Tang Wulin walked down the road.
A thin veil of mist still hung over Shrek Academy in the early morning. Dew weighed down the leaves of the Chinese Parasol Trees lining the road, and now and then a drop slipped from a leaf tip and struck the flagstones, breaking into a small, dark wet mark.
He walked quickly but lightly. His sneakers made almost no sound on the stone; only the faint rustle of his clothes followed him. Morning light slanted over the eastern wall and fell across one side of his body, turning his black hair warm brown while leaving the other side in soft shadow.
Feng Wuyu.
He repeated the name to himself. Tang Wulin was deeply grateful to him and to his grandmaster. Without them, he never would have reached the heights he had in his previous life.
The days and nights he had spent at the forge, the afternoons when the hammer's vibrations left the webs of his hands numb, the times Feng Wuyu had worked him so hard he could barely lift his head—remembering them now cast everything in a warm glow.
The clang of forging hammers, the hiss of metal changing shape in the heat, the white steam rising from the coolant—all those sounds and smells had condensed into something heavy against his chest.
In his previous life, Tang Wulin had learned from countless masters. By the same token, he had grown up taking beatings from all sides.
He could no longer remember every blow. Some had come from enemies, some as punishment from his teachers, and some from walls he had run straight into himself.
But every scar had become another layer of strength in his bones, hammered into his flesh and blood until he stood more firmly.
*What an honor, Tang Wulin,