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The quiet wind brushed across the rebuilt Tang Clan compound. Moonlight bathed the worn stone courtyard where Tang San stood alone, his eyes closed, breath slow and deep. A subtle pulse radiated from his body—barely visible, yet profoundly different from any aura a Spirit Master would normally emit.
After months of patient cultivation, Tang San had broken through the first layer of the technique he called the Primordial Breathing Method. It had no spirit rings. No lightning tribulation. No direct breakthrough in levels. But with each passing day, it was refining something far more difficult to grasp—his consciousness, his perception, his very ability to interact with the world around him.
He could now feel the breath of the mountain. He could hear the shallow heartbeat of the trees in the forest below. And deeper still, in his meditative state, he had begun sensing the faint rhythms beneath space itself—threads of intent that tied together spirit, matter, and soul.
This was not a god-given path. It was older, purer, and infinitely more dangerous.
He had tested it once—just once—with a young disciple who had shown great promise. The boy had attempted to mimic his breathing rhythm during meditation. Within moments, the boy's soul had begun to unravel. It was as if his spirit was being torn apart by an invisible pressure. Tang San had barely intervened in time, forcibly halting the rhythm and stabilizing the boy's mind. But the damage was done—the child would never be able to meditate again.
That was the day Tang San confirmed his suspicion.
The Primordial Breathing Method could only be practiced by him.
He didn't know why—but the whispers in his mind had made it clear: this technique was never meant for many. Perhaps not even meant for mortals. It wasn't a legacy passed down through inheritance, nor one shared by clan or creed. It had awakened in response to something specific. His rejection of divinity. His clarity of will. Or perhaps the latent scars left behind by his time with the Sea God's inheritance and the Asura Path.
Whatever the reason, the breathing method accepted only one host—and punished all others.
He had since sealed the scrolls where he recorded his insights. No disciple was permitted to even look at the diagrams he drew each night. And he instructed Xiao Wu never to attempt it, no matter what happened to him.
On the surface, Tang San's progress appeared slow. His level had barely moved. But beneath that calm exterior, something more profound was awakening. His spirit energy now flowed with precision bordering on perfection. His control over the Haotian Hammer—already masterful—had deepened. It no longer responded only to his commands, but to his thoughts, his intent.
The old black hammer, once cracked and worn, had begun subtly mending itself through prolonged exposure to Tang San's new rhythm. Though no divine aura radiated from it, the hammer had begun resonating with the same subtle frequency of the breathing method—like an instrument tuning itself to the song of its wielder.
Tang San had no delusions. He was far from invincible. But his current strength no longer relied solely on spirit rings or brute power. His strikes carried weight beyond mass—they carried calculation, timing, insight.
In battle, such things meant everything.
Weeks passed in calm progression. The Tang Clan compound grew slowly, brick by brick. He had established a forge, where he personally refined spirit steel into weapon cores. His goal wasn't to produce armies, but to test—how spirit weaponry might interact with his growing awareness. A theory had formed in his mind, one he wasn't yet ready to share: that all matter possessed intent. And if that intent could be harmonized, even the simplest weapons might become extensions of will.
One night, under the mountain sky, Tang San meditated deeper than ever before.
The breathing method drew him inward—through layers of thought, memory, and silence. He felt his consciousness dip into something vast and ancient. Not the God Realm. Not the mortal world. But something beneath it.
There, he saw them.
Not clearly. Just impressions. Shadows bound in chains. Eyes with no faces. Wills that pulsed like dying stars.
And something else.
A presence. Watching.
It said nothing. Did nothing. But Tang San felt its gaze press into his soul like a silent brand. It didn't approve or disapprove. It merely acknowledged.
And then… it was gone.
Tang San's breath shuddered as he returned to himself. Sweat soaked his robes. His mind throbbed with pain. But his thoughts were clear.
The technique… had another layer.
He hadn't unlocked it yet. But it waited. And with it, a promise—of a path not shaped by gods, but by truth.
Outside, a storm gathered beyond the mountains. Somewhere far to the north, a power was stirring—one that had caught a whisper of Tang San's reemergence. An old enemy? A curious observer?
It didn't matter.
Tang San stood beneath the rain as it began to fall, his Haotian Hammer slung across his back, now thrumming with silent resonance.
"I don't need the gods' favor," he whispered.
"I'll build something that cannot be chained."
And the night wind carried his words far into the dark.
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End of Chapter 3