HOLY MOLY! You guys went absolutely bonkers — the book has finally blasted past the 200 Power Stone mark! I'm honestly sitting here in disbelief, grinning like a fool. Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU for showering this novel with so much love and support! You're all legendary cultivators in my heart! 🌟💎
As promised, here's the bonus chapter you unlocked with your unstoppable Power Stone power! I hope you enjoy this special early release — you all earned it with your amazing energy and hype.
But don't stop now! Keep those Power Stones coming and let's see how high we can go together! Every Power Stone you send is a boost of motivation and helps the story soar to even greater heights.
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It was a strange thing, the perspective of eternity. I had ascended, claimed a place in the tapestry of gods, and yet as I sat upon the radiant dais of my divine palace, the world—or worlds—below felt closer than ever before.
Here, in my domain, the air shimmered with immortal energy, but what called to me most was not the tranquil beauty of mountains I'd sculpted or the rivers that sang with gentle spirit. It was the pull of the unknown—the countless lower worlds, spinning through the star-strewn night of the Divine Dragon Realm, each a cradle for fledgling hope, struggle, and—perhaps—miracles yet unseen.
I closed my eyes and allowed my divine position to truly activate for the first time. I reached out, senses expanding, until it felt as if I hovered between moments, between layers of reality. One by one, the filaments of my consciousness linked to the two thousand lower worlds under this realm's rule, stretching my mind further than even my transcendent understanding could have imagined when I was mortal.
What will I find? The question thrummed through me—a blend of anticipation and the old, familiar ache of responsibility. Where are my people? How far have they come without a guiding hand?
I peered into the first world, a blue and green orb not so unlike my Douluo Dalu once was. As my vision spiraled down through clouds, past forest and mountain and village, I found them: humans, clustered in simple wooden dwellings, forging bronze with prideful, sooty hands. Theirs was a world of stories and small struggles, the flicker of community just beginning to blossom into culture.
I let my consciousness drift to the next world, and then the next—each a unique note in a vast cosmic symphony. Some burned red and gold with desert heat; others were draped in perpetual twilight, their people huddled close for warmth and comfort. And yet, in all, the pattern repeated: humanity, newly awakened, forging tools, discovering fire, hunting, learning to tame the land and each other.
It struck me, not for the first time, how similar their stories were to my own. How many times had I watched my village on Douluo World struggle through the same lessons? Each world was a mirror—some clearer, some fogged, some shattered by ancient calamity or blessed with bountiful fate.
But as I watched, a subtle truth emerged: in most worlds, the focus of progress was raw power. I could see it in the eyes of their strongest: the pride in swinging a blade, the exultation of a successful hunt, the awe given to those who could channel even a whisper of extraordinary force. They were, in so many ways, "cultivation barbarians"—minds shaped by the need to survive and conquer, more than to understand and uplift.
For a time, I considered choosing one of these warriors as a future disciple, someone who could blaze a trail to godhood by sheer might. The idea was tempting—simple, familiar, perhaps even expected. But as I watched the endless cycles of muscle and blood, the brawls over territory and honor, a faint sadness took root in my heart.
This was not enough. Not anymore.
I needed more than heroes. I needed architects, dreamers, thinkers. Those who would shape not just themselves, but their people—who would lift the collective whole, one insight at a time. If I were to truly live up to my title as the God of Humanity, I could not simply pick the strongest; I had to cultivate the wise.
So, I searched. I sifted through endless generations, peering not at the clamor of battlefields, but the quiet glow of minds at work.
In one world, I found a young woman sitting at the edge of a marsh, watching birds migrate overhead. Night after night, she drew lines in the dirt, tracking the path of constellations, recording when certain fruits ripened or when the snow began to melt. Her village ignored her as an oddity—but she persisted, and as I watched, she pieced together the rhythm of seasons. She would soon, I realized, devise the world's first true calendar.
In another, a boy sat before a fire, surrounded by curious siblings. With a stick, he sketched strange symbols into the clay, using pebbles and twigs to count out goats and sheep. His invention—the rudiments of a number system—was crude but profound. In his mind, he saw what others did not: the power of abstract thought.
Elsewhere, a gray-haired man hunched over a patch of stubborn earth, digging trenches that diverted river water to his crops. Through trial and error, he birthed the world's first system of irrigation—faltering at first, but each season a little stronger.
These were not grand warriors. Their names would likely be forgotten by all but a handful of kin, their graves unmarked. But they were the seeds of something vast—civilization itself.
With each of these nascent pioneers, I took care not to overpower their will. I did not descend in glory, nor offer gifts from the heavens. Instead, I reached out with the faintest thread of divine consciousness—a whisper at the edge of dreams, a moment of sudden insight, the comfort of a guiding presence.
For the woman tracking the stars, I sent a vision: the image of a completed calendar, carved in stone, with symbols marking the solstices and equinoxes. She woke the next day with renewed resolve, and soon her people, once dismissive, began to follow her counsel, planting and harvesting in harmony with the sun.
For the boy inventing numbers, I nudged his mind toward patterns—how to group and count, how to use stones as tokens for trade, how to teach others the meaning behind his marks. His play became lessons; his siblings became his first students.
To the old farmer, I brought a dream of flowing water, fertile fields, and a community gathered in prosperity. When he woke, he found the solution to a recurring flood—and within a year, his village was the envy of every neighboring clan.
Across world after world, I repeated this patient work. In some places, I inspired young women to record healing herbs and recipes, in others, I guided stonemasons to build the first true homes. I planted the idea of the wheel, the loom, the forge. I encouraged those who questioned, those who wondered, those who looked at the world and asked, Why? How?
There were times when I faltered, uncertain. Would my interference ruin what made their progress meaningful? Was it right for a god to shape destiny so deliberately? Would I rob them of struggle and triumph?
Yet, each time I questioned, I returned to the vision of what humanity could become: not just a race of fighters, but a civilization of creators, explorers, philosophers, and builders.
I remembered my own journey—how I had longed for a teacher, a book, a simple spark of knowledge to illuminate my path. If I could give these people even a sliver of what I had gained, perhaps their futures would be brighter for it.
One after another, I visited these worlds—never in person, always as a distant, benevolent whisper. On some, my touch went unnoticed, the soil of culture too barren or hostile for seeds to take root. On others, a single nudge was enough to ignite an age of progress.
I watched as calendars spread, numbers flourished, farming took root, and fledgling governments formed. I saw the first scribes etch history into clay, the first healers mix medicine, the first artists paint myths upon cave walls. Even when their worlds were beset by disaster or conflict, the spirit of invention endured.
Occasionally, I nudged a hero to gather others, to share what they had learned, to teach and be taught. In one world, I watched a calendar-maker and a farmer meet, their skills fusing into a revolution in agriculture. In another, the number boy's descendants built the world's first school, where abstract thought became the foundation for all else.
All the while, I kept careful distance. My goal was not to make gods of these mortals—not yet. It was to ensure that the idea of progress, of civilization, could flourish. The rest would come in time.
When I finally withdrew my consciousness from the last of the two thousand worlds, I felt both weary and invigorated. So much had been accomplished, and yet the work was only beginning.
I returned to my divine palace and stood upon the balcony, gazing into the unending starlit sky of the realm. Around me, gods of other races schemed, competed, and boasted of their conquests. Few would ever know what I had done—not with armies or miracles, but with patience and insight.
I understood then that my true power was not to crush mountains or rend the sky, but to nurture—to cultivate not just individuals, but entire civilizations.
Let the others chase glory and power. I would be content to watch my seeds grow.
Perhaps, in a thousand years, some of these worlds would see mortals rise to godhood, not through brute strength, but wisdom and collaboration. When that day came, I would welcome them as kin—not just as disciples, but as heirs to a dream.
As the divine day faded and new stars flared to life, I whispered a silent vow to all the humans I had touched:
"May you never stop questioning. May you always build. And may the God of Humanity walk beside you, unseen, until you reach the stars."
And with that, I prepared for the next step in my eternal journey.
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