Time passed quietly, as always.
In the blink of an eye, six years had gone by.
Yunchuan was now twelve.
Over those six years, his training had evolved far beyond simple weighted running. He'd added push-ups, sit-ups, squat jumps, resistance climbing up sheer cliffs with weights—every physical conditioning method known, he'd practiced.
But of course, training his body wasn't the only thing he worked on.
With the support of Spirit Hall's centuries of Martial Soul records—and the guidance of multiple Titled Douluo—Yunchuan had spent a great deal of time studying and experimenting with his martial souls. Combining the rich knowledge of this world with his own creativity, shaped by a modern soul and analytical mindset, he had developed many unique techniques—what people here would call "self-created soul skills."
He was no longer that boy who had power, but no control.
...
He stood beneath the morning sun, dressed in a white ceremonial robe adorned with golden accents and bearing the angelic sigil of Spirit Hall. Though only twelve, he looked older—tall, dignified. His height neared 1.7 meters. Not particularly striking by Douluo standards, where soul masters often grew well past two meters, but he carried himself with composure far beyond his years.
Currently, he bore the identity known across the continent:
The Holy Son of Spirit Hall.
Today, under the Pope's orders, he had traveled to a small village within the borders of the Heaven Dou Empire—to resolve a crisis and, in the process, reinforce Spirit Hall's moral image. After all, Spirit Hall, as a religious and administrative power, didn't survive on martial strength alone. Reputation mattered. Symbolism mattered. And Yunchuan's mere presence was often enough to sway hearts.
This particular village wasn't large—just a few hundred people—and had a simple name:
Niujia Village—Bull Family Village—because nearly every household bore the surname "Niu."
The people lived simply, their martial souls all related to their agricultural lifestyle: hoes, sickles, oxen. Their days were based on sunrises and sunsets.
Until a traveling邪魂师 (Evil Soul Master) shattered their peace.
Evil soul masters—feared, hunted, hated.
While most soul masters upheld honor and discipline, there were always those corrupted by ambition and resentment. Some, frustrated by stagnation, abandoned normal cultivation and sought shortcuts—dark paths that required vile sacrifices. They became soul masters who drew strength from blood, pain, or the souls of others.
And that's what arrived in this village.
Cloaked in shadow, a man with the Bloodthirst Bat Martial Soul.
His method? Simple.
He planted a unique soul technique on the villagers that tied their lives to him—ensuring obedience. Then he fed off them—drawing their blood and soul essence to fuel his growth, day after day.
It was methodical.
Ten people per day. Just 1/10th of their blood at a time—barely noticeable, and survivable. With a few hundred people, a full cycle took long enough that by the time he drained the last villager, the first had already recovered.
At first, no one died.
At first, no one spoke out.
Because to speak was to die—not just yourself, but your entire family.
But over the years, he grew bolder. More greedy. Ten victims became twenty, then thirty. The amount he took grew, and with it, the toll on the village.
And eventually—someone died.
The first corpse was found pale, cold… emptied.
That was the trigger.
Fear turned into courage. And a report was sent—to Spirit Hall.
Because if there were one force all across the continent known for its hatred of evil soul masters—it was Spirit Hall.
None pursued them more relentlessly. None punished them more absolutely.
And under Bibi Dong's new administrative structure, Spirit Hall outposts were spread across almost every major city—including nearby ones.
Between martial outreach, continental school programs, and initiation ceremonies to awaken Martial Souls for young children—Spirit Hall's presence was everywhere.
Everywhere... meant eyes.
Eyes meant surveillance.
And surveillance was the bane of evil.
Nowhere to grow. No room to spread.
This vampire-like soul master had only been able to hide by staying small. The moment he tried to grow stronger—by draining more blood—he exposed himself.
In truth, that was the dilemma for all evil soul masters:
Drain more power? Get caught.
Drain less? Remain weak.
It was a death spiral.
And without Spirit Hall?
That spiral broke.
That's exactly what had happened in the original timeline. After Tang San and allies destroyed Spirit Hall, it fractured into weakened pieces. The two major empires divvied up the spoils—and neither carried Spirit Hall's righteous hatred for evil soul masters.
Without that pressure?
They flourished.
Organizations formed.
Like the Holy Spirit Cult—dark, powerful, and organized. With Titled Douluo among them. Monsters that could no longer be hunted down by a few elders.
Evil wasn't defeated.
It just waited.
And when the world no longer watched—it devoured.
That entire sequence… all because one man brought down the one force that actually protected the world's balance.
Yunchuan understood this now better than ever.
"Holy Son, we've arrived at Niujia Village."
The voice outside broke his train of thought.
He stepped down from the carriage.
At that very moment, hundreds of villagers fell to their knees at once, forming a carpet of prayer. Young and old. Men and women. Pale faces. Hollow eyes.
The signs of long-term blood loss were obvious.
Sunken cheeks. Unsteady posture. Faint scarring on their necks where blood had been drawn.
They were dying. Slowly.
Some wouldn't last another week. Even if the attacks stopped, their bodies were weakened—many permanently.
But when they saw the boy step down, garbed in white and gold, golden light seemingly surrounding him—
Hope returned.
"Holy Son!"
"It's the Holy Son!"
"Please save us, Holy Son!"
"We beg you…"
"Tian xia's brightest… save us!"
Voices trembled. Cries cracked. Hope spread across the crowd like sunlight breaking frost.
They wept—for the first time, with relief.
The boy's name had become legend.
Because over the last few years—everywhere Yunchuan went, evil fell.
Wherever he walked, Spirit Hall's name blossomed.
Because while the Pope ruled, the Holy Son redeemed.
His miracles had spread from village to city. From whisper to hymn. Spirit Hall hadn't needed to force faith—Yunchuan had earned it for them.
And now?
He stood before the broken.
To them, he wasn't a symbol.
He was divine.
(End of Chapter)