The sterile, white-tiled corridors of the Tiandou City Hospital were suddenly pierced by a cry so robust it seemed to vibrate the very glass of the nursery partitions. It wasn't the rhythmic wail of a distressed infant, but a sharp, demanding roar—a declaration of arrival that brought a weary smile to the medical staff.
"He's a strong one, Mrs. Tang Wan!" the head nurse exclaimed, expertly swaddling the infant in a soft, soul-conductive silk wrap. "Listen to those lungs. Your son is perfectly healthy, with a vitality rating well above the norm."
Tang Wan leaned back against the propped-up pillows, her long dark hair matted with sweat, but her eyes shone with an incomparable light as the nurse placed the bundle into her arms. She looked down at the tiny, red-faced boy who was only now settling into a soft, curious grumble.
The door slid open with a quiet hiss of hydraulics, and Feng Lin rushed in. He looked as though he had run a marathon, his chest heaving, his eyes searching until they landed on the bed. He moved to the bedside with practiced grace, his large hands trembling slightly as Tang Wan gently shifted the baby toward him.
"He's incredible, Wan-er," Feng Lin whispered, his voice thick with emotion. He reached out, his finger tracing the tiny, perfect curve of the baby's jaw. "He looks just like you."
"He has your stubborn chin, Lin-ge," she teased softly, her voice tired but warm. She looked at her husband, then back at the child. "What should we call him?"
Feng Lin took the boy into his arms, marvelling at the weight of him. "I want his name to carry weight, but also grace. Feng Song. A melody that remains steady even in a storm."
---
Three Years Later
The morning sun hit the glass facade of the Feng family home, a modest but elegant detached one-story house nestled in a quiet district of Tiandou City. Outside, a small garden was meticulously kept, filled with blue silver grass and a few vibrant spirit-attracting peonies.
"Song-er, are you ready? The maglev leaves in twenty minutes!" Tang Wan called out from the living room, adjusting the collar of her light-blue blouse.
A small blur of motion erupted from the hallway. Three-year-old Feng Song scurried out, wearing a miniature tracksuit, his eyes wide with anticipation. "Ready, Mama! We're going to see the big fighters?"
"That's right," Feng Lin said, stepping out of the kitchen while checking his soul-guide communicator. "The Soul Master Tournament, Regional Qualifiers. Specifically, the Battle Armor Division. I managed to snag three tickets for the front-tier stands."
The journey to the central stadium was a blur of high-rise soul-guidance buildings and bustling streets. When they arrived, the atmosphere was electric. Thousands of fans donned the colors of their favorite sects, but for Feng Song, the true magic began when they took their seats.
The announcer's voice boomed: "Representing the Heaven-Reach Academy, Soul Emperor Zhao Yan! And his opponent, the rogue master, Crimson Ghost, Huo Lie!"
In the center of the arena, two men stood fifty meters apart. Feng Song gripped the railing, his knuckles white.
Suddenly, Zhao Yan moved. With a rhythmic clack-hiss, shimmering plates of Essence Gold Alloy emerged from his very skin, snapping into place with magnetic precision. Within seconds, a sleek, golden Two-Word Battle Armor encased him.
Opposite him, Huo Lie roared. Deep, metallic red armor—forged from Crimson Red Iron—erupted from his body in a flash of heat, looking like cooled magma brought to life.
"Look, Dad! The armor is coming out of them!" Feng Song gasped.
"That's the soul-fusion property of Two-Word armor, Song-er," Feng Lin explained, his voice low and serious. "The metal has been spirit-refined to live within their blood and soul."
The fight was a symphony of destruction. Zhao Yan summoned his martial soul—a translucent, humming blade called the Astral Aegis Sword. With every swing, the Essence Gold armor glowed, projecting barriers of solid light.
Huo Lie countered with his own martial soul, the Molten Earth Bear, his Crimson Red armor venting steam as he slammed his fists into the ground, creating pillars of fire.
The climax came when Zhao Yan accelerated to a blur, his sword trailing golden stardust. He bypassed a wall of flame and tapped the hilt of his blade against Huo Lie's chest plate. A resonant gong echoed through the stadium, and the crimson armor flickered, losing its luster. Huo Lie lowered his head, acknowledging the defeat.
The crowd erupted, but Feng Song remained silent, staring at the spot where the golden light had been.
"Dad," Feng Song said, his voice small but vibrating with a strange, heavy certainty. "I want to become a Battle Armor Master."
Feng Lin paused, looking down at his son's face. He didn't see the fleeting whim of a child; he saw a spark that reminded him of the ancient legends. "Song-er, that path is paved with iron and blood. It's not just about wearing the suit; it's about the years of forging your own body and soul until they are as hard as the metal itself."
"I'll do it," Feng Song said, looking up with eyes that had lost their toddler-like wandering. "Tell me how."
Tang Wan knelt beside him, her expression a mix of pride and worry. "If you're serious, we won't treat this like a game. Your father and I will design a foundation for you. But you cannot quit when it hurts."
"I won't quit," the boy promised.
---
That evening, the kitchen table was covered in papers. Feng Lin and Tang Wan sat together, crafting a Training and Development Plan that was roughly 30% more rigorous than what any standard three-year-old could endure. It included early-morning flexibility drills, two kilometers of paced running, and basic soul-circuit recognition—tasks usually reserved for six-year-olds preparing for awakening.
They expected the boy to falter within days. Instead, Feng Song became a clockwork machine of effort.
Every morning, before the sun had fully cleared the garden fence, the sound of rhythmic breathing echoed in the courtyard. Feng Song followed every exercise to the letter, his small face set in a mask of grim determination. He didn't just 'do' the laps; he pushed himself until his legs shook, always aiming to shave seconds off his time.
By the end of the first week, Feng Song was visibly exhausted. His small hands were calloused from the wooden training sword his father had given him for form practice, and his eyes often drooped during the evening theory sessions.
---
One Tuesday evening, after a particularly grueling set of squats, Tang Wan walked out to the garden with a cup of warm soul-milk. She saw him leaning against a tree, his chest heaving.
"Song-er, it's okay to rest," she said softly, reaching out to stroke his hair—her hand lingering on his sweat-dampened brow. "The plan is very hard. You've done enough for today."
Feng Song looked up, his eyes flickering with a moment of hesitation. The warmth of his mother's hand was tempting. But then he stood up straight, wiping his face with a dirty sleeve. "No, Mama. The golden man didn't rest. I'll work hard. I want to be ready."
That night, Feng Lin and Tang Wan stood in his doorway, watching their son sleep. He was sprawled out in a deep, heavy slumber, the kind only earned through true physical toil.
Feng Lin walked over and gently stroked the boy's head, his heart swelling with a mixture of awe and concern. "He's actually following the plan, Wan-er. He hasn't skipped a single rep. He's taking the 'extra 30%' and asking for more."
"He's too driven for a three-year-old," Tang Wan whispered, leaning against the doorframe. "It's frightening and wonderful at the same time."
"Then we have to match his resolve," Feng Lin said, his voice taking on a new, professional edge. "I'll start looking into high-grade nutrition supplements and a weekly health checkup at the academy clinic. If he's going to build this foundation, we won't let it be a fragile one."
Tang Wan nodded, but her eyes remained on her sleeping son. "Agreed. But on one condition: Sundays are ours. No training, no armor talk, no exercises. On Sundays, we take him to the park, we eat sweets, and we make memories. I won't have him becoming a machine before he's even ten."
Feng Lin smiled and pulled her into a side-hug. "Sundays are for the family. But the rest of the week... we train a master."