Chapter 1: The Boy Who Wouldn't Kneel
The first thing Tang Wukong ever stole was a steamed bun.
He was six years old, barefoot, and hungry enough to consider the possibility that the old woman selling breakfast might actually be a demon in human skin.
She had chased him through half the village the previous morning with a wooden ladle. He had escaped by squeezing through a gap between two houses, losing a sandal, and laughing so hard he had nearly fallen into a drainage ditch.
Today, he intended to be more careful.
Wukong crouched behind a stack of firewood, watching the stall.
Three buns remained in the bamboo steamer. Steam curled through the gaps in its lid. The old woman had her back turned, arguing with a farmer over the price of bean curd.
Wukong rubbed his stomach.
"One," he whispered. "Just one. I am a very reasonable person."
A chicken wandered past and pecked at his toe.
"Not talking to you."
He darted out.
His fingers closed around a bun.
Then a hand seized the back of his shirt.
"Caught you, little rat."
Wukong froze.
The bun was warm in his palm. The old woman smelled of cooking oil, ginger, and the sort of righteous fury that could survive a winter without firewood.
Slowly, he turned his head.
"Good morning, Granny."
"Good morning?" She lifted him by his collar until his toes barely touched the ground. "You stole from me yesterday."
"I was borrowing yesterday."
"And today?"
"Returning the favour?"
The ladle struck the back of his head.
"Ow!"
"Thief!"
"Hungry thief," Wukong corrected, clutching the bun to his chest. "There's a difference."
The old woman stared at him.
For a moment, the village seemed to hold its breath. Then her mouth twitched, betraying the smallest crack in her anger.
"You little monster."
"That's what the other children say."
"They have excellent judgment."
She put him down, snatched the bun from his hand, and shoved it back into the steamer.
Wukong's stomach made a sound like a dying animal.
The old woman sighed.
"Sit."
He sat.
She placed a bun in front of him, then poured a cup of warm water. Wukong eyed both suspiciously.
"What's the catch?"
"The catch is that you wash my bowls after breakfast."
"How many?"
"All of them."
"That's exploitation."
"Then starve."
Wukong picked up the bun.
"Your business practices are terrible."
He took a bite.
For a few precious seconds, there was nothing in the world except warmth, flour, and the wonderful fact that he was still alive.
The old woman watched him eat. Her expression softened, though she quickly turned away when he noticed.
"Where's that orphanage brat supposed to be?" she muttered. "Shouldn't you be helping with the morning chores?"
"I finished my chores."
"You were supposed to carry water."
"I carried water."
"To where?"
Wukong swallowed. "The river."
"And then?"
"I gave it back."
The ladle rose again.
He grabbed his cup and ran.
Behind him, the old woman shouted something about his ears, his ancestors, and the likelihood that one day someone would finally tan his hide properly.
Wukong laughed all the way to the orphanage.
He did not know his ancestors.
He had never seen his parents. The orphanage keeper, an elderly man named Old Chen, had told him that a travelling healer found him wrapped in a faded blue blanket near the road leading into the village. No letter. No family token. No explanation.
Just a baby with a furious pair of lungs and a tiny hand wrapped around the healer's finger.
Old Chen had been very solemn when he told the story.
Wukong had asked whether the healer had checked the other side of the road.
Old Chen had struck him with a broom.
That was how most serious conversations ended at the orphanage.
The building stood at the edge of a small village in the Nuoding region, where muddy roads turned to dust in summer and to ankle-deep sludge when it rained. Its roof leaked over the eastern dormitory. The kitchen chimney smoked even when no fire burned beneath it. Six children shared a room that could comfortably fit four, and the oldest had learned to sleep with one eye open because Wukong had a habit of stealing blankets.
He was not the strongest child there.
He was not the tallest.
He was, however, the fastest to climb a tree, the hardest to catch, and the only child who had ever convinced a visiting tax collector that the orphanage was haunted.
Old Chen had not spoken to him for the rest of that day.
Wukong considered it one of his finer achievements.
When he reached the orphanage, the morning chores were already underway. Two boys carried buckets from the well. A girl swept the courtyard with a broom missing half its bristles. Old Chen stood beside the front steps, counting firewood with the grave concentration of a general preparing for war.
His eyes shifted to Wukong.
"You're late."
"I was conducting business."
"What business?"
"Food distribution."
Old Chen looked at the crumbs on his shirt.
"Did the food agree to this distribution?"
"Eventually."
Old Chen closed his eyes.
"Water. Wood. Then the storeroom. And if I hear that you've climbed onto another roof—"
"You'll be disappointed in me?"
"I'll tie you to the well."
"That's a terrible place to keep a person. Damp. Poor view. No food."
"Go."
Wukong went.
He carried water. He stacked wood. He swept the courtyard, though the broom was so worn that it mostly pushed the dust from one corner to another. When Old Chen sent him to the storeroom, he found a cracked jar of dried beans and ate a handful before anyone could catch him.
By noon, he had been scolded four times, chased twice, and threatened with a haircut.
It was an ordinary day.
Then the Spirit Master arrived.
He arrived on a grey horse, wearing a white robe embroidered with silver clouds. A pair of polished boots rested in metal stirrups, and a narrow sword hung at his waist. He looked perhaps twenty-five, though Wukong had never been good at guessing adult ages. Most grown-ups looked ancient when they were angry and surprisingly young when they were being given free food.
Old Chen hurried down the steps.
"Honoured Spirit Master!"
The man dismounted. "I received your request. The children are ready?"
"As ready as they can be."
"Good. The awakening ceremony must be completed before I travel to the next village."
Wukong, who had been carrying a bucket, stopped walking.
Awakening.
He had heard the word before. Every year, Spirit Masters travelled through villages to awaken the martial souls of children who had reached six years of age. Some children received hoes, hammers, or ordinary plants. Others awakened weapons or animals. Very rarely, a child possessed the talent to become a Spirit Master.
Wukong had spent the previous month asking everyone what he might awaken.
Old Chen predicted a broom.
The old woman at the breakfast stall suggested a cooking pot.
One of the older boys insisted Wukong would awaken a rat because he stole food.
Wukong had promised to bite him if that happened.
Now the Spirit Master was here.
Wukong put down the bucket.
"Will we get to fight something?"
The Spirit Master glanced at him.
"Not today."
"Tomorrow?"
"No."
"Next week?"
Old Chen grabbed Wukong by the shoulder and dragged him backward.
"Forgive him, honoured sir. His head is full of empty space."
"Empty space is useful," Wukong protested. "You can put things in it."
The Spirit Master stared at him for a moment, then gave a short, reluctant laugh.
"Bring the children to the main room."
Within half an hour, six children stood in a line before a set of black stones arranged in a circle. The Spirit Master introduced himself as Su Yiming, a Spirit Grandmaster with twenty-nine ranks of Spirit Power. He explained the ceremony in a clipped voice, warning them not to move once the stones began glowing.
One by one, the children stepped into the circle.
A wooden spoon.
A brown rabbit.
A sickle.
A small patch of grass.
A stone.
Each child received a martial soul, but none displayed any Spirit Power worth mentioning. The rabbit made one girl cry because she thought it would eat her vegetables. The boy with the sickle immediately asked whether he could use it to cut firewood.
Then only Wukong remained.
He stepped into the circle and looked down at the black stones.
"Stand still," Su Yiming instructed.
"I am standing."
"Stop moving your feet."
Wukong planted them firmly.
"Stop smiling."
"That's a difficult request."
"Boy."
"Fine."
Su Yiming exhaled slowly and raised his hands. Golden light spread between the stones. It climbed Wukong's legs, passed over his chest, and wrapped around his head.
The room vanished.
For one breath, Wukong felt as though he were falling through an endless sky.
Then something laughed.
Not outside him.
A bright, impossible laugh rang through the darkness. A figure appeared in the distance, wearing a straw hat and a red vest. Black hair framed a broad grin. The figure stretched one arm toward Wukong, and the arm lengthened across the darkness as easily as a rope thrown across a river.
Wukong reached for it.
The instant their hands touched, the world snapped back into place.
A strange mark of light flared above his palm.
It resembled no weapon, no animal, and no plant. It was the image of a grinning young man in a straw hat, one foot planted forward, one fist raised toward the sky.
The light condensed.
Wukong stared.
His right arm had changed.
Not completely. His skin remained the same, his fingers looked ordinary, and yet his forearm seemed to carry a peculiar elasticity. When he stretched his fingers, his arm lengthened several inches before snapping back into place.
He blinked.
Then he stretched it again.
His hand shot forward and smacked into the wall.
The sound echoed through the room.
Everyone stared.
Wukong stared at his own arm.
A grin spread across his face.
"That's amazing."
Su Yiming did not answer. He was looking at the martial soul with an expression Wukong couldn't read.
"Hold out your other hand," the Spirit Master said.
A crystal ball appeared in his palm.
"This tests your innate Spirit Power. Place your hand on it and don't move."
Wukong obeyed.
The crystal lit up.
Not a gentle glow.
Light erupted from its centre, flooding the room with brilliant gold. The stones beneath Wukong's feet trembled. One of the children stumbled backward, and Old Chen caught her before she fell.
Su Yiming's expression changed.
He turned the crystal slightly, as though the angle might explain what he was seeing.
It didn't.
The entire crystal shone with dazzling brilliance.
"Full innate Spirit Power," he whispered.
Old Chen frowned. "What does that mean?"
"Level ten. The highest innate Spirit Power measurable through this test."
For once, Wukong had nothing to say.
Su Yiming crouched in front of him.
"Listen carefully. A martial soul like yours is unusual. Your innate Spirit Power is extraordinary. If you obtain a suitable Spirit Ring, you can become a Spirit Master immediately."
"How strong will I be?"
"That depends on how you train."
"Can I become the strongest?"
"You can become strong."
"That's not what I asked."
The Spirit Master held his gaze.
"No one can promise you that."
Wukong considered this answer. He didn't like it, but he liked the man's honesty.
"Then I'll find out myself."
Su Yiming slowly stood.
"Your martial soul has no recorded classification that I recognize. I'll need to document its appearance and abilities. For now, we can record it as a special humanoid martial soul."
"Can we call it something better?"
"What would you suggest?"
Wukong looked at the glowing figure hovering above his palm. The straw hat. The grin. The arm that stretched without limit.
"Monkey D. Luffy."
"No."
"Then where did you hear that name?"
Wukong paused.
He had no answer.
The name had simply been there, as natural to him as breathing. Somewhere in the strange darkness, he had known it belonged to the figure who had reached for him.
He scratched his cheek.
"I like the sound of it."
Su Yiming looked as though he had developed a headache.
"Fine. Monkey D. Luffy Martial Soul. I will record the name as provided by the awakened child."
Wukong beamed.
Old Chen looked at the ceiling.
"Of all the children in this village," he muttered, "why did I have to raise this one?"
Because, far beyond the little orphanage, the world was already changing.
A child who should have been lost had awakened a power that belonged to no known spirit lineage. A fragment of another world's legend had appeared in the Douluo Continent, carrying the promise of a body that could bend, stretch, and defy the rules that governed ordinary flesh.
And deep inside that power lay something even stranger, something that had not yet awakened.
A will that would one day make kings tremble.
A will that would challenge gods.
But for now, Tang Wukong was six years old, hungry again, and staring at Su Yiming's crystal with the burning curiosity of a boy who had just discovered that the world was much larger than the village walls.
"Honoured Spirit Master?"
Su Yiming turned toward him warily.
"What now?"
"Since I'm level ten already, does that mean I get lunch?"
Silence.
Then Old Chen struck him with the broom.
Wukong fled the room laughing, his newly awakened arm stretching around the doorframe to steal the last steamed bun from the kitchen.
For the first time in his life, the world seemed full of possibilities.
And he intended to grab every last one of them.