Tang Family Residence
The interior of the small wooden house stood quiet after the storm. Tang Hao sat in his usual corner, his figure hunched, the stench of fermented wine drifting from his robes. Tang San, who had just recovered from his aerial journey through the window, entered again with a furrowed brow.
He approached his father slowly, one cheek still throbbing.
"Father," he began, lifting his right hand to show the faintly glowing Blue Silver Pig, "can a person… awaken more than one martial soul?"
Tang Hao paused mid-step.
His shoulders stiffened as he turned, eyeing the boy's strange spirit with a gaze that did not conceal disappointment.
"No," he muttered, voice rough. "A person can only awaken one martial soul in their entire life."
And with that, he turned to leave again, unwilling to look longer at the limp blue mass that fate had mocked him with.
But Tang San spoke again.
"Then… what is this?"
He raised his left hand.
A solid shaft of bamboo materialized above his palm—dark, faintly glowing, wrapped in quiet authority. Its shape was unremarkable, yet something about it made the air shift ever so slightly.
Tang Hao froze.
He turned slowly.
"What… is that?" he asked, voice suddenly low.
"I don't know," Tang San replied truthfully. "But I heard the name in my head… It's called the Clear Sky Stick."
For a brief moment, Tang Hao's world collapsed.
The last flicker of hope—however distorted—was extinguished. The mighty Clear Sky legacy, reduced to a bamboo rod and a spirit pig. His eyes reddened.
He stepped forward, arms half-raised. Perhaps to embrace his son. Perhaps to reassure him. But halfway there, something inexplicable surged through his spine.
His hand moved faster than thought.
"Pa!"
Tang San was launched sideways, again through the open window—this time from the other direction.
"AAAAHH—!"
He landed unceremoniously on his backside in the dirt, staring up at the sky with both cheeks equally bruised, both equally red.
He blinked.
"…What did I do this time?"
Inside, Tang Hao stood in stunned silence. He lowered his hand slowly, as if it no longer belonged to him.
"…Why are my hands acting on their own today?" he murmured. "I wanted to hug him, not… slap him again."
He looked down at his palm with suspicion.
After a long moment, he coughed once to cover his guilt and said gruffly, "San… be sure to protect your… Blue Silver Gr—Pig… with your Clear Sky… Bamboo…"
He trailed off.
Something about the sentence sounded inherently wrong.
Rather than correct himself, Tang Hao decided the best course of action was immediate retreat.
"You… will begin hammer training with me this evening," he barked, turning sharply toward the door. "Be ready!"
And he vanished, leaving the front door swaying slightly in the wind.
---
Eren's House
Across the way, the boy behind the curtain could hold it no longer.
He dropped to his back on the bed, clutching his stomach, coughing between desperate gasps of air.
His entire body shook—not from cultivation backlash or spirit power surge, but from sheer, helpless laughter.
"Symmetrical," he wheezed. "Absolutely perfect…"
He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye and tried to sit up, but his muscles refused. The mental image of Tang San spinning through the air—twice, in opposite directions—was too much.
Then, from within, another problem stirred.
"Growl~."
His stomach rumbled ominously, demanding food.
He sighed, still breathless.
"Even my body's revolting now… and I've no strength left to stand…"
He stared up at the wooden ceiling above him, one hand resting over his stomach, the other limp beside the enchanted pen.
He pulled himself upright and reached beneath his pillow.
From its fold, he retrieved the blue tablecloth, smooth and clean, embroidered with a silver "G" at the center. The fabric gleamed faintly, whispering with quiet enchantment.
He unfurled it across his bed and muttered calmly, "Chicken curry with rice, a glass of coke, and… pudding for dessert."
A breeze stirred the corners of the cloth.
From thin air, the dishes began to form. Steam rose from golden curry, the fragrance thick with spices he had only smelled on passing hospital trays. The cola fizzed into its glass, droplets beading against the cold rim. The pudding, smooth, pale, with a soft caramel sheen, landed last, trembling slightly as if shy to exist.
Eren didn't wait.
He ate in silence, savoring each bite with reverence. He licked the plate clean, something he had never allowed himself to do in his previous life. Then he reached for the pudding, scooping the last spoonful with measured grace.
For the first time since his rebirth, he felt full in a way that had nothing to do with cultivation.
Free.
No tubes. No pills. No bland, doctor-approved meals. Just food. Real food.
He leaned back, letting the taste linger. But the moment passed, and his gaze drifted to the object lying beside the cloth.
The pen.
Its golden hue had faded, not entirely, but enough to be noticed. The once-vivid glow that danced beneath its runes had dulled to a muted flicker.
Eren picked it up gently, holding it between thumb and forefinger. It still hummed, but the vibration was faint now, as though exhausted.
"So this is the price," he murmured.
The information in his mind, the knowledge imprinted upon reincarnation surfaced again. The pen consumed its own light when used. The greater the change imposed upon reality, the more light it spent.
A hundred-thousand-year soul ring had not come cheap.
"It can still create two more," he whispered. "Two more rings… of equal strength. But only if I wait."
According to the data stored within him, it would require at least a month, perhaps more, before the pen fully restored its reserves. During that time, any new command beyond its current limit would likely fail, or worse, break the tool entirely.
He weighed the options.
"Perhaps," he said slowly, "I should hunt the ring manually. Then… rewrite its age. That should cost far less."
That way, he would only alter a detail—not manifest an entire artifact from scratch. A clever compromise.
He turned the pen in his hand one last time before placing it beneath his cushion. The golden glow faded from sight.
Now was not the time to draw attention. Not yet.