The wind over the Tang Mountains howled like a wounded beast, carrying whispers of dread across the horizon. In the two years since Tang San had gone silent, cultivating in seclusion and rebuilding the Tang Clan from the roots, rumors had begun to spread—some reverent, others fearful. But today, all whispers would be drowned by reality.
High in the sky, a black-robed man descended like a blade—his aura sharp, vicious, and tainted with blood. He bore the symbol of a long-forgotten sect of assassins once aligned with the Spirit Hall. Now, their shattered remnants sought forbidden techniques and secrets to rise once again. He was a peak Douluo, one of the last champions of his fallen sect.
He came for Tang San.
"Hand over the method you used to evolve your spirit rings." The assassin's voice echoed like steel striking stone. "We know you're hiding something unnatural. You've shaken the balance. The continent trembles at your name."
Tang San stood calmly within the rebuilt Tang Clan compound. Around him, disciples froze. Most of them had never seen him fight—not truly. For two years, their master had walked among them like a shadow: training, instructing, creating techniques far beyond the understanding of the current generation. He had spoken little. But today, the storm would not pass by. It would burn through the world.
He stepped into the air slowly, the weight of his cultivation pressing upon the fabric of reality. His robes fluttered gently, yet the atmosphere distorted around him. Time itself seemed to hold its breath.
Tang San's spirit rings flared to life—not ordinary ones, but evolved, reborn. Each glowed with a profound depth of age and power, radiating divine pressure. They weren't the product of simple hunting. Every ring had been shattered and reforged through combat against terrifying spirit beasts and honed through his Spirit Ring Rebirth Technique, a secret known to no one else in the world.
The assassin unleashed his full strength in an instant—nine rings, each over 90,000 years. A peak Titled Douluo with an arsenal meant to dominate. He wielded dark flame blades, ethereal ghost techniques, and illusions that had slain hundreds.
But before him, Tang San raised a single hand.
And then… he moved.
No more than a step, no more than a breath. But in that moment, the Nine-in-One Ring Collapse Technique activated. All nine of Tang San's reborn rings surged with chaotic divinity. In a single instant, their power combined—not sequentially, but as one. It was an impossible act, one that would have killed any other soul master.
The power tore through the air, splitting the sky with raw pressure. Mountains rumbled in the distance. Clouds dissipated. The assassin, prepared for battle, had no time to react.
The blow never touched him. It didn't need to.
The space around him cracked and swallowed him whole, his body evaporating under the force of ring-collapsed might. His soul was burned from existence, leaving behind nothing but a wisp of distorted spirit energy that crumbled like ash.
The earth stilled.
Within minutes, spies from across the continent—sent by Spirit Hall, the imperial families, the Sun Moon remnants—began fleeing. They had seen the impossible: Tang San, a man beneath the threshold of godhood, wielding the pressure of a true deity. No longer a hidden cultivator. No longer an absent sovereign.
He had become a living calamity.
Within the Tang Clan compound, silence reigned. The disciples stared with pale faces, trembling awe in their eyes. Some knelt. Others wept. But Tang San's gaze held none of the joy of victory. There was no satisfaction in destruction—only necessity.
From the shadows, a soft figure approached—Xiao Wu. Her presence, once gentle and fragile, had become radiant with strength. Now a peak Level 99 Douluo, her evolution as a spirit beast reborn into human form had reached its zenith. She could shift between forms at will, and her innate gifts placed her above most human cultivators.
Her spirit rings were unique. Not gained through battle, not hunted—they had formed through natural ascension, through will, growth, and time. They could not be shattered or reborn like Tang San's, but their purity was unmatched.
"You're hurt," Tang San murmured, eyes softening as he looked at her.
Xiao Wu smiled faintly. "You noticed."
He reached out, pressing a palm gently to her shoulder. Spirit energy, refined and divine, flowed into her—a mix of warmth and will. Her injuries began to mend. She let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
"You still hide pain behind your smile," he said.
"You still pretend not to care when you do."
Their moment of peace passed like a fleeting wind.
Later, within the inner sanctum of the Tang Clan, an elder approached. "Master Tang San… the world is changing. Spirit Hall trembles. The Empire whispers. You're being called the False God... and the Silent Sovereign. They say you've surpassed the limit of this world without becoming a god."
Tang San closed his eyes. "Let them name me. I care not. I did not seek their approval."
"But your techniques—your rebirth method, the Nine-in-One Collapse—"
"Are secrets of the Tang Clan," Tang San said coldly. "To be exchanged only for equivalent benefit."
The elder bowed. "Yes, Master."
Tang San's cultivation path was unlike any other. Instead of ascending like others to Godhood at Level 100, he had chosen to remain in the mortal realm, forging a foundation deeper and more refined. Each of his spirit rings had been reborn beyond 300,000 years, some climbing to one million through hidden rituals.
To address the lack of high-level spirit beasts, Tang San had even developed a technique to artificially forge spirit rings, allowing users to simulate rings up to 100,000 years with 80% effectiveness—though such rings required powerful physical constitutions and came with restrictions.
Some rejected the method. Others begged for it. Tang San gave it to no one.
In the shadows of the Ice and Fire Yin Yang Well, he cultivated endlessly. A sacred medicine discovered—Heaven's Origin Jade Leaf—when merged with his Primordial Breathing Method, raised his talent by 10% instantly, a leap that had taken a decade previously. The further he went, the harder improvement became. His ancient technique to increase talent had once raised him 1% per year. Now it took five.
But he was patient. He had time. Godhood would come—not through shortcuts, but through foundation.
And all those who watched, plotted, or envied…
Would one day kneel.
End of Chapter