in a bedsheet donated by Old Jack, looking like a mobile tent.

The sheet was made of coarse cloth, grayish-white, with a faded little flower embroidered on the edge. It had originally been fabric Old Jack intended to save for his granddaughter's dowry, but now it was draped over Su Mo, barely covering his vital areas while revealing his steel-like shoulders and half of his calves.

"Su, Su Mo..." Old Jack hurried up from behind, his voice wavering. "Are you really alright?"

"I'm fine." Su Mo looked down at him. "I'm just not used to retracting my martial soul yet; I can't change back for the time being."

Old Jack craned his neck, looking at the face of a six-year-old child atop a 2.2-meter frame, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Th-then, you should head home first. Your mother must be getting worried."

"Alright."

Su Mo took a step.

One step covered the distance of three.

He tried his best to shorten his stride, but it was still like a giant hurdling, and he disappeared at the end of the village path in a few moments.

Old Jack stood where he was, watching the moving mass of grayish-white bedsheet fade into the distance, and muttered:

"Good heavens... will this child need to eat out of a bucket from now on?"

At the small courtyard at the end of the village, morning glories climbed the picket fence.

Su Mo stopped at the gate.

He took a deep breath.

How was he supposed to explain this?

"Mom, I awakened a martial soul, and then I got big?"

That didn't seem right.

"Mom, look, I had a growth spurt!"

Could this really be explained away as a "growth spurt"?

He looked down at himself: a 2.2-meter frame, muscles piled up like small hills, and a ferocious character for "Virtue" branded on his back.

He looked at the water vat in the yard, which he usually used for fetching water; it probably only reached his knees now.

Su Mo fell silent.

Just then, the sound of wheels rolling over the dirt came from the yard.

"Xiao Mo? Is that you?"

A gentle female voice, filled with a smile.

Su Mo's heart tightened.

He pushed open the gate.

In the yard, the setting sun was dipping low, dyeing everything in warm orange hues.

A beautiful woman in her thirties sat in a wheelchair, stopped beside the clothesline. She wore a faded blue cloth dress, her long hair simply tied behind her head with a few stray strands hanging by her ears. Her brows and eyes were gentle, a faint smile playing on her lips as she reached for a garment on the line—a small jacket that Su Mo had taken off that morning.

She couldn't reach it.

She braced herself slightly, her fingertips just brushing the hem.

"Mom."

Su Mo spoke up.

Su Zhaowan turned around.

Then, she froze.

She saw someone standing at the courtyard gate—

A giant?!

Wrapped in a bedsheet, muscles exposed, characters inscribed on his back, and topped with a face she knew all too well.

It was her son's face.

Those round cheeks and clear eyes were currently filled with a hint of nervousness and guilt, like a child who had done something wrong and was waiting to be scolded.

But that body...

Su Zhaowan blinked.

She blinked again.

Su Mo stood there nervously, the bedsheet fluttering slightly in the evening breeze.

Three seconds later.

"Pfft."

Su Zhaowan laughed.

She laughed until her shoulders shook, until tears welled up in the corners of her eyes, and until she had to grip the armrests of her wheelchair to steady herself.

"Xiao Mo..." she said between laughs, "what, what on earth did you eat?"

Su Mo: "..."

"Mother, I didn't eat anything."

"Then what is this..."

"The Awakening Ceremony, there was a bit of an accident."

"An accident?" Su Zhaowan looked him over, her gaze traveling from top to bottom, then back up again, "This accident... is quite unique."

Su Mo blushed.

A six-year-old's face paired with a seven-foot-two frame made for a startling effect when he turned red; he looked like a mountain of muscle emitting steam.

Su Zhaowan laughed even harder.

"Alright, alright, stop standing in the doorway, come in." She wiped away the tears from her laughter and pointed toward the room, "Take off the bedsheet, I'll go see if I can find something for you to wear... uh..."

She paused, looking at Su Mo's shoulders, then at her own frame.

"...It seems I don't have anything."

Su Mo: "I'll go borrow some."

"Just keep it wrapped for now, eat your meal first." Su Zhaowan turned her wheelchair toward the room, "By the way, what's with the characters on your back? Can they be washed off?"

Su Mo looked down at his back.

"I think... they're a tattoo?"

"A tattoo?" Su Zhaowan looked back, her expression subtle, "You're six years old, and you already have a tattoo?"

Su Mo: "...Mother, it's a long story."

"Then tell me while you eat."

The mother and son's home was small, but it was kept clean and tidy.

There was a wooden bed, a square table, two low stools, and firewood stacked neatly by the stove. Strings of dried chili peppers and corn hung on the wall, and a chipped pottery jar filled with wildflowers sat on the windowsill.

Su Mo stooped to enter the room.

He was literally stooping.

The door frame was too low.

He hunched over like a shrimp, moving in cautiously for fear of knocking the door frame down.

Su Zhaowan watched him and laughed again.

"Sit down."

Su Mo looked at the low stool.

The stool didn't even reach his knees.

He stood in silence, attempting to squat.

"Creak—"

The stool let out a miserable shriek.

Su Mo stood up immediately, his head hitting the ceiling once more.

Su Zhaowan laughed so hard she couldn't straighten her back.

"Alright, alright, just stay crouching." She waved her hand and turned her wheelchair toward the stove. "The food is keeping warm in the pot, I'll bring it to—"

"I'll do it."

Su Mo stepped forward.

One step.

He reached the stove.

He looked down at the items on the stove—a bowl of thin porridge, a small dish of pickled vegetables, and two coarse grain buns.

They were all things he usually ate.

He reached out to pick them up.

His hands were too big.

The bowl was too small.

He pinched the rim of the bowl with two fingers and carefully carried it to the table.

Then, he crouched down.

He sat there like a mountain.

Su Zhaowan watched this scene, her eyes filled with a smile, and something else besides.

She didn't speak, simply handing him the chopsticks. "Eat."

Su Mo took the chopsticks.

In his hands, the chopsticks looked like two toothpicks.

He tried to pick up a piece of pickled vegetable—

He picked it up.

It snapped.

He tried again—

It snapped again.

Su Mo: "..."

Su Zhaowan: "How about... you use your hands?"

Su Mo looked down at his own hands—they were like palm-leaf fans.

Then he looked at the pickled vegetable—a thin, slender strip.

He silently pulled his hands back.

Suddenly, he wasn't all that hungry anymore.