The headache was a relentless drumbeat against my head, a rhythm that had been my constant companion for the last three years. But today, it was different.
Today, the drum wasn't just pounding; it was breaking. The metallic tang of cheap instant noodles, the hum of a computer, the insistent ring of a customer service line, the triumphant, yet melancholic, thud of credits rolling after Spider-Man: Far From Home.
And then, nothing. Or, rather, this.
This wasn't my cramped apartment, wasn't the relentless, soul-crushing routine of a call center agent, wasn't the endless scroll of Reddit threads and anime episodes. This was… grass. Real, actual, slightly itchy grass. And a sky so impossibly blue it felt Photoshopped. This was a wooden shack I called home, and parents who, despite their warmth, had always felt subtly alien.
"Douluo Dalu," I whispered, the words tasting foreign yet utterly familiar on my tongue. The name itself was a key, unlocking a cascade of memories, a torrent of information I hadn't realized I possessed. Whale Glue. Deathgod. Soul Contract. Soul Tool. The names, the concepts, the entire intricate cosmology of Tang Jia San Shao's epic saga slammed into my conscious mind. It was all real. And I was in it.
Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the lingering headache. I was here. Not just reading about it, not watching an adaptation, but living it. My past life, the one where I diligently (and miserably) served as a call center drone, watched every Marvel movie release, devoured anime, manga, and manhua until my eyes blurred, and read light novels until dawn – that life was over. I had died. And somehow, impossibly, I was reborn.
It took a while to truly process the sheer, mind-bending absurdity of it all. Three years of innocent, childish existence, playing in the dirt, learning to speak a new language, seeing everything with fresh eyes. And now, the overlay. The world around me, which I'd accepted as my simple, rural reality, was now illuminated by the harsh, fantastical glow of Douluo Dalu.
My new home was in what I now recognized as Holy Spirit Village, a small, unassuming hamlet. And Holy Spirit Village, if my resurrected memories served me correctly, was the Holy Spirit Village. The one where Tang San, the future Sea God and Asura God, would be born. The one where his journey would begin. The one near Notting City, where he'd meet Grandmaster Yu Xiaogang and Xiao Wu. I was the same age as him. This was critical.
The initial shock gradually gave way to a burgeoning sense of opportunity, followed swiftly by a deep-seated fear. Opportunity, because I knew the future, or at least the broad strokes of it, for the first two installments. Fear, because knowing the future didn't guarantee survival, especially in a world where children could die from random soul beast attacks or the whims of powerful Spirit Masters.
I couldn't go back to the old life. The thought of it, the mundane drudgery, the endless pursuit of money just to scrape by, the feeling of waiting for death – it was sickening. This time, it would be different. I would seize this chance. I would not be a mere spectator.
My first task was to internalize my surroundings with this new, terrifying perspective. The faces of the villagers, once just generic background characters, now held the potential for interaction, alliance, or even danger. The mayor, the blacksmith, the wandering peddlers – each could be a stepping stone or a stumbling block. I needed to observe, to learn their habits, their connections, their weaknesses, and their strengths.
But more importantly, I needed to understand my own circumstances. My parents. They were simple farmers, kind and loving. But now, with the memory of Douluo Dalu coursing through me, a new, nagging question began to form. My name was Sun Junwoo. A common enough name, perhaps. But then, an odd memory fragment surfaced. My last name. It was Ning. Ning. As in, the Seven Treasure Glazed Tile Pagoda, one of the three Upper Sects? That couldn't be a coincidence.
Could my humble, farming parents be connected to such a powerful sect? Was this a forbidden love story, an elopement? The idea was both thrilling and terrifying. If it were true, it opened up a whole new realm of possibilities, but also dangers. The politics of the great sects were cutthroat.
Hesitantly, as my parents sat by the hearth, preparing our simple dinner of stewed vegetables and coarse bread, I decided to test the waters. "Mama, Papa," I began, trying to sound as innocent and childlike as possible, "why is our last name Ning?"
My mother, a gentle woman with kind eyes, paused, her movements stiffening almost imperceptibly. My father, a sturdy man with calloused hands, cleared his throat, avoiding my gaze. The air in the small shack seemed to thicken, charged with unspoken history.
"It's… a family name, little Junwoo," my father said finally, his voice a little gruffer than usual. "An old family name."
"Is it a famous name?" I pushed, feigning curiosity. "Like… are we related to the Seven Treasure Glazed Tile Pagoda?"
My mother dropped the spoon she was holding, and it clattered loudly against the stone hearth. My father's head snapped up, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and something I couldn't quite decipher – fear? Regret?
"Where… where did you hear such a thing, Junwoo?" my mother asked, her voice trembling slightly.
I knew then. My hunch was right. They were connected. And now, the pieces of my future plans, both small and grand, began to click into place. But first, I needed more information. Much, much more. And a safe place to write it all down.
Later that night, feigning sleep, I began to mentally organize everything I could recall. A mental blueprint of future wealth, influence, and perhaps even a chance at a different destiny. I envisioned two distinct paths: one leveraging information from Douluo Dalu 1, another from Douluo Dalu 2, cautiously noting that 3 and 4 were mostly just vague concepts in my memory. The goal was simple: get rich. Build a foundation. And this time, perhaps, make a real difference, not just survive.