Qiang Ming's eyes fluttered open, the dull ache of battle still coiled in his limbs. The sterile white of the Spirit Pagoda's recovery chamber greeted him, though to his honed senses it felt like waking into a battlefield after the storm. His chest rose and fell in perfect rhythm, his heart steady but loud in his ears. He blinked once, twice—then exhaled deeply.
Then, without a word, he sat up and crossed his legs on the soft cushion below him.
His hammer appeared in his lap unbidden, not out of necessity—but instinct. His soul power had reached a boiling point during the fusion of the Soul Bone. And now, it spilled forth.
A single breath later, he dropped into cultivation trance.
Across the chamber, Duke Qiang Shen and Manager Lian stood beside the platform's crystal monitoring wall. Both men stiffened the moment they felt it—an oppressive, swelling tide of Soul Power that rippled through the air like heat mirages.
It began as a hum, subtle but persistent. Then came the first bang.
BOOM!
It was spiritual, not physical. A pulse deep within Qiang Ming's being, as if something old and limiting had cracked. The cushions under him rattled faintly.
Another breath passed.
BOOM!
Second.
BOOM!
Third.
"Is he... breaking bottlenecks?" Manager Lian whispered, already pale.
The Duke's grin widened, his hands behind his back trembling with restraint.
BOOM!
Fourth.
Qiang Ming's aura doubled, the very air vibrating with condensed pressure. Static crackled at the tips of his hair. Purple wisps of power flickered up his arms and sank into the floor beneath him.
BOOM!
Fifth.
Lian's eyes twitched. "That's impossible. Even with the Soul Bone… the absorption rate, the residual conversion… this isn't—"
BOOM!
Sixth.
The chamber itself groaned as if it were a ship battered by waves.
Then silence. An eerie pause before the final surge.
BOOM!
Seventh.
Qiang Ming's eyes snapped open, glowing amethyst, brighter than ever. His body rose smoothly from the meditation cushion, his hammer dissolving back into light. He looked straight at his father, smirked, and said with a cocky drawl:
"Rank thirty-seven, old man. I've surpassed thee."
Laughter bubbled up from his throat, wild and unrestrained. It echoed in the chamber, rich with triumph. His father joined in moments later, stepping forward to pull his son into a crushing embrace, their laughter rolling together like thunder.
"MY CLEAR FLOW CLAN WASN'T ABANDONED BY THE GODS!" the Duke roared. "THE CURSE IS BROKEN!"
Manager Lian leaned against the wall, eyes bloodshot and half-lidded. He rubbed his temple, muttering curses into his sleeve. "How am I going to explain this to the Central Council... Thirty-seven? In one session? With a soul bone on top of it?" He groaned, already imagining the mountains of reports and investigation inquiries. But despite the headache forming behind his eyes, a smile tugged at the corners of his lips.
He had watched Qiang Ming's growth. He had witnessed his hunger. And now, his friend's son had not only shattered the Clear Flow lineage's bottleneck—but laughed as he did it.
He deserved this.
That night, in a secluded chamber deep within the Clear Flow Estate, a quiet buzz of spirit-sealed barriers kept them in privacy. Qiang Ming stood across from his father, now garbed in ceremonial robes of black and river-blue silk. He rotated one shoulder, flexed his arms—and then, with a silent command, two additional arms erupted from his back.
They extended outward, slightly longer than his natural limbs, plated in sleek bone-like material veined with veins of faint black mist—the lingering fog of the Skeletal Dragon King. The arms flexed independently, moving with the precision of his own will.
"These…" Qiang Ming said with quiet satisfaction, "are called the Lich's Hands."
He raised one of them in front of his father, the thick skeletal muscles twitching slightly under his control. "They're stronger than my regular arms. About 150% in force output. Much tougher too. The black fog you see?" He tapped the mist as it coiled gently around the soul bone. "That's residual will. It shields the arms from damage and forms a countering veil against some spirit attacks."
The Duke's eyes gleamed, equal parts pride and scholarly curiosity.
"I thought soul bones like that were extinct," he muttered. "External ones especially."
Qiang Ming smirked. "The Platform thought wrong."
Then, he extended one hand and summoned his hammer. His three Spirit Rings appeared behind him now all purple, a deep purple as well, his Abyss Soul Hammer now standing at the high age of 7400, very near his limit of absorption . His hammer pulsed once, and another hammer appeared beside it, identical in every way.
He held both with ease, tossing one and catching it with a Lich Hand.
"This is my third ring ability: Multiply." Qiang Ming's voice was smooth, but even he couldn't keep the edge of awe out of it. "It lets me create additional Blackstone Abyss Hammers. For now, I can only make one extra. But as I rank up…" he trailed off, letting the silence fill with implication.
The Duke rubbed his chin. "You'll be a one-man siege engine," he muttered. "A wall-breaking, spirit-splitting juggernaut."
Qiang Ming grinned again. "Just as planned."
That evening, the Clear Flow Estate erupted into revelry.
Paper lanterns, shimmering in purple and silver light, floated along the canals that wound through the manor grounds. Spirit-run fireworks burst in great arcs of violet flame and golden stars, drawing cheering crowds even from East Sea City proper. The citizens, who had long whispered about the prodigal heir, now watched in stunned delight as the clan's ancestral curse—the stunted growth that had plagued its line—was shattered before their very eyes.
Dukes and merchants, nobles and artisans, all gathered at the gates to offer blessings. The sound of ancient drums echoed from the pavilions, and silk banners bearing the hammer sigil fluttered from rooftops. Servants brought out dishes from the old traditions—steamed stone lobster, river eel stew, wild rice buns filled with spirit-infused mushroom paste.
Qiang Ming, seated at the center of the long table at his father's side, looked nothing like the boy who had left years ago. His upper robe had been discarded halfway through the feast, revealing a torso etched with scars and coiled muscle. Laughter spilled from his mouth as he shoved dumplings and roasted meat into his mouth with both normal and soul-bone arms, drawing cheers from the clan elders.
"FOUR ARMS!" someone shouted. "FOUR STOMACHS!"
He choked down a gulp of spirit wine and laughed harder, pounding the table. His father did the same, matching him drink for drink. For the first time in many years, the Clear Flow Clan celebrated with true pride—not the pride of tradition or memory, but of progress. Of legacy reborn.
The moon was high, the stars a velvet canopy above, when Qiang Ming leaned back in his chair, food piled on his plate, the sounds of drums fading into night. For the first time in years—since that cursed decision to run—he felt something profound and still:
Joy.
Unshakable. Pure. Earned.
And as he looked out over the manor grounds, at the families, the children dancing beneath fireworks, the clan elders laughing like boys, and his father clapping him on the back like an equal—
He knew.
This wasn't the end of something.
It was only the beginning.