Morning light crept through the high dormitory windows of Nuoding Academy, casting a soft glow over the sleeping students. Tang San sat cross-legged in silence, his breathing shallow and rhythmic, body still as a statue. Blue Silver Grass coiled gently around him like vines drawn toward sunlight, but its presence was subtle, even meditative.
It had been five days since Grandmaster's combat training began. Every day, Tang San had ventured into the outskirts of the forest, fighting spirit beasts under strict constraints. And every night, he had cultivated in silence, observing the gradual change in his body.
The cultivation technique from the black stone—its name still unknown to him—had not erupted with sudden breakthroughs, but Tang San no longer expected that. It was patient, cautious, and secretive—like him. And it rewarded his diligence in kind.
Each time he meditated, he could sense his body refining further. The speed at which he absorbed spirit energy increased, not explosively, but efficiently. Purer. Cleaner. And because of it, his soul power was nearing level 18—steady progress for someone his age.
But it wasn't just cultivation. Tang San had begun to understand something else.
The technique was protecting him.
A week ago, when he had taken a deep wound from the Shadow Panther's claws, the damage should have disabled him. Instead, it closed quickly—subtly. No one else had noticed. And the strange black pulse that had emerged during the Thunderhorn Deer fight had not returned since… but its memory haunted him.
This technique is more than a cultivation path, he thought. It's alive.
---
After morning classes, Tang San left the academy with a light pouch slung over his shoulder. He didn't go toward the training field or the forest. Instead, he took the stone path toward the southern market of Nuoding City. Today wasn't for cultivation or battle—it was for money.
With his first spirit ring, his Blue Silver Grass had gained a gentle toxin, useful for binding and weakening. But Grandmaster had advised him to expand his versatility with tools. Hidden weapons, poison concoctions, metallic wire—it was the knowledge of his past life brought to bear in this one.
But materials required coin. So Tang San found work.
He arrived at a small blacksmith shop nestled between a tailor and a general goods stall. The old blacksmith, a heavyset man named Uncle Jiang, greeted him with a nod.
"You're early," Uncle Jiang grunted, wiping soot from his apron.
"I finished my lessons. I can start now," Tang San replied.
The work was hard, but Tang San liked it. Lifting ore, sorting metal fragments, tempering and cooling. Every motion refined not just his body, but his focus. He asked questions when appropriate, learning not just about iron quality, but about the subtle differences in balance, tension, and strength.
For hours, he labored. As he did, the technique within him remained dormant—but Tang San had learned to listen closely. Each exertion, each drop of sweat, seemed to resonate faintly with the black stone in his chest. As if it acknowledged effort. Rewarded discipline.
And so, slowly, his talent in crafting improved, just as his cultivation did. In time, he would use this skill to forge his own weapons—hidden, silent, and deadly.
---
That night, he returned to the dorm late, hands stained with soot but eyes calm. Xiao Wu raised a brow at him.
"You've been working again?" she asked. "You always come back like a ghost covered in ashes."
Tang San smiled faintly. "I'm preparing for the future."
She tilted her head. "You sound like an old man."
Tang San said nothing more. Xiao Wu didn't need to know how heavy the future truly was.
---
Later, as Tang San meditated again, a soft voice echoed in his mind.
> "It has begun."
The words weren't spoken aloud. They emerged from within—the same voice he had heard faintly when the black stone first fused into him.
He opened his eyes, startled. Nothing had changed around him.
But deep within his dantian, the cultivation technique stirred. For a moment, it burned softly, and Tang San felt a strange pressure in his veins—as if something beyond this world had glanced in his direction.
He gritted his teeth, forced his breathing into rhythm, and suppressed the ripple. When it passed, his sweat soaked through his robe.
What was that?
No response came. The technique returned to its calm, pulsing state.
But the feeling didn't fade. It was as if something… or someone… was watching.
Tang San narrowed his eyes.
The cloaked man who had given him the black stone all those years ago—he had warned him vaguely. That he hadn't dared use the stone. That it came from ruins older than Spirit Hall itself.
And now Tang San wondered if, perhaps, that stone was never truly his. Only resting. Only waiting.
His path was still his own. But from this point onward, he would need to step carefully. Too many eyes watched the world from beyond its surface.