Qian Buyi

After the awakening, Ning Buhui was given an empty room in the Spirit Hall's rear courtyard. It was small, with a narrow bed and a north-facing window that overlooked a cramped alley. Now and then, a stray cat padded along the top of the wall, flicked its tail, and vanished into the shadows.

He went to sleep early and woke before dawn the next day. The first thing he did was examine his right palm, turning it over and over in the gray light filtering through the window. His palm was clean, without a single extra crease. Everything that had happened yesterday seemed like a dream; only the warm Soul Power still circulating slowly inside him reminded him that it was all real.

He dressed and pushed the door open. Several servants were sweeping the rear courtyard. When they saw him, they stopped and exchanged glances. A small, thin boy ran over, pressed a dark flour bun into his hand, then snatched his hand back and fled, as if afraid of being burned. Ning Buhui thanked him, then squatted at the foot of the wall and ate the bun. It was hard enough to hurt his teeth, but he chewed carefully and wasted not a bite.

No news came that day.

Nor the next.

Ning Buhui was in no hurry. He watched the servants work in the courtyard and helped carry several loads of firewood. A hunchbacked old man looked up at him and said, "Little one, those clothes of yours don't look local." Ning Buhui said, "I'm from Bluestone Town." The old man grunted, lowered his head, and went back to sweeping without another word.

After two days, he had gradually gotten a sense of the size of the Spirit Hall in Nuoding City. The rear courtyard connected to the front hall, which was open to the public, and quite a few Soul Masters came and went each day. Whenever he had nothing else to do, he squatted at a corner of the corridor and watched them: the colors of their Soul Rings when they released their Martial Souls, the way they walked, and how they spoke. In his previous life, his understanding of this world had come only from words in novels. Now that he was here in person, every detail was worth recalibrating.

Early on the third morning, a man in his early forties appeared at his door.

The man had a long, thin face, with small pupils surrounded by a lot of white. His eyes were half-closed, as though he had not quite woken up, or as though he were forever scrutinizing something. He wore a deacon's robe faded from washing, its cuffs frayed, but its front was pressed without a single wrinkle. He leafed slowly through several sheets of paper, glancing up at Ning Buhui with each page, as if checking something.

"Ning Buhui?" he asked.

"That's me."

"I'm Qian Buyi, a deacon of the Spirit Hall in Nuoding City." The man closed the papers and tucked them into his sleeve, then swept his gaze over Ning Buhui from head to toe. "I only learned about your situation in the past two days. Deacon Sun, who awakened your Martial Soul, has set off for the north. He didn't finish handing over the paperwork before he left. Your case is mine now."

Ning Buhui looked at him without answering.

Qian Buyi leaned against the doorframe, his half-closed eyes opening a little wider. "Six years old, from Bluestone Town, both parents dead, no guardian." She read from the file in a flat voice, as though reciting an old inventory of secondhand goods that had nothing to do with her. "Innate Full Soul Power, a nine-story tower Tool Martial Soul. Fine. The reply from Pope City hasn't arrived yet, so you'll wait here. But-" He straightened, stepped back, and gestured with his chin toward a row of low rooms on the west side of the rear courtyard. "This room was meant for visitors. It isn't suitable for you. Move to the west courtyard tonight, with the servants."

"All right." Ning Buhui nodded.

Qian Buyi stared at him for several seconds, as though waiting for him to complain, argue, or lose his temper. When Ning Buhui merely stood there quietly, his lips moved as though he had chewed on half a word and swallowed it again. Then he turned and left.

The room in the west courtyard was even narrower. Most of the whitewash had fallen from the walls, exposing damp earthen bricks. Ning Buhui set down his bedding roll. The room smelled of old mildew. He pushed open the window to air it out and saw several servants gathered around a well, drawing water. One of them looked up at him, then lowered their head and went back to work.

Only after moving in did he piece together the truth from scraps of conversation among the servants: the west courtyard had not been meant for "newly awakened talents," but for temporary laborers and servants being punished. Not everyone in the Spirit Hall treated others kindly; wherever there were people, there were quiet arrangements like this. He was not surprised. He even thought it made sense-an orphan who had come to their door on his own, with no guarantor and an unknown background, had no reason to expect them to treat him kindly from the start.

He simply laid out his bedding neatly, set his only pair of cloth shoes straight, and began cleaning. The six-year-old deftly wiped the windowsill, swept the floor, and wound the cobwebs out of the corners with a twig, his movements showing not a trace of grievance or resentment. Outside, a woman drawing water watched him in a daze for a while, then turned to the person beside her. "That child's a strange one."

The days passed. Ning Buhui settled into the west courtyard. During the day, he helped wherever he could, carrying firewood, sweeping courtyards, and fetching water. Any job would do. He never picked and chose, worked diligently, and spoke little. After a few days, the servants still kept their distance, but they no longer fell silent in front of him.

Qian Buyi appeared in the front hall every few days. Even when he saw Ning Buhui, he never spoke to him, as though he had never existed. Ning Buhui, however, kept the matter of that file in mind.

On the evening of the sixth day, a group of people arrived at the front hall.

Children from several nearby villages who had turned six that year had been brought to the city together for their Martial Soul Awakening. There were seven in all, each accompanied by family, crowding noisily into the front hall's waiting area. Normally, this would not have been Qian Buyi's responsibility, but the junior deacon on duty had taken leave at the last minute, so Qian Buyi had to fill in himself. He stood at the awakening room door with a register in hand, his face even more tightly set than usual.

Ning Buhui was squatting by the wall, watching over grass mats laid out to dry, when he heard the commotion in the front hall. He set down what he was doing and went over, standing beside a corridor pillar outside the side hall to watch.

The children were called in one after another. They came out wearing all sorts of expressions: one was overjoyed, holding up a little hoe; another stood in a daze, clutching a model kitchen knife; and another had red-rimmed eyes as a parent pulled the child along, offering comfort again and again. Ning Buhui paid little attention to the ordinary Martial Souls. He was more interested in watching Qian Buyi's expression.

Qian Buyi's movements were practiced. The Awakening Stone, the Soul Power guidance, the Soul Power orb test-after twenty years on the job, he could have gone through the whole process with his eyes shut. Each child took no more than three minutes from start to finish. Once the test was done, he beckoned the next family forward, his face showing no emotion, his voice as flat as if it had been rolled across a millstone.

By the time the sixth child went in, dusk had fallen.

He was a small, thin boy with dark, ruddy skin and hands covered in cracks from the cold. As soon as he entered, he stared at the floor, afraid to look up. His father was an honest, simple farmer who stood at the door rubbing his hands, his rough knuckles covered in dry calluses. Qian Buyi activated the Awakening Stone as usual. A thick, dark blue light gradually gathered in the boy's palm, specks of light seeping from his fingertips and slowly condensing into something before him.

It was a soft, limp mass. When it landed on the stone floor, its translucent body bounced, its surface glistening wetly. Shapeless as a puddle of living jelly, it struggled to arch upward and barely managed to gather itself into a round, squat form. It had no limbs or facial features, only a small, slightly darker core at the center of its body that pulsed faintly.

"A Slime." Qian Buyi clicked his tongue. "And the most ordinary water type at that. All right, a trash Martial Soul. Next."

The boy froze. He looked down at the Slime on the floor, and it arched upward, as though responding to him. His father's face turned deathly pale. His lips trembled as he said, "Deacon, please look again. It... it can move..."

"Moving trash is still trash." Qian Buyi closed the register without even handing over the Soul Power orb. "This Martial Soul has no offensive or support abilities, and it's too soft to pick up and use as a tool. Awaken this thing at six, and your life is basically over."

The boy's father's shoulders visibly slumped. The boy's eyes turned red. He crouched and gathered the Slime into his arms, where it pressed softly against his chest like a damp ball.

"Next," Qian Buyi called.

Standing beside the corridor pillar, Ning Buhui fixed his gaze on the Slime, his pupils contracting slightly.

He did not move. But his mind was already racing.

A Slime. There really was such a thing in the Douluo Continent's Martial Soul compendium, and it was treated much like Blue Silver Grass-a textbook "Trash Martial Soul with no growth potential." But Ning Buhui had read hundreds upon hundreds of web novels in his previous life: Slimes, Slimes, and more Slimes. The weakest fodder beside a goblin nest, experience points outside a newbie village, little monsters no one ever took seriously. And yet-in certain settings, these things were absurdly powerful. Devouring, mimicry, splitting, immunity to blunt physical attacks, toxin absorption, adaptive evolution. How many books had protagonists who started as Slimes and devoured their way from a puddle of muck to a world-class calamity?

He even remembered one particularly outrageous old man saying that all things had cores: devour, then transform; transform, then give rise to life. This was called formlessness.

Ning Buhui let out a soft breath.

He had not wanted to get involved. Qian Buyi was sitting on his file, he was dependent on others for shelter, and he was still living in the servants' courtyard himself. The last thing he should do was draw attention to himself over something like this, with no clear beginning or end. But some habits were etched into his bones. In his previous life, he had followed his mentor on archaeological digs. Whenever he saw a fragment, he felt there was a story behind it. Even if it was only a piece of broken pottery, he would crouch down and turn it over, trying to piece it together all night.

To his mind, the Slime before him was a piece of broken pottery. But whether it had a story, he could not say for sure. The Martial Soul Theory accepted on the Douluo Continent included nothing about "devouring evolution." But if this child's Martial Soul really was just an ordinary water-type Slime, why had that upward arch when it was being insulted looked so much like it was protecting its master?

Ning Buhui took a step forward.

"Deacon Qian," he said. His voice was not loud, but the families at the entrance to the front hall all heard him. "Could you test this child's Soul Power?"

Qian Buyi turned toward him, his brows knotting. "Test what? It's a Trash Martial Soul. Testing it would only be a waste of the Soul Power orb."

"A Slime isn't a completely useless Martial Soul," Ning Buhui said. "It has no fixed form, which suggests its Innate Soul Power may have a more 'adaptive' distribution. If its Innate Soul Power isn't low, it's at least worth cultivating."

Qian Buyi narrowed his eyes. Beneath the thin layer of impatience on his face, a trace of deep wariness surfaced. He stared at Ning Buhui and lowered his voice. "You're a six-year-old brat. What makes you qualified to talk about Martial Soul Theory? How many Soul Masters have you seen in Bluestone Town?"

"Not many," Ning Buhui admitted. "But I've read a few things in books. Every Martial Soul has a core. A Slime's core is right there in the middle of its body. A Martial Soul that can form a core isn't completely useless, at least."

"Don't try to fool me with things from books." Qian Buyi stepped forward and looked down at him. "I've been conducting awakenings for twenty years. You think I need you to teach me?"

Ning Buhui did not retreat. He merely raised his eyes. "Then test him. If it really is a Trash Martial Soul, I'll take back what I said and move from the west courtyard to the firewood shed in the rear courtyard."

The corner of Qian Buyi's eye twitched. A low stir went through the onlookers at the front hall entrance, and a few whispers mentioned "six years old" and "servants' courtyard." Qian Buyi held his face tight for more than ten breaths. At last, he gave a cold laugh, picked up the Soul Power orb from the table, and thrust it toward the boy. "Test him. Go on, test him. I'd like to see what a puddle of jelly can produce."

The boy timidly reached out and pressed his hand to the orb.

The Soul Power orb lit up. Halos of light rippled outward from its center, not dazzling, but steady and sustained. Only when the boy moved his hand away did the light inside the orb slowly fade.

"Innate Soul Power... level five." The junior deacon in charge of records announced the number in a low voice.

Qian Buyi froze on the spot.

Level five Innate Soul Power was absurdly high for a Trash Martial Soul. It meant the child's Soul Power had enough potential for growth; with the right Soul Rings, he might well be able to carve out a path for himself. More importantly, that number had slapped Qian Buyi in the face for everything he had just said about a Trash Martial Soul being useless.

The boy's father dropped to his knees with a thud, crying and shouting as he tried to kowtow to Ning Buhui. Ning Buhui stepped back and turned aside. "There's no need to kneel to me. I only said he should be tested. The path he takes is up to him."

The boy stood up with the Slime in his arms, tears still on his face, and looked at him through his sobs. Ning Buhui met his eyes and paused for a moment. "Your Martial Soul is special, with a great deal of room to grow. If you need anything later, you can come find me at the Spirit Hall. We can discuss it."

The boy nodded hard, as though he had grasped something extraordinary.

Qian Buyi said nothing more. He put away the Soul Power orb, tucked the register under his arm, and turned to leave. He did not stop as he passed Ning Buhui, merely squeezing out a sentence through his teeth. "...Don't let me see you again."

Ning Buhui did not answer. He stood where he was, watching Qian Buyi's shadow stretch longer and longer in the light from the front hall until the man disappeared around the corridor's corner.

A stray cat beside the pillar jumped down from the wall, brushed past Ning Buhui's feet, and headed toward the west courtyard. He looked up at the sky. The moon had already risen above the corner of the eaves. The night wind swept in from the alley, bringing a slight chill to the hem of his clothes.

That evening, back in the west courtyard, he lay on his narrow bed and looked at the dusty crossbeams overhead by moonlight. Outside the window, he could faintly hear water dripping from the distant well platform, drop by drop in a distinct rhythm. He reached out and pressed the palm of his right hand. It was still warm.

The faces of good and evil in this world were more tangible than the novels had described. Walking among them in the body of a six-year-old, he could not be sure that others' kindness was genuine, or that their malice was aimed at him. He had to see the rules clearly, and faster.

Outside the window, a stray cat crossed the top of the wall, its shadow flickering across the window paper like a black fish.

Ning Buhui closed his eyes.

Tomorrow, he would have to get up even earlier.