Outside the ancestral hall, the sun shone bright.
Tang San rubbed the three bumps on his head and silently listened to the conversation behind him.
Old Jack pleaded, "Your Reverence, that child Tang San..."
"Give it to him." Su Yuntao sounded distracted, clearly still shocked that the crystal ball had shattered. "It's true that the higher one's Soul Power, the stronger one's Martial Soul. But his Martial Soul is a Trash Martial Soul, so even high Soul Power won't do him any good. It's a shame that child Su Mo doesn't want the spot... Sigh, give it to Tang San."
Trash Martial Soul.
Even high Soul Power won't do him any good.
Tang San clenched his fist. The Blue Silver Grass in his hand swayed gently in the breeze. He lowered his head to look at the plant everyone had judged to be "worthless," then touched the three bumps on his forehead, still faintly aching.
Suddenly, he froze.
Three bumps, neatly arranged.
Whoever had knocked him out had used just enough force to make him lose consciousness, without causing any actual harm.
With that kind of size and strength, controlling his power so precisely would be difficult.
And then there were the three Sleeve Arrows that had been rolled into balls and flicked back.
Tang San's eyes slowly lit up. Their gleam grew sharper and more resolute by the moment.
"I... understand now."
He looked deeply in the direction Su Mo had left.
Elsewhere.
When Su Mo came out of the ancestral hall, he was wrapped in the bedsheet Old Jack had given him, like a walking tent.
The sheet was coarse gray-white cloth, with a faded little flower embroidered along the edge. Old Jack had originally set the fabric aside as part of his granddaughter's dowry, but now it was wrapped around Su Mo, barely covering his private parts and leaving his steel-like shoulders and half his calves exposed.
"Su, Su Mo..." Old Jack hurried after him, his voice wavering. "Are you really all right?"
"I'm fine." Su Mo lowered his head to look at him. "I'm just not used to controlling my Martial Soul yet. I can't change back for a while."
Old Jack craned his neck to look at the face of a six-year-old child atop a two-meter-twenty frame. His Adam's apple bobbed. "Th-then go home for now. Your mother must be getting worried."
"All right."
Su Mo took a step.
Each stride covered as much ground as three of anyone else's.
He tried to shorten his steps, but he still moved like a giant clearing hurdles. In a few strides, he vanished at the end of the village road.
Old Jack remained where he was, watching the gray-white bundle of bedsheet recede into the distance. He murmured,
"Heavens above... Is that child going to need a bucket to eat from now on?"
Morning glories climbed the fence around the little courtyard at the end of the village.
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 bigger?"
That didn't sound right.
"Mom, look how tall I've gotten!"
Could you really explain this as "getting taller"?
He looked down at himself: a two-meter-twenty frame, muscles piled up like a small mountain, and a ferocious "De" character on his back.
Then he looked at the courtyard's water vat. He used to draw water from it, but now it probably only came up to his knees.
Su Mo fell silent.
Just then, he heard wheels rolling over the dirt in the courtyard.
"Xiao Mo? Is that you?"
A gentle woman's voice, tinged with a smile.
Su Mo's heart tightened.
He pushed open the gate.
In the courtyard, the setting sun was sinking, bathing everything in warm orange light.
A beautiful woman in her thirties sat in a wheelchair beside the clothesline. She wore a faded blue cotton dress, and her long hair was simply pinned up at the back, with a few loose strands hanging beside her ears. Her features were gentle, a faint smile playing on her lips as she reached for the clothes on the line—a little jacket Su Mo had changed out of that morning.
She couldn't reach it.
She lifted herself slightly, her fingertips just brushing the edge of the garment.
"Mom."
Su Mo spoke.
Su Zhaowan turned around.
Then she froze.
At the courtyard gate, she saw a—
A giant?!
He was wrapped in a bedsheet, his muscles exposed, a character on his back, and the face she knew better than anyone.
It was her son's face.
Round cheeks and clear eyes, now tinged with nervousness and guilt, like a little boy who'd done something wrong and was waiting to be scolded.
But that body...
Su Zhaowan blinked.
Then blinked again.
Su Mo stood there nervously, the bedsheet fluttering gently in the evening breeze.
Three seconds later.
"Pfft."
Su Zhaowan burst out laughing.
Her shoulders shook, tears welled in the corners of her eyes, and she had to brace herself against the wheelchair armrests to keep steady.
"Xiao Mo..." she said between laughs. "W-what did you eat?"
Su Mo: "..."
"Mom, I didn't eat anything."
"Then how did you..."
"Something went wrong during the awakening ceremony."
"Something went wrong?" Su Zhaowan sized him up, looking from top to bottom and then back up again. "Well, that's certainly an unusual mishap."
Su Mo blushed.
A six-year-old's face on a two-meter-twenty frame—when he blushed, the effect was astounding, like a mountain of muscle giving off steam.
Su Zhaowan laughed even harder.
"Enough, enough. Don't just stand in the doorway. Come inside." She wiped away her laughter-induced tears and pointed toward the house. "Take off the bedsheet. I'll see if I can find something for you to wear... Uh..."
She paused, looked at Su Mo's shoulders, then at her own figure.
"...It looks like I don't have anything that would fit."
Su Mo: "I'll borrow something."
"Just keep it on for now and have your dinner first." Su Zhaowan wheeled herself inside. "By the way, what's that character on your back? Can you wash it off?"
Su Mo looked down at his back.
"It seems like... a tattoo?"
"A tattoo?" Su Zhaowan looked back at him, her expression odd. "You're six, and you got a tattoo?"
Su Mo: "...Mom, it's a long story."
"Then tell me over dinner."
The little home he shared with his mother was small, but neat and tidy.
There was a wooden bed, a square table, two short stools, and neatly stacked firewood beside the stove. Strings of dried chilies and corn hung on the wall. A chipped pottery jar sat on the windowsill, holding a few wildflowers.
Su Mo stooped to enter.
He really did have to stoop.
The doorway was too low.
He bent almost double and carefully shuffled inside, afraid he might knock the doorframe down.
Su Zhaowan watched him and laughed again.
"Sit down."
Su Mo looked at the short stool.
It came up to somewhere below his knees.
He fell silent and tried to squat.
"Creak—"
The stool let out a shriek.
Su Mo immediately stood up, hitting his head on the ceiling again.
Su Zhaowan laughed so hard she could barely straighten up.
"All right, all right, just squat down." She waved a hand and wheeled herself over to the stove. "The food's staying warm in the pot. I'll bring it over..."
"I'll do it."
Su Mo walked over.
One step.
He was at the stove.
He looked down at the food on it: a bowl of thin porridge, a dish of pickles, and two coarse-grain buns.
It was what he usually ate.
He reached out to pick it up.
His hand was too big.
The bowl was too small.
Pinching the rim with two fingers, he carefully carried it over to the table.
Then he squatted down.
Like a mountain crouching there.
Su Zhaowan watched him, amusement in her eyes—and something else, too.
She said nothing, only handed him a pair of chopsticks. "Eat."
Su Mo took the chopsticks.
In his hands, they looked like a pair of toothpicks.
He tried to pick up some pickles—
He got one.
It broke.
He tried again—
It broke again.
Su Mo: "..."
Su Zhaowan: "Maybe... you could use your hand?"
Su Mo looked down at his hand—it was like a fan.
Then he looked at the pickle—a thin little strand.
He silently pulled his hand back.
Suddenly, he wasn't so hungry.