Reincarnated in Douluo: A Million‑Year Samsara

The clearing fell into stunned silence.

All eyes turned to Qian Yu.

He was just a boy—no older than six, still small enough that the sleeves of his tunic looked too long, and his voice still carried the softness of someone learning the world. But the calm, chilling edge in his words struck the mercenaries like a winter wind.

At first, the men were too shocked to speak. Then, laughter erupted—boisterous, mocking, cruel.

"Hah! What was that, kid? You trying to scare us?"

"You saying you used us to get into this forest?"

"You gonna kill us now?" One of them doubled over, clutching his sides in laughter. "A kid who probably still cries for his mama when it gets dark?"

The group howled with amusement, slinging jeers like stones. They saw only a child—a little thing, unarmed, outnumbered, standing alone in the dense heart of Soulhunter Forest. He couldn't possibly be dangerous.

Could he?

Qian Yu didn't flinch. His eyes, dark and glassy as a still pond, didn't reflect their laughter.

"Yes," he replied simply. His voice was so calm it seemed to quiet the wind. "Originally, I planned to force my way in. But then you arrived—so eager, so greedy. So I used you instead."

The laughter faltered.

"I knew you weren't here for friendship. You followed me for the money you thought I carried. But now... I'm inside. You've served your purpose."

A silence settled over the clearing like ash.

"And now," Qian Yu said, "you can all die."

One of the mercenaries, a thick-necked man with fists like anvils, scoffed and stepped forward. "You delusional brat," he growled. "We're soul warriors. You're nothing but a toddler in sandals. What are you gonna do—hit us with your wooden sword?"

He lunged forward, raising a fist.

No spirit aura. No soul weapon. He didn't even bother activating his powers. Using his full strength on a child would've been an embarrassment.

Qian Yu didn't move.

Didn't even look at him.

And then—

A whisper.

"Wind Blades… slice."

The words rippled through the trees, barely louder than a breeze. Before the mercenary's punch could land, four shimmering arcs of air—blades so sharp they shimmered like glass in moonlight—tore through his limbs and neck.

The man froze mid-step.

A heartbeat passed.

Five thin red lines bloomed across his body. Then—

Shhk.

A fine mist of blood sprayed outward.

His arms and legs dropped first, thudding to the ground like felled branches. His head followed, rolling across the mossy floor, his wide eyes still locked in confusion.

Qian Yu still hadn't looked at him.

The forest held its breath. The other mercenaries did too—until someone broke the silence.

"W–What just happened?"

"He didn't even move…"

"How did he die? What was that?!"

Their voices were no longer taunting. Fear had taken root, spreading fast like wildfire in dry grass. The child standing before them wasn't some street urchin or nobleman's lost heir.

He was something else.

Qian Yu turned his eyes toward them. They were calm, unfazed—cold as a mountain lake under moonlight.

"You're next," he said.

Panic overtook them.

Another man pointed a trembling finger at him. "What are you?!"

"Slice."

It was all Qian Yu said.

The air answered.

A storm of wind blades surged forward, silent and invisible until they cut through him—through cloth, through skin, through bone.

The man's scream died on his lips. He hit the ground in ribbons.

Now only two remained.

The leader—a towering brute with wild hair and a lion tattoo curling across his shoulder—and his wiry second-in-command, who trembled with wide, disbelieving eyes.

Neither spoke.

But their silence screamed what they finally understood:

This wasn't a child.

This was a monster in a child's skin.

The brute snarled, blood vessels pulsing in his eyes. He roared, "I'll tear you apart, demon!"

Soul energy flared. His spirit—the feral embodiment of a berserk lion—manifested around him, wrapping his body in golden rage. Two soul rings glowed beneath his feet: one white, one yellow. He was strong. Experienced.

"First Soul Technique—Lion's Fury!"

He leapt like a beast unchained, crashing through the air toward Qian Yu in a blur of claws and fury.

Qian Yu exhaled softly.

"Freeze."

A web of frost blossomed midair.

The lion warrior's form halted, his body encased in a tomb of crystal ice. His eyes still burned with rage—just moments before they froze completely.

Qian Yu raised a single finger.

"Shatter."

Cracks splintered across the ice with a hiss.

Then—BOOM.

The sculpture exploded in a burst of frozen dust. Flesh and bone scattered with the shards, all trace of the man vanishing into the undergrowth like snow in spring sun.

The wiry man fell to his knees.

He had no fight left. No defiance. Not even pride.

He had wet himself.

He began to sob, crawling toward Qian Yu, blood from his split forehead staining the earth as he bowed again and again.

"Master! P-please, great one! We didn't know! I didn't know! I can give you our gold, all of it! I'll serve you! As your slave, your dog—anything! Just… please… don't kill me!"

His forehead struck the ground so many times it began to crack open. But Qian Yu remained still, gazing down at him not with hatred, but with something colder.

Detachment.

"You chose your fate," Qian Yu said. "You chased it. Now let it catch you."

He turned away.

The man gasped, looking up with hope brightening his eyes. "Thank you! Thank you—!"

But that hope froze.

The wind answered Qian Yu's steps.

A swarm of wind blades rushed from every angle, weaving together like threads in an executioner's loom. In seconds, the man's screams were torn apart, along with his body.

When the wind fell still, only silence remained.

And Qian Yu—small, quiet, and unblinking—walked forward without looking back.

Not once.

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