Chapter 2: A Fist That Reached Too Far
The steamed bun hit the wall before Tang Wukong could eat it.
He stared at the flattened lump of dough sliding down the plaster.
Then he looked at his right arm.
Then at the bun again.
"That," he announced to the empty kitchen, "was completely unnecessary."
His arm had stretched nearly three metres.
He had been aiming for the bamboo basket on the counter. The basket had contained three buns when he left for the awakening ceremony. By the time he returned, there had been two. Wukong had considered this a personal insult and decided to retrieve the remaining bun without wasting the effort of climbing onto a chair.
It had seemed perfectly reasonable.
He had pointed at the basket.
He had imagined his hand reaching out.
His arm had shot forward with a wet, rubbery thwip, struck the basket, bounced off the counter, and launched the bun across the kitchen.
Now the bun lay beside a crack in the wall that had definitely not been there yesterday.
Footsteps approached.
Wukong snatched the bun from the floor.
Old Chen entered carrying a stack of bowls. He looked at the wall. Then the bun. Then Wukong's unusually extended arm, which was slowly retracting toward its owner.
Neither spoke.
Outside, a chicken clucked.
Old Chen set down the bowls with great care.
"Explain."
Wukong raised the bun.
"I was hungry."
"The wall."
"It's a bad wall."
"Your arm."
"It's a good arm."
Old Chen picked up the broom.
Wukong ran.
He made it through the back door before the broom struck the frame hard enough to knock dust from the rafters.
"YOU WILL PAY FOR THAT WALL!"
"Put it on my account!"
"YOU DON'T HAVE AN ACCOUNT!"
"Then you can't collect!"
He disappeared around the corner of the building, laughing so hard that he nearly collided with a bucket.
It took him the rest of the morning to discover three things.
First, his body really could stretch.
Second, he had absolutely no idea how to control it.
Third, Old Chen's broom had a range that seemed to exceed every reasonable law of nature.
By lunchtime, Wukong had accidentally wrapped his arm around a tree, knocked over a laundry pole, and pulled a wooden stool out from beneath a girl who had been sitting on it. The girl landed on the ground, screamed, and chased him across the courtyard with a cooking ladle.
The stool had been an accident.
The laundry pole had been an accident.
The tree had looked at him funny.
At least, that was his defence.
Nobody accepted it.
Su Yiming returned shortly before noon.
Wukong was sitting on the roof.
He had climbed up using his hands and feet, then discovered that stretching his arms made the climb considerably easier. Unfortunately, his sense of distance had not improved. He had overshot the roof edge, swung through the air, and caught the chimney with his left hand.
The chimney had cracked.
He was now sitting beside it, carefully keeping his elbows away from the bricks.
Su Yiming stood in the courtyard below, looking up.
"Come down."
"I'm busy."
"Doing what?"
"Inspecting the roof."
"Is the roof in danger?"
Wukong glanced at the cracked chimney.
"No."
A loose brick rolled off and struck the ground between them.
Su Yiming looked at it.
Wukong looked at it.
"Minor danger," Wukong admitted.
The Spirit Master rubbed his forehead.
"Come down before you destroy the entire building."
Wukong leaned forward and reached for a tree branch. His arm stretched across the gap, wrapped around the branch, and pulled him off the roof.
For half a second, everything went beautifully.
Then the branch bent.
Wukong swung past the tree, missed the courtyard, and flew directly into a pile of firewood.
The impact scattered logs in every direction.
One rolled beneath Su Yiming's horse.
The horse startled.
Su Yiming grabbed the reins before it could bolt.
Wukong lifted his head from the woodpile. A twig stuck out of his hair.
"Good news," he said.
Su Yiming's voice was dangerously quiet.
"What?"
"I can fly."
"You cannot fly."
"I was in the air."
"Because you threw yourself off a roof!"
"Details."
Su Yiming marched toward him.
Wukong scrambled upright and brushed sawdust from his shirt. He had learned that adults became especially unpleasant when forced to run after him. It was best to keep them moving slowly, preferably while they were still deciding what punishment to invent.
The Spirit Master stopped an arm's length away.
"Show me your martial soul."
Wukong held out his hand.
The familiar image of the straw-hatted figure appeared above his palm, faint and shimmering. Its outline resembled a young man preparing to throw a punch, one foot forward, shoulders relaxed. There was nothing particularly frightening about it.
That was what made it interesting.
Most martial souls possessed a clear form. A weapon could be held. An animal could be summoned. A plant could be examined.
This one looked like a person.
Yet Wukong's body changed when he called upon it.
Su Yiming circled him.
"Does your skin become rubber when you activate the martial soul?"
"I don't know. It feels normal."
"Stretch your finger."
Wukong pulled his index finger.
It lengthened.
Su Yiming caught the finger between two fingers and pulled it gently, testing its resistance. Wukong's hand extended another few centimetres.
"Does it hurt?"
"No."
"Release it."
Wukong let go.
His finger snapped back into place.
Su Yiming stared at it.
"Again."
They repeated the experiment with his arm, wrist, shoulder, and even one ear.
The ear stretched nearly a hand's length.
Su Yiming released it at once.
Wukong burst out laughing.
"You should have seen your face!"
"I am attempting to understand your abilities."
"You were attempting to pull my ear off."
"I was not."
"You looked disappointed when it didn't come off."
Su Yiming ignored him.
He made Wukong stretch each limb, retract it, and repeat the process until the boy grew bored. The Spirit Master then took a wooden practice sword from the storeroom and asked Wukong to block a slow strike.
Wukong raised his forearm.
The sword hit his skin.
Thwack.
The impact barely moved him.
He blinked.
Su Yiming struck again, slightly harder.
Thwack.
Wukong's arm bent around the wooden blade.
The sword slid past his elbow without breaking the skin.
"Interesting," Su Yiming murmured.
He struck a third time.
Wukong's arm stretched backward under the pressure, then sprang forward. His fist connected with the Spirit Master's stomach.
It was not a powerful blow.
It was, however, a completely unexpected one.
Su Yiming stumbled back half a step.
Wukong froze.
The Spirit Master slowly looked down at the fist resting against his robe.
Wukong withdrew it.
"I didn't mean to do that."
Su Yiming straightened his clothes.
"No. You probably didn't."
"Are you angry?"
"Very."
"Can I ask you something?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"Because if you're going to hit me, you should know that your sword doesn't really work on me."
Su Yiming raised the wooden sword.
Wukong ran.
They spent the next two hours testing what his martial soul could and could not do.
Wukong discovered that his body could stretch much farther when he concentrated. If he lost focus, his limbs snapped back suddenly, often sending him stumbling or crashing into whatever stood behind him.
His body also seemed unusually resistant to blunt impacts. A wooden stick hurt less than it should have. A thrown pebble bounced off his forehead. When Su Yiming tapped his arm with the flat of the practice sword, the blow spread across his skin instead of concentrating in one painful spot.
But the protection had limits.
When Wukong tried to ram his shoulder into a wooden post, he felt the impact deep in his bones. His body stretched and recoiled, but the post did not care about his newfound talent. It remained exactly where it was.
Wukong sat in the dirt, rubbing his shoulder.
"That's unfair."
"The post is not required to cooperate with you," Su Yiming said.
"It should have moved."
"Why?"
"Because I hit it."
"That is not how strength works."
Wukong frowned at the post.
He had a feeling they would become enemies.
The Spirit Master crouched in front of him.
"Your martial soul gives you unusual physical properties, but it doesn't make you invincible. Do you understand?"
"Mostly."
"You can still be injured. You can still be exhausted. And if you throw yourself at someone stronger than you without thinking, you will lose."
Wukong considered this.
"What if I think while throwing myself at them?"
"Then you might lose more intelligently."
Wukong laughed.
Su Yiming did not.
That made the joke even better.
When the testing ended, the Spirit Master sat beneath the courtyard's only shade tree and opened a small notebook. He had been writing down observations since morning.
Wukong leaned over his shoulder.
"What are you writing?"
"Your abilities."
"Write that I am handsome."
"I won't."
"Write that I'm very handsome."
"No."
"Write that I am the most handsome child in the village."
Su Yiming shut the notebook.
"I am beginning to understand why Old Chen looks tired."
Wukong grinned.
But when the Spirit Master reopened the notebook, his expression had changed. He was no longer looking at Wukong as though he were a troublesome child with a strange trick.
He was looking at him as though the boy might become something extraordinary.
That was a dangerous way for an adult to look at a child.
Wukong did not know it yet.
He would learn.
By late afternoon, word had spread throughout the village.
The orphanage boy had awakened a strange martial soul.
His arm could stretch.
He had innate Spirit Power at level ten.
The Spirit Master had said he was a prodigy.
The rumours grew with every retelling. By sunset, one merchant claimed Wukong could stretch across the entire village. A farmer swore he had seen the boy punch a tree from fifty paces away. Someone else insisted the martial soul was a rare spirit beast that had disguised itself as a human.
Wukong enjoyed every version.
He stood on a low stone wall while three children stared up at him.
"Stretch your arm!" one demanded.
"Pay me."
"We don't have money."
"Then pay me in food."
The children exchanged glances.
One produced a dried plum.
Wukong inspected it.
"Two."
"It's one plum!"
"Then you get one arm."
He extended his right hand.
The children shrieked with delight when his arm shot past them and curled around a nearby tree. He pulled gently, swinging himself sideways before landing in a crouch.
"Again!" they shouted.
Wukong performed a second trick, stretching his leg over a wooden fence and tapping a bucket with his toe.
The bucket fell.
Water spilled everywhere.
The children laughed.
Wukong laughed louder.
Then the bucket's owner appeared.
The children scattered like startled birds.
Wukong stayed.
He had always hated running away when he had done something wrong. Not because he possessed any particular sense of justice, but because running meant someone else decided when the game ended.
He could accept a beating.
He could accept being scolded.
What he disliked was someone else deciding where he was allowed to stand.
The bucket's owner, a broad-shouldered farmer, seized him by the collar.
"Little bastard! Do you know how much water you've wasted?"
"Not much. It's still on the ground."
The farmer's face reddened.
Wukong felt a familiar tightening in his stomach. He had made a mistake, and the man was angry. That much was fair.
But the farmer's grip tightened until the collar pressed against Wukong's throat.
"Perhaps I should teach you some manners."
Wukong grabbed the man's wrist.
"Let go."
The farmer laughed.
"Or what?"
Wukong pulled.
His arm stretched, but the farmer's grip held. The boy's shoulder began to ache.
For the first time that day, Wukong stopped smiling.
"Let. Go."
The farmer lifted his free hand.
A voice cut across the courtyard.
"That is enough."
Su Yiming stood at the gate.
The farmer's raised hand lowered slightly.
"Honoured Spirit Master, this boy—"
"Is a child."
"He damaged my bucket."
"Then ask the orphanage keeper to pay for it. Do not threaten him."
The farmer hesitated, then released Wukong with an irritated shove.
Wukong stumbled backward.
Su Yiming waited until the farmer had left before looking down at him.
"You could have been hurt."
"I was handling it."
"No. You were losing."
Wukong's jaw tightened.
"I could have hit him."
"And then?"
Wukong had no answer.
The Spirit Master knelt until their eyes were level.
"Your power is unusual, but it is not a solution to every problem. You must learn when to use it, when to hold back, and when to walk away."
Wukong glanced toward the road.
"Walking away sounds a lot like losing."
"Sometimes it is. Sometimes it means you have chosen not to waste your strength on a fight that gives you nothing."
Wukong picked up a pebble and rolled it between his fingers.
He understood the words.
He didn't like them.
That was different.
After supper, Su Yiming prepared to leave.
Old Chen stood beside the horse, speaking quietly with him. Wukong pretended to be busy sweeping the same patch of courtyard for the third time.
He listened.
"The boy's talent is remarkable," Su Yiming said. "Innate Spirit Power at level ten. A martial soul with unusual physical properties. If he obtains the right Spirit Ring, he could progress quickly."
Old Chen's shoulders sagged.
"Then what happens to him?"
"That depends on what he wants. He could attend a Spirit Master academy. With proper guidance, he may eventually become a formidable Spirit Master."
"And if he doesn't want to?"
Su Yiming paused.
"Then no one can force him to become great."
Wukong stopped sweeping.
The Spirit Master continued.
"But a talent like his should not be neglected. He needs a suitable first Spirit Ring. I can help him find one, though he will need to travel beyond this village."
"How soon?"
"Soon. Before he begins experimenting with his abilities alone and destroys the orphanage."
"I heard that," Wukong called.
"Good," Su Yiming replied.
Old Chen looked toward the boy.
"You want to leave?"
Wukong stared at the broom in his hands.
He had spent six years in the orphanage. He knew which roof tile rattled in the wind, which kitchen shelf concealed the good dried fruit, and which floorboard outside Old Chen's room creaked loudly enough to wake the entire building.
He knew the village paths, the stream beyond the southern fields, and the crooked tree where the older children hid their marbles.
It was not a wonderful life.
But it was his.
Beyond the village lay forests full of spirit beasts, cities full of strangers, and a world where people might try to tell him what to do.
The thought frightened him.
He hated that it frightened him.
"Will I have to obey everyone?" he asked.
Old Chen looked at him for a long moment.
"No."
"Will I have to kneel to powerful people?"
"If you decide to."
"That's stupid."
"Then don't."
Wukong looked up.
Old Chen's face remained stern, but his hands had tightened around the walking stick he carried.
"You will need food," the old man continued. "You will need a place to sleep. You will need to learn things you don't know. There will be people stronger than you, and some will be cruel. Being stubborn won't protect you from everything."
"I know."
"No, you don't."
Wukong looked away.
Old Chen sighed.
"But you will learn."
The words settled between them.
Wukong wanted to ask why Old Chen sounded so sad. He wanted to ask whether the old man would miss him. He wanted to ask if the village would look smaller when he returned.
Instead, he said, "If I leave, can I take the cooking pot?"
"No."
"The blanket?"
"Yes."
"The good knife?"
"No."
"The dried meat?"
Old Chen narrowed his eyes.
Wukong smiled.
"Just checking."
Su Yiming mounted his horse.
"I will return in three days. If Wukong agrees to travel, we will head to the nearest Spirit Beast Forest and seek a suitable first Spirit Ring."
Wukong's smile faded.
A Spirit Ring.
He had heard the explanation. A spirit beast had to be defeated, and its power could be absorbed by a Spirit Master to gain new abilities. The process was dangerous. A poorly chosen ring could injure or even kill the person attempting to absorb it.
He was six years old.
The forest was full of creatures capable of tearing him apart.
He was going anyway.
Not because he wanted to become a hero. Not because he wanted to impress the village. Not even because he wanted to become the strongest Spirit Master alive.
He wanted to see what waited beyond the road.
He wanted to know why his arm stretched, why the name Monkey D. Luffy had appeared in his mind, and why the strange power inside him felt less like a weapon and more like a door.
Most of all, he wanted to decide what kind of person he would become before the world decided for him.
Wukong set the broom against the wall.
"I'll go."
Old Chen's expression did not change.
"Then pack your blanket."
"Can I take the knife?"
"No."
"The pot?"
"No."
"The dried meat?"
"Wukong."
"Fine. But when I become famous, I am telling everyone you starved me."
Old Chen turned away before the boy could see his smile.
"Become famous first."
That night, Wukong lay awake beneath a thin blanket.
The other children slept around him. Someone snored. Someone else muttered in a dream. Moonlight slipped through a crack in the shutters, laying a pale stripe across the floor.
Wukong held his right hand above his face.
"Monkey D. Luffy," he whispered.
The martial soul did not appear.
He concentrated harder.
Nothing.
He tried stretching his finger.
It extended an inch, then snapped back.
He tried again.
A little farther.
Again.
He began to understand that the ability was not simply a trick he could perform whenever he wanted. His body responded to intention, but intention alone was clumsy. He needed to learn its limits.
Tomorrow, he would practise.
The next day, he would practise more.
One day, he would stretch his arm across a river. One day, he would punch something that had never been punched before. One day, he would stand in front of someone who believed they could command him and show them how badly they had misunderstood the world.
He smiled into the darkness.
Then he remembered the farmer's hand closing around his collar.
His smile vanished.
Power alone had not made the man let go.
Su Yiming had.
Wukong rolled onto his side, irritated by the thought.
He did not want to depend on someone else to rescue him.
He wanted to be strong enough that no one could hold him in place.
Outside, wind moved through the trees.
Far beyond the orphanage, deep in the forests that bordered the village, something roared.
The sound rolled across the hills and faded into the night.
Wukong opened his eyes.
His heart beat faster.
Fear crawled up his spine, cold and unwelcome.
He pulled the blanket to his chin, stared at the dark window, and listened until the forest fell silent.
Then he grinned.
"Three days," he whispered.
For the first time in his life, he had somewhere to go.
And the world had no idea what was coming.