On the very day Qian Ningshuang awakened her martial soul in Spirit Hall City, far to the southwest of the Tian Dou Empire—in Fasno Province, just south of Nuo Ding City, in the humble Saint Soul Village—
A small boy with neat black hair and sun-kissed skin sat atop a modest hill barely a hundred meters high. This was the very "Tang God Sovereign" Qian Ningshuang so openly scorned.
He was not yet the famed Sea God, the exalted Grand Heavenly Venerable, nor the "pure and noble" Tang God Sovereign known across the multiverse. He was merely a scrawny child tending to his drunken, broken father—living off the charity of Village Chief Old Jack, doing little beyond cooking meager meals.
"Over five years now… I'm following the steps of my past life perfectly," the boy murmured, eyes distant. "My martial soul Awakening is near. Soon… I'll see my Xiao Wu again—my one true love!"
In those young eyes burned a depth far beyond his years—nostalgia, sorrow, longing—but above all, a searing, all-consuming devotion.
Yes. This child was no ordinary boy. He was a God Sovereign reborn—returned from tens of thousands of years in the future.
"It's time to go back," Tang San said, glancing at the sky.
He leapt to his feet and dashed down the slope. Had anyone witnessed him, they would've gaped in disbelief. Each stride covered nearly three meters. Uneven terrain, rocks, roots—none slowed him. He moved faster than most grown men.
At home, he pulled out two chipped bowls and ladled a thin, watery gruel into them. It was less "porridge" and more "water with a few scattered grains"—so sparse one could count the rice with a glance. It was pitiful. A growing child surviving on this? A miracle he was even alive! But Tang San didn't care. Nutrition? In his past life, he'd thrived on far less—and still ascended to become the God of Shura. Clearly, his talent transcended such trivialities.
"Dad, time to eat."
After a long pause, the inner curtain rustled. A towering figure stumbled out—unsteady, disheveled.
The man appeared nearly fifty, though his frame remained massive and broad-shouldered. But his appearance was wretched: a torn, patchless robe hung off his bronze skin; his face was sallow, eyes bleary, hair a tangled nest, beard untrimmed for who knew how long. This was Tang Hao—Tang San's broken, drunken father.
Without a word, Tang Hao snatched a bowl and gulped the gruel down like water.
"Dad, slow down—there's more."
"There's a job waiting. Take it this afternoon. I'll forge more later. I'm going back to sleep."
Once most of the gruel was gone, Tang Hao blinked drowsily at Tang San, gave a curt instruction, and shuffled back toward the bedroom—only after Tang San nodded obediently.
But the moment his back turned—out of his son's sight—his expression twisted into cold fury. His bleary eyes snapped open, sharp and lethal.
That thing had been sneaking off to the hill again this morning—practicing self-created soul skills, circulating soul power. Did it think a Title Douluo's eyes were blind?
He'd never believed his son could invent soul skills or energy pathways without any formal training. When he'd first sensed soul power moving in Tang San's body at age two, he'd begun to suspect. For nearly three years, he'd endured—only because he was certain the body was truly his son's. Otherwise, he'd have crushed the imposter into paste long ago.
Soon, the Awakening would come. Everyone knew: a martial soul reflected the soul itself. It could not lie.
Then, the昊天 Douluo would finally see—what martial soul this intruder truly bore. Who sent it? Who coveted A Yin's soul bone? That was the only thing of value left on his person.
Yet at that thought, his killing intent flickered—replaced by anguish. What if it wasn't Blue Silver Grass or昊天 Hammer? That body… was his son's. Could he really destroy the last remnant of himself and A Yin?
"Dad, can I use this piece of raw iron?"
Tang San's voice shattered the storm in Tang Hao's mind. Oblivious to his father's inner turmoil, Tang San simply sought to reenact his past life. At this point, he was supposed to ask for iron, begin forging, and soon after, receive the Chaotic Wind Hammer Technique.
He already mastered the technique—better than Tang Hao, in fact—but he needed a plausible reason to use it openly. More than that, he cherished the rare warmth of paternal instruction.
Besides, this iron contained iron essence—perfect for crafting his first暗器. He couldn't let it slip away.
As for the farmer who'd paid dearly to obtain this rare iron? Irrelevant. To Tang San, a mere piece of metal belonged to whoever could best use it—namely, himself.
Tang Hao smoothed his expression, masking the murder in his eyes. He turned and examined the iron.
"Hm? Iron essence inside?" He was surprised. This imposter actually recognized refined ore? And understood smithing?
"You want to be a blacksmith?"
Of course Tang San did. Blacksmithing was the ideal cover for crafting暗器.
But forging farming tools for villagers? Beneath him—the Tang Sect's Grandmaster, the God of Shura. And his father, the legendary昊天 Douluo, only took up this trade to hide from Spirit Hall.
Still, according to his past timeline, he shouldn't know his father's history yet. A little acting was required.
"Dad, you're getting older. When I'm bigger, teach me to forge kitchenware. I'll take over your work."
"…Blacksmithing. Not a bad path."
And so, father and son—each hiding their own schemes—began their performance of tender filial love.
After setting Tang San the task of ten thousand hammer strikes, Tang Hao returned to his drunken stupor. Tang San, meanwhile, resumed the grueling labor of forging. Knowing it in his mind didn't spare his body the pain. The work had to be done—just as before.