Doulo Dalu 2: The Quincy King

Golden light shimmered across the glazed roof tiles of the Duke's Mansion, bathing the towering red doors in a regal glow. From afar, mist clung to the palace-like estate, veiling its grandeur in an eerie haze.

The surrounding buildings, aligned in perfect symmetry, stretched far beyond the horizon, their sheer scale dwarfing even the mightiest city walls of Star Luo City.

Beneath the archway that guarded the entrance, bold characters carved deep into stone proclaimed its owner's authority—Duke's Mansion. The words loomed fifty feet high, a silent declaration of the power that resided within.

Yet, amidst this splendor, a single, insignificant shadow slipped through the narrow opening of the back door.

The boy moved swiftly, his bare feet barely disturbing the dust as he darted past the threshold.

He was small, barely more than skin and bone, yet his steps were light, deliberate.

A threadbare grey tunic clung to his thin frame, the fabric worn but clean, its edges frayed from too many washings. A small bundle hung from his back, carrying all that he owned.

The moment he cleared the mansion's boundary, he stopped.

Slowly, he turned. His deep blue eyes, too sharp for his young face, traced the towering walls, memorizing their every detail.

His gaze lingered, not with longing, but with something far colder—hatred.

"Mother… are you watching? From wherever you are… watch me. Watch as I leave this place. Watch as I return one day, to trample everything beneath my feet."

His fingers curled into fists at his sides. His lips parted, voice barely above a whisper.

"I am no longer of this house. I am no longer a Dai. My name is Huo Yuhao."

He let the words sink in, branding them into his soul. Then, without hesitation, he turned his back on the mansion and walked away.

The roads stretched endlessly in every direction, wide and well-maintained, built for carriages and armored patrols.

Huo Yuhao did not take the road to Star Luo City, where nobles and merchants gathered.

Instead, he turned north, his figure growing smaller beneath the oppressive midday sun.

The further he went, the faster his breathing became.

The faster his breathing, the harder he clenched his teeth. His vision blurred—not from exhaustion, but from something hotter, something heavier.

"Mother…"

The memories clawed their way to the surface, despite his efforts to bury them.

A dimly lit room.

The scent of damp wood. The frail figure curled up beneath a threadbare blanket, coughing softly as she reached out to stroke his hair.

"Yuhao… my little Yuhao…"

Her voice had been gentle, yet tired—always tired. Even in death, she had worn that same expression. Eyes filled with sorrow, lips parted as if to say something, only to fall silent forever.

He shut his eyes, forcing the images away. But the past was not so easily erased.

He remembered the way the servants had whispered behind his back. How their once-respectful gazes had turned to scorn.

How the warm home his mother had once built for him within the mansion's walls had been stripped away, replaced by the cold, damp servants' quarters.

He had been two when it began. Too young to understand why. Too weak to fight back.

By the time he was six, he had understood everything.

The day of his Martial Soul Awakening had been the final confirmation.

The gathering hall had been vast, filled with noble children eager to test their fate.

The instructor, a senior soul master, had laid his hand on each child's head, awakening their inherited power.

Some left with glowing eyes, their futures bright with potential. Others walked away in quiet disappointment.

Huo Yuhao had been different.

The moment his soul awakened, whispers had spread like wildfire. His ability—a mere Spirit Eyes—was weak, useless in the eyes of the powerful clans. Worse yet, he had no innate soul force.

The noble children had laughed.

The servants had sneered.

And the Duke's wife had smiled.

From that moment on, his fate had been sealed.

Huo Yuhao exhaled sharply, his steps slowing. He raised a hand to his face, pressing his palm against his burning eyes.

He would not cry.

Not now.

Not ever again.

"I have to become stronger."

His mother's words echoed in his mind, as clear as if she were whispering them in his ear.

"A person can only rely on themselves, Yuhao. Only strength can give you a better life."

His fists tightened.

Yes.

He would not remain weak.

He would carve his own path—one that led far away from this place, from the people who had cast him aside. He would not beg for their approval. He would not seek their kindness.

One day, he would return.

Not as the boy they had discarded.

But as something greater.

As something they would fear.

The midday sun cast his shadow long against the road as he pressed forward, step by step, into the unknown.

Far behind him, the golden rooftops of the Duke's Mansion still gleamed beneath the sky, standing untouched, unchanged.

For now.

A gust of wind rustled the leaves as Huo Yuhao pressed forward, his bare feet kicking up dust on the narrow dirt path.

He tightened his grip on the small bundle slung over his back. It wasn't much—just a few days' worth of food and a waterskin—but it was all he had.

The road ahead was uncertain, but at least it was his to walk.

As he trudged forward, the faint echo of laughter reached his ears.

In the distance, a group of children, no older than him, gathered in a clearing near the road.

Their brightly colored robes bore insignias—family crests that marked their lineage. Nobles. Unlike him.

One of them, a tall boy with golden embroidery on his sleeves, held his hand out.

Blue light swirled around his palm before forming a translucent, wolf-like creature.

It growled, its spectral body shimmering in the sunlight.

A Beast Soul.

The other children clapped, some summoning their own martial souls—a fan, a vine, even a small hammer.

The golden-robed boy grinned, exuding pride. "With this, I'll definitely be accepted into the Imperial Academy."

Huo Yuhao's fists clenched. Six years ago, his own martial soul awakening had been nothing like this.

The hall had been silent when Huo Yuhao placed his hand on the awakening crystal.

He had felt its cool surface beneath his small fingers, his heart pounding in his chest.

Light flickered inside the crystal, a soft, eerie glow that spread outward in delicate waves. Then, without warning, a cold sensation seeped into his eyes.

A whisper swept through the crowd.

For a moment, an image formed behind him—blurred, indistinct, yet unmistakably a part of him.

A pair of deep, red glowing eyes, suspended in empty space, flickered into existence before vanishing into nothing.

Then, silence.

The elder overseeing the awakening frowned, his expression unreadable. "A mental-type martial soul…?" he muttered, stepping forward to inspect the crystal.

Gasps rippled through the hall.

A mental-type? That alone should have been cause for celebration—mental-type martial souls were rare, almost unheard of.

Many thought they were closer to myth than reality.

But before excitement could take hold, another attendant stepped forward, pressing his palm against the crystal to measure the boy's soulforce.

A long pause. The attendant's brows furrowed. Then, he shook his head.

"First rank."

It was barely more than a whisper, yet the weight of those two words crushed the brief moment of anticipation.

The murmurs shifted. First rank—barely enough to be considered a Soul Scholar. Soulforce was the foundation of cultivation, and the higher it was at awakening, the faster one could grow.

A child who awakened at the tenth rank was considered a genius, destined for greatness. But first rank?

It was as good as useless.

The elder let out a slow sigh, his gaze lingering on the boy for a moment before turning away.

The other children, who had been waiting with bated breath, quickly lost interest. Some sneered. Others whispered among themselves.

A cold realization settled over Huo Yuhao.

This was it.

This was what would determine his worth in their eyes.

The rest of the ceremony passed in a blur. Other children stepped forward, placing their hands on the crystal, summoning flames, beasts, weapons—things that sparked admiration.

By the time it was over, he stood alone in the corner, his hands clenched into fists.

His martial soul, the Spirit Eyes, was different from the others. Unlike Beast Souls, which granted powerful transformations, or Tool Souls, which provided weapons or artifacts, his was something else entirely—a Body Soul, a martial soul directly tied to a part of his body.

Body Souls were rare.

Those who possessed them were often feared and respected, for they had the potential to surpass both Beast and Tool Souls.

An arm that could crush mountains, legs that could outrun the wind—there were stories of warriors who had become legends with such abilities.

But his? His had no strength, no form of attack, no immediate value.

He had inherited nothing from the Duke. If he had, they would have had no choice but to acknowledge him, no matter how much they despised his existence.

A White Tiger, even born from a concubine, could not be ignored.

But a pair of useless eyes?

There was no need to report it. No need to change his fate.

His mother had held him that night, her arms wrapped tightly around his small frame. She had whispered soothing words, her voice trembling yet determined.

"It doesn't matter what they say, Yuhao. You will find your own path."

But even she couldn't deny the truth.

Not only was his cultivation talent abysmally low, but there was another, more damning problem—his martial soul was mental-type.

And mental-type soul beasts, the only ones compatible with his soul, were almost impossible to find.

A soul master's path was built on soul rings. Without them, there was no growth, no advancement, no power.

The world of Spirit Masters was built on strength. Without soul power, one could never step into that world. But Huo Yuhao had no intention of accepting that fate.

He had learned early on that not all martial souls were created equal. The most common were Beast Souls and Tool Souls, and within those categories were varying degrees of potential.

A powerful Beast Soul, like a White Tiger or a Storm Hawk, could allow its wielder to dominate the battlefield.

Tool Souls, on the other hand, ranged from powerful weapons to near-useless objects.

And then there were the exceptions—mutated martial souls, twin martial souls, and rare types that defied classification.

Some, like his Spirit Eye, were misunderstood or overlooked.

But martial souls alone weren't enough. The true power of a Spirit Master came from soul power—the energy that allowed one to cultivate. Without it, even the greatest martial soul was nothing more than an ornament.

The first step of cultivation was to absorb a soul ring. Soul rings came from soul beasts—creatures that had existed long before humans.

By killing a soul beast, a Spirit Master could absorb its power, gaining abilities based on the beast's traits. The stronger the beast, the more powerful the soul ring.

But there were strict rules. A Spirit Master could only absorb a soul ring once they reached a certain soul rank.

The first at Rank 10, the second at Rank 20, and so on. The stronger the soul ring, the greater the risk—absorb a ring beyond one's capacity, and death was guaranteed.

Yet those who succeeded were feared and respected.

The pinnacle of power was the Titled Douluo—those who had surpassed Rank 90 and wielded nine soul rings.

They were legends, capable of turning the tides of war with a single move. Some said the strongest among them could shatter mountains, part seas, and stand against armies alone.

Huo Yuhao knew all of this.

And he knew the odds stacked against him.

But he wasn't afraid.

As he continued walking, he felt the weight of his mother's last words settle within him.

If the world had cast him aside, then he would carve his own path.

He turned away before the noble children could notice him, pushing forward.

The road stretched endlessly ahead. Huo Yuhao knew what he had to do.