Brain Storage →_→
Don't use your brain when reading novels (˙▽˙)
——Dividing Line——
Fasno Province.
Nottingham City.
In a small village outside the city, the rising morning mist coiled like a pair of skillful hands weaving brocade, blending vibrant hues into a dreamlike tapestry.
Panyan Village, nestled against the slopes of Qianyan Mountain, had sustained itself for generations through farming.
Dawn had barely broken, yet smoke already curled from the chimneys of every household. The wispy tendrils intertwined with the uneven rooftops, painting a scene so serene it could have been lifted from an artist's canvas.
"The floating clouds cannot rival this mountain's majesty, and the mist is so vast it bewilders the senses."
Wu Tong stood atop the mountain, gazing at the breathtaking vista, and couldn't help but sigh.
The circumstances of his arrival in this world still left him dazed.
Once an ordinary otaku from Yanhuang Country on Earth, Wu Tong had met an untimely end when a truck struck him during a routine trip for daily necessities.
And then—he woke up here.
A world he'd only ever read about in his past life: Douluo Continent.
But… Truck Emperor, did you forget something?
Where was the golden finger—the essential cheat every transmigrator was supposed to receive?
Wu Tong seethed with indignation. Other travelers, blessed by the Truck-kun's divine (or reckless) intervention, always received overpowered gifts: systems, supernatural abilities, innate talents, or game-breaking skills—tools to carve their path to supremacy.
Yet Wu Tong?
Forgotten.
Apart from a healthy body, he had nothing. No advantages, no destiny-defying boons. Just… himself.
"Sigh. I guess I'll have to rely on my own wits. Even if my martial soul turns out to be trash, maybe a transmigrator's creativity can still take me to the top."
Grumbling under his breath, Wu Tong resorted to his usual self-pep-talk.
"Brother Tong! Why are you still up here? Hurry—Grandpa Karl sent me to fetch you! The martial soul awakening ceremony is about to start!"
A chubby boy scrambled up the slope, panting as he waved at Wu Tong.
"Alright, I'm coming." Wu Tong replied.
Since arriving in this world, Wu Tong had leveraged stories from his past life to befriend the village children, quickly cementing himself as Panyan Village's unofficial "child king"—complete with a loyal retinue of little followers.
Dusting off his pants, Wu Tong stood and joined the boy. Together, they descended the mountain.
"Brother Tong, can you tell us more about Lin Daiyu punching Zhen Guanxi? Or the tale of Tang Monk capturing Sun Wukong seven times?"
The little fatty—Da Zhuang—pleaded as they walked.
"Later, Little Fatty. Today's all about the awakening. Nobody's going to be in the mood for stories after this."
As someone who'd read the original Douluo Dalu, Wu Tong knew the brutal truth of this world's hierarchy. The Douluo cultivation system didn't just favor the strong—it enshrined bloodline, lineage, and class into an unbreakable chain of supremacy.
Even after millennia, this continent remained shackled by feudal rule, where power wasn't just privilege—it was law.
The jungle's rule: the strong feast, the weak kneel.
The martial soul awakening was a rare chance to defy fate. But for commoners? The odds of awakening a potent soul and innate spirit power were slimmer than a salted fish sprouting wings.
Wu Tong understood.
So did Da Zhuang.
As a native of Douluo, the boy grasped the ceremony's weight better than Wu Tong ever could. He'd seen the crushed hopes of children who awakened nothing.
Still…
"Brother Tong! My name is Da Zhuang, not 'Little Fatty'!" The boy huffed, correcting Wu Tong for the hundredth time.
But it was futile. Wu Tong's apologies were as empty as a beggar's purse—freely given, never meant.
"Got it, Little Fatty. I'll remember next time, Little Fatty."
Wu Tong's grin was unrepentant.
Da Zhuang shot him a withering look but gave up. Some battles weren't worth fighting.
Side by side, they trudged back toward the village.