The sun rose and the moon set; stars shifted in the heavens.
The days passed one by one. With the annual awakening ceremony drawing near, the village was permeated by a tense atmosphere much like the days before the college entrance exams.
Douluo Continent had two great empires—or perhaps it would be more accurate to call them two alliances. Within these empires, vast territories had been granted to feudal lords, and nobles with armed forces were too numerous to count.
Because the two great empires had existed for so long, the social classes had long since solidified. For ordinary people, the difficulty of rising above their station was no less than Hell difficulty. It was basically not even worth thinking about.
Of course, nothing was absolute. For ordinary people, there was only one chance to turn their lives around: cultivating their Martial Souls.
It was said that everyone possessed a Martial Soul of their own. Among them, only a very small number had Martial Souls that could be cultivated, forming a profession known as Spirit Masters. Across the continent, Spirit Masters were the most prestigious profession.
It could be said that the village's annual awakening ceremony was no less than a small-scale college entrance exam. Describing it as an army of thousands crossing a single-log bridge would not be an exaggeration.
Awakening a Martial Soul—or even a Martial Soul that could be cultivated—would allow someone to stand out at once. Not only could they themselves live well, but their family could also enjoy a prosperous life. If they failed, they could only remain ordinary for the rest of their lives, working at sunrise and resting at sunset, marrying an ordinary wife, having a litter of children, and muddling through life.
Since he had come to Douluo Continent, Yang Ming had no desire to be an ordinary person. He longed to become stronger, to leave this village, and to explore the splendor and diversity of this world!
At first light, Yang Ming had already run two kilometers on the small hill outside the village. A long spear, taller than he was, hung diagonally across his back.
He took the spear from his back and began practicing his spear techniques in a precise, methodical manner beneath the morning light rising in the east.
In Honor of Kings, both Han Xin and Zhao Yun were masters of the spear, but their styles were entirely different.
If Han Xin's style was sharp and clean, nimble and graceful, then Zhao Yun's was swift as thunder, fierce and forceful.
The spear techniques Yang Ming practiced contained not a trace of flashy forms or set moves. They followed a path built for actual combat.
Han Xin's lifts, thrusts, bursts, and shakes, along with Zhao Yun's sweeps, chops, slashes, and wipes, blended naturally into one upon Yang Ming's body without the slightest discord, as though this was how spear techniques had always been meant to look.
Yang Ming stepped forward into a bow stance and let out a low shout. His right hand gripped the spear tightly, and like a venomous snake darting from the grass, the force in his hand traveled straight to the spear tip. A cold gleam flashed, and the tip pierced through a fallen leaf. Its force was concentrated at a single point, leaving a hole in the center of the palm-sized leaf.
After practicing spear techniques all morning, Yang Ming was already drenched in sweat. He looked up at the sky. The sun hung high overhead, and it was nearly time for lunch.
Putting away his spear, Yang Ming hurried down the hill and back to the village.
Holy Soul Village was as it had always been: simple villagers, a simple village, roosters crowing and dogs barking, and no one taking what had been lost on the road.
As Old Jack the village chief's grandson, Yang Ming was warmly greeted wherever he went. He was not some saint detached from worldly affairs, so he always returned their greetings. Over time, Yang Ming had unexpectedly become quite popular in the village.
Just then, an urgent clatter of hoofbeats came from the village entrance, accompanied by a woman's scream.
Yang Ming halted and abruptly turned around.
It would have been better if he had not looked. The moment he did, fury surged through him.
A young man rode a black horse at full gallop along the village road.
Holy Soul Village was a very traditional farming village, and its economy was underdeveloped. As a result, the village roads were not very wide. It was not as if this young man did not know that, yet he still allowed the black horse beneath him to race wildly. It was like driving a BMW through a red light—he clearly had no regard for anyone else's life!
Yang Ming had been in Douluo Continent for nearly six years. The village customs were simple, and every household had treated him well. He had long since regarded this place as his home.
How could he not be angry at this sight? Moreover, in their efforts to avoid being struck by the black horse, the pedestrians on the road had fallen into chaos, scrambling to dodge to either side. A heavily pregnant woman, nine months along, stumbled and nearly fell to the ground. Yet the young man behind her showed no intention of slowing down and continued spurring the black horse onward. Even if he did not strike the pregnant woman, he might still frighten her into premature labor!
In a village with such backward medical care, premature labor for a pregnant woman was no different from a death sentence!
"Stop!"
Yang Ming was furious. His starry eyes widened, his thick brows stood on end, and he tapped his spear against the ground. Like a flying swallow, he traced a half-arc through the air. Before the black horse could charge over, he caught the pregnant woman, helped her up, and brought her to rest beside a nearby shop.
After doing all that, Yang Ming held his spear across the middle of the road, its tip angled toward the young man on the black horse, and demanded furiously:
"Who are you? How dare you ride recklessly through the village roads? Do you know that you nearly got many people killed just now?"
"Whoa!"
The young man yanked hard on the reins and pulled up the horse's head. The black horse reared onto its hind legs, narrowly avoiding crashing into Yang Ming.
The black horse shook its head in displeasure. Its large, bell-like eyes glared furiously at Yang Ming, while two streams of white vapor burst from its broad nostrils.
Even the horse was arrogant and overbearing!
Only now that they were close did Yang Ming narrow his eyes and get a clear look at the young man.
He appeared to be in his twenties, with sword-like brows, starry eyes, and a remarkably handsome face. He wore a fitted white outfit with a black cloak behind him. At the center of his chest was a fist-sized character: Spirit.
This was the standard attire of direct personnel under Spirit Hall.
On his left chest was a badge engraved with swords. Three swords crossed over one another on the badge.
Yang Ming frowned. His grandfather, Old Jack, had once taught him some common knowledge. The three swords represented the third Spirit Master title, Soul Grandmaster, while the swords indicated that this Spirit Hall deacon was a Battle Spirit Master.
All Spirit Masters possessed their own Martial Soul power. Based on the strength of that power, there were ten titles in total, each divided into ten levels.
Soul Scholar, Spirit Master, Soul Grandmaster, Soul Elder, Soul Ancestor, Spirit King, Spirit Emperor, Soul Saint, Spirit Douluo, Titled Douluo.
Yang Ming found the situation somewhat troublesome and said hoarsely:
"You're from Spirit Hall?"
The young man soothed the black horse beneath him. Hearing this, he looked down at Yang Ming and saw that he was merely a six-year-old boy. A faint pride and contempt appeared between his brows. He raised his riding whip and pointed it rudely at Yang Ming, saying flatly:
"I am a Battle Soul Grandmaster from Notting City, and also Spirit Hall's Patrol Deacon, Cao Mengyun. Brat, don't block my way!"
Yang Ming's expression darkened. He pointed at the pregnant woman Cao Mengyun had nearly knocked down and demanded angrily:
"You nearly hit her just now. Shouldn't you apologize to her?"
Cao Mengyun remained unmoved and said coldly:
"But I didn't hit her."
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