The summer heat in Silvershade City did not simply descend; it oppressed. It was a physical weight, pressing down on the slate roofs and cobblestones, turning the air into a shimmering haze of humidity. The cicadas in the surrounding forests screamed in a deafening chorus, but within the walls of Bill's estate, a different kind of rhythm held sway.
It was early morning, the sun merely a promise of the tyranny to come, yet the backyard was already a cauldron of focus.
Bill stood in the center of the training ground, his single eye unblinking, tracking the subtle shifts in posture of the five children arranged in a circle around him. Jory, Finn, Elara, Lucas, and Mia.
They were not moving. To an outsider, they looked like statues, frozen in deep squats or impossible balances. But Bill, with his Analysis skill humming at a low frequency, saw the violent storm raging inside them.
"Hold the vortex," Bill instructed, his voice low, cutting through the humid air like a cool blade. "If you let it spin out, you lose the compression. If you lose the compression, you are just storing water in a leaky bucket."
Finn, sweat dripping from the tip of his nose, grit his teeth. Inside his body, the sensation was terrifying. The Void Vortex technique Bill had taught them wasn't peaceful. It felt like he had swallowed a small hurricane. He had to use his mind to force his soul power to spin counter-clockwise, defying its natural urge to settle. It created a suction, a vacuum that pulled greedily at the ambient energy of the world, but maintaining the containment field required a mental fortitude that screamed against his six-year-old instincts.
It burns, Finn thought, his legs shaking. It feels like my stomach is going to twist into a knot.
"I see you wobbling, Finn," Bill's voice was right by his ear. "The pain is the meridian stretching. It is the feeling of the riverbed widening to accept the flood. Do not fear it. Own it."
"Yes, Father," Finn gasped, clamping down on his will. He envisioned his Lightning Hound spirit, not as a puppy playing in the yard, but as a beast clamping its jaws on a spinning wheel, holding it steady.
Beside him, Elara was having a different struggle. Her Gale-Ear Hound made her sensitive to sound and pressure. The spinning energy in her core created a high-pitched whine in her inner ear that made her dizzy.
Find the center, she repeated her father's mantra. The eye of the storm is silent.
She pushed her consciousness into the very middle of the spin, and suddenly, the dizziness vanished, replaced by a profound, eerie clarity. She could hear the blood rushing in Jory's veins next to her. She could hear the heartbeat of a sparrow two gardens away.
Bill nodded approvingly as he saw Elara's aura stabilize and densify.
"And… release," Bill commanded.
The five children collapsed onto the grass simultaneously, gasping for air as if they had just surfaced from a deep dive. The vortexes in their cores slowed, the gathered energy settling into a dense, heavy pool at the bottom of their spirit reservoirs.
"That was five minutes," Bill said, checking his pocket watch. "A new record. Most Spirit Masters at Rank 20 cannot hold a compression cycle for three minutes. You are doing it at Rank 8 and 9."
Lucas, who was older but had started later, wiped his face with a towel. "Uncle Bill, when the energy spins… I feel like my skin is going to split."
"That is because your skin is lagging behind your soul, Lucas," Bill explained, crouching down. "We need to up your protein intake. Your body is trying to build a fortress to hold the treasure. We need more bricks."
Bill looked at them. They were exhausted, bruised, and drenched in sweat. But their eyes… their eyes were hard. They weren't looking at the ground; they were looking at him, waiting for the next command. They were evolving.
"Go wash up," Bill said gently, ruffling Lucas's hair. "Today is a rest day from physical conditioning. Study the meridian charts I gave you."
As the children scrambled inside, chattering about who held the pose the longest, Bill stood up and stretched his back. A satisfying crack echoed from his spine.
Rank 45. The power inside him felt like a coiled spring. He was no longer the fragile teacher who had stumbled out of the Sunset Forest. He was a force.
—————
Breakfast was a lavish affair, a stark contrast to the grueling discipline of the yard. Sarah had laid out a spread of imported fruits, honey-glazed pastries, and smoked meats.
She sat at the head of the table, looking every inch the lady of the manor. Her dress was a pale lavender silk, embroidered with silver threads—a style popular in the Heaven Dou capital.
"The tailor is coming at noon," Sarah announced, pouring tea from a porcelain pot that cost more than Bill's old yearly salary. "I've commissioned autumn cloaks for the children. Fur-lined. And I was thinking, Bill, we should expand the dining hall. If we are to entertain guests from the city…"
Bill sipped his black coffee, watching her. He loved Sarah. Her joy was infectious, and she deserved this comfort after years of pinching copper coins. But sometimes, he felt like they were living in two different realities. She was living in the Golden Age. He was preparing for the Iron Age.
"Expand if you wish," Bill said quietly. " But keep the structural supports reinforced. And no glass walls. They shatter too easily."
Sarah rolled her eyes playfully. " always the survivor, aren't you? Can't you just enjoy being rich, Bill? The printing press is printing money. The Spirit Hall loves you. We are safe."
"Safety is a temporary state, Sarah," Bill said, putting down his cup. "It is the eye of the storm. We enjoy it, yes. But we do not forget the storm."
He stood up, kissing her forehead. She smelled of expensive perfume. He smelled of sweat and old ink.
"I have a meeting at the Industrial District," he said. "Bishop Aris is visiting."
Sarah's eyes widened slightly. "A Spirit Sage? Here?"
"Just an inspection. Don't worry about the expansion. Make it beautiful."
He walked out, leaving her to her dream of nobility. He didn't have the heart to tell her that in his visions of the future, manors like this burned just as brightly as shacks.
—————
The Industrial District of Silvershade was a cacophony of metal on metal, shouting workers, and the grinding of wheels. But the Spirit Hall Printing House stood apart. It was a fortress of brick, guarded by Spirit Hall knights in silver armor.
Bill flashed his badge—a platinum token given to him by Deacon Silas—and the guards saluted.
He entered the factory floor, and the sound hit him.
Clack-whoosh. Clack-whoosh. Clack-whoosh.
It was a heartbeat. A relentless, mechanical pulse that vibrated in the soles of his boots.
Three massive presses dominated the floor. They were ugly things by the standards of this world—blocky, greasy, hissing with steam and glowing with the harsh light of guidance arrays. But to Bill, they were beautiful. They were the children of his mind, born from the marriage of Earth's physics and Soul Land's magic.
Standing on the iron catwalk overlooking the floor was a figure that seemed out of place.
Bishop Aris.
He was a tall man, draped in the pristine white and gold robes of a Platinum Bishop. A heavy aura of holiness surrounded him, a pressure that naturally repelled the soot and grime of the factory. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, staring down at the churning machines with an expression that was hard to read.
Bill walked up the stairs, the metal ringing under his boots.
"Your Grace," Bill bowed respectfully.
Bishop Aris didn't turn immediately. He watched as a sheet of paper was sucked into the rollers, kissed by the ink plates, and ejected into a hopper—a perfect copy of a page from the Codex of Angelic Law.
"It has no soul," Aris said finally. His voice was a deep baritone, resonating in Bill's chest. "I stand here, Teacher Bill, and I search for the spirit in this creation. A sword has the spirit of the smith. A potion has the intent of the alchemist. But this… this is cold. It is indifferent."
"It is impartial, Your Grace," Bill corrected gently, stepping up beside the Spirit Sage. "It does not tire. It does not judge. It simply duplicates truth. Is that not the highest virtue? To spread the word exactly as it was written, without the error of a weary human hand?"
Aris turned then, his eyes—pale blue and piercing—locking onto Bill. The pressure of a Rank 72 Spirit Sage washed over Bill. It was like standing at the base of a tsunami. Bill's knees wanted to buckle, but he locked his joints, his Celestial Scroll spinning rapidly to disperse the mental pressure.
"You have a clever tongue," Aris noted, a flicker of amusement in his eyes as he withdrew the pressure. "And a strong will for a Spirit Ancestor."
"I am a teacher," Bill said. "I deal with stubborn children. I learned to stand my ground."
Aris chuckled, a dry sound. He gestured to the factory floor. "The Supreme Pontiff is pleased with the output. The distribution of our texts has tripled in the last month. The remote villages now know the name of the Spirit Hall better than the name of the Emperor."
"That was the design objective," Bill nodded.
"However," Aris's face darkened. "Success breeds envy. And fear."
He began to walk along the catwalk, Bill falling into step half a pace behind.
"The Blue Lightning Tyrant Dragon Clan has formally petitioned the Imperial Court to regulate this 'sorcery'," Aris revealed. "They claim it devalues the sanctity of knowledge. What they really mean is that they are terrified."
"Terrified?" Bill asked, feigning ignorance.
"The Great Clans maintain their power through exclusivity," Aris explained, his gaze turning sharp. "They have secret techniques, secret histories, secret training methods kept in singular, hand-written scrolls locked in vaults. If a commoner can buy a book on 'Efficient Meditation' for three copper coins… the gap closes. You are democratizing power, Bill. And the dragons do not like sharing the sky."
"The sky is big enough," Bill said. "And the Spirit Hall is the sun. Why should the sun care if the dragons are annoyed?"
"Precisely the Pontiff's view," Aris smiled, a cruel, satisfied expression. "Let them complain. We have the machines. But, there are… undercurrents. The Seven Treasure Glazed Tile Clan has been making inquiries. They are merchants at heart. They don't want to ban it; they want to buy it. Or steal it."
He stopped in front of the third machine. It was stuttering. The rhythm was off. Clack-thud-whoosh.
"It sounds sick," Aris observed, frowning. To a master of his level, imperfection was an irritant.
"It's the alignment," Bill said, his Analysis eye already dissecting the mechanism. He saw the problem through the metal casing—a drive belt made of Spirit Rhino leather had stretched slightly due to the heat.
"Excuse me," Bill murmured.
He didn't call a technician. He vaulted the railing, landing on the factory floor with a heavy thud. He walked to the machine, grabbing a heavy wrench from a workbench.
He approached the whirring beast. Most men would be afraid to stick their hands into the gnashing gears. Bill moved with surgical precision.
He waited for the cycle to pause—a fraction of a second gap. He jammed the wrench into the tensioner bolt and gave it a hard, quarter-turn torque.
Screech.
The belt tightened. The clack-thud vanished, replaced by the smooth, rhythmic clack-whoosh.
Bill wiped his greasy hands on a rag and looked up.
Aris was watching him intently.
"You treat it like a beast," Aris called down.
"It is a beast," Bill replied, climbing back up the stairs. "It eats ink and paper, and it poops ideas. You just have to know where to scratch it."
Aris laughed, a genuine, booming sound that startled the nearby guards. "Teacher Bill, you are a rare breed. A philosopher mechanic."
The Bishop turned serious again. "Keep the machines running. The Spirit Hall will handle the Dragons and the Merchants. We have… plans for this technology. Plans that go beyond pamphlets."
"I serve the Hall," Bill said, bowing.
"See that you do. The Hall rewards its friends lavishly. But it does not tolerate loose ends."
The threat was subtle, wrapped in velvet, but it was there.
—————
As evening fell, Bill left the factory. The encounter with Aris had drained him more than a physical fight. Walking the tightrope between a Spirit Sage and the unseen pressure of the Great Clans was exhausting.
He walked through the market, the noise of the city washing over him.
He saw a stall selling fireworks. Simple black powder rockets used for festivals.
He stopped, staring at the gunpowder.
I could do it, he thought. I remember the mixture. Sulfur, charcoal, potassium nitrate. I remember the design of a flintlock. A revolver. A cannon.
With the Spirit Hall's resources, he could build an army of musketeers in a month. He could arm commoners with weapons that could punch through a Rank 30 spirit shield.
He reached out, touching a rocket.
No.
He pulled his hand back.
The printing press was disruptive, but it was "soft." It changed minds. Gunpowder changed the fundamental equation of violence. If he introduced guns now, he wouldn't just annoy the clans; he would terrify them into immediate, total war. The Spirit Hall would weaponize it instantly to crush the two Empires. The bloodshed would be unimaginable, and Bill—the creator—would be the first target for assassination by every Titled Douluo on the continent.
He wasn't strong enough. Not yet.
Rank 50, he reminded himself. Get the Fifth Ring. Get a defensive capability that can withstand a sneak attack. Then… maybe.
He turned away from the fireworks and walked towards the eastern district.
Jenny's house was quiet. The kids were asleep.
She opened the door before he knocked. She had sensed his approach. Her Needle spirit had given her a sharpness of perception that rivaled a beast spirit.
"You look like you've been wrestling bears," Jenny said, pulling him inside.
"Worse. Bishops," Bill sighed, collapsing onto her sofa.
Jenny didn't ask questions. She went to the kitchen and returned with a basin of warm water and a cloth. She knelt before him, unlacing his boots.
"The kids?" Bill asked, leaning his head back.
"Asleep. Lucas managed to hold the vortex for six minutes today. He's trying so hard to catch up to the triplets."
"He has heart. That matters more than talent."
Jenny peeled off his socks and began to wash his feet. It was a humble, intimate act that made Bill's chest ache.
"You're building an army, aren't you?" Jenny asked softly, her eyes focused on the water. "The triplets. Lucas and Mia. The students. The machines."
Bill opened his eye and looked at her. She was the only one who truly saw it. Sarah saw the gold. The Bishop saw the tool. Jenny saw the intent.
"The world is going to break, Jenny," Bill whispered. "I saw it. In the dreams. The Towers will fall. The Gods will descend. When that happens, gold won't matter. Titles won't matter. Only strength will matter."
"Then we will be strong," Jenny said fiercely. She looked up, her eyes burning with a soldier's resolve. "I hit Rank 22 today. The Cactus ring… it's changing my needle. I can make it vibrate now. I can drill through stone."
"Good," Bill reached down, touching her cheek. "Because I need you to be my lieutenant. Sarah is the heart of this family. You are the sword."
Jenny leaned into his hand. "I like being the sword."
She stood up, the water forgotten. She pulled him to his feet.
"Come," she said, leading him to the bedroom. "The sword needs sharpening."
Later, lying in the dark, listening to the distant, rhythmic thumping of the printing presses echoing across the city, Bill felt a strange sense of peace.
The machine was running. The gears were turning. The children were growing.
He was the conductor of a symphony of survival. And though the audience—the Bishops, the Dragons, the Emperors—might not understand the music yet, they would.
Oh, they would.
[Current Status: Bill][Rank: 45 (Mid-Stage Spirit Ancestor)][Strategic Assets: Printing Press (High Impact), Family Unit (High Potential)][Current Threat: Political Scrutiny (Rising)][Mental State: Calculating / burdened]