The days that followed my "dream" conversation were a subtle dance between my parents' cautious amusement and my own determined persistence. My father, who now introduced himself as Sun Jian, and my mother, Ning Yue, were not fools. They had noticed the shift in me over the past few days. My questions, once simple and innocent, had taken on a surprising depth. My observations were sharper, my vocabulary more precise, and my ideas, though presented with a child's enthusiasm, carried an underlying maturity that belied my six years.
It wasn't entirely surprising to them, however. They themselves had once been part of a world where young talents blossomed early, where children of powerful Spirit Masters often displayed precocious intelligence. Being on the run from the Seven Treasure Glazed Tile Pagoda and the strictures of the Spirit Master world meant they had long cultivated a poker face, an outward calm that masked a storm of inner thoughts.
Inwardly, my mother, Ning Yue, sighed with a mixture of pride and wistfulness. "Our Junwoo," she thought, watching me carefully measure flour with a small, clean wooden scoop, meticulously cleaned by my own hands. "He reminds me so much of Jian when he was young, full of fire and grand ideas." She knew the world was harsh, and a child's dreams, especially those of wealth and helping the destitute, often crashed against the rocks of reality. But seeing the spark in my eyes, the sheer earnestness, she couldn't bring herself to extinguish it.
My father, Sun Jian, a man whose strong hands could mend a plow or wield a sword (though the latter skill was now carefully hidden), watched me draw crude blueprints for a small wooden cart. It was meant to be a mobile street stall for my "sweet dough balls." He recognized the same restless ambition, the same yearning for a better life, that had driven him to defy his elders in the Ning Sect. His own father, an elder in the sect, had tried to force him into a political marriage, an alliance for power. But Jian had found love with Yue, a woman of humble origins but fierce spirit, and together they had chosen freedom, even if it meant anonymity and poverty.
"He wants to help those children," my mother murmured to my father one evening, after I had gone to bed. "Like you always did, Jian."
My father grunted, a soft, almost imperceptible sound of agreement. "It's a good heart, Yue. But the world… the world is not so simple." He thought of the beggars in Notting City, the orphaned children, the stark reality of those with no martial soul or a 'trash' soul, destined for a life of toil. "He will learn."
What they didn't realize was that their son, Sun Junwoo, had already learned. He had lived an entire life, grinding away in a call center, watching the endless cycle of poverty and injustice, feeling the crushing weight of helplessness. He knew the world was not simple. But he also knew something else: knowledge was power. And he possessed a wealth of it.
After much deliberation, and seeing the unwavering determination in my eyes, my parents finally relented. Not with full conviction, perhaps, but with a quiet, inward agreement to let this be a "learning experience" for their precocious child. They would support my "dough ball" venture, allocating a small amount of precious flour, sugar, and oil. They viewed it as a harmless way to encourage my burgeoning intelligence and perhaps teach me the value of hard work, not knowing that their decision was about to set in motion a chain of events far beyond their comprehension.
"Alright, Junwoo," my father announced one morning, his voice firm but with a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Your mother and I have talked. We will help you with your… sweet dough balls."
A surge of triumph, carefully masked by childish glee, coursed through me. "Really, Papa? Thank you!"
"But," my mother added, holding up a finger, "you must help with the chores. And you must learn to make them properly. No wasting ingredients."
"I will!" I promised, my mind already racing through the optimal proportions, the perfect frying temperature, the most appealing shape. This wasn't just about dough balls; it was about building trust. It was about proving my capabilities. It was the first, tiny step on a much larger path.
My parents watched me, a small, six-year-old boy meticulously drawing designs for a simple wooden stall, sketching out ingredient lists, and even trying to calculate potential profits on a discarded piece of parchment. They saw their son, full of innocent dreams, unaware of the harsh realities of the world. They saw themselves, years ago, daring to defy fate.
They didn't know that Sun Junwoo carried the memories of a call center agent, a Marvel movie enthusiast, an anime addict, and a reader of countless novels and manga. They didn't know that their seemingly innocent child was, in fact, a reincarnated soul, armed with fragments of a future that would shake the very foundations of Douluo Dalu. They just knew they loved their son, and that sometimes, a parent's greatest lesson was to let their child try, and maybe, just maybe, fly.