“You mudlegs… you dare to insult my clan? You are not worthy of even speaking our name.”
With a single step, Tang Hao swung the hammer in the direction of the tea stall. The air split with a thunderous crack. A wave of destruction, raw and unstoppable, swept forth.
The tea stall, its flimsy walls, and the dozen people within—none even had the chance to scream. In an instant, the building collapsed into dust, and flesh was ground into a bloody pulp beneath the weight of the Clear Sky Hammer’s force.
When the dust settled, nothing remained but a crater of shattered wood and crushed meat, the ground stained dark with blood.
Tang Hao stood there, shoulders heaving, eyes wild. He lifted the hammer, gazing at it as if it were both his only companion and the root of all his sins.
“…Clear Sky Clan… will never fall.”
With those words, he vanished into the shadows of the road, leaving behind only silence and the stench of death.
-----
In one of the quiet towns near Notting City, the day carried a rare air of celebration.
Children skipped along the streets, their laughter echoing like bells, while parents straightened their clothes nervously, their faces a mixture of anxiety and hope. Today was not just any day—it was the day of Martial Soul Awakening. For many families, this moment decided the future of their bloodline, their honor, and perhaps even their survival in this world where the strong ruled.
Excitement buzzed around the Spirit Hall branch, a modest hall adorned with white banners bearing the insignia of the Spirit Hall. Dozens of children lined up, their small faces flushed with anticipation.
A little girl with pigtails tugged on the sleeve of a boy beside her.
“Ling, what kind of Martial Soul do you think you’ll awaken?”
The boy puffed out his chest with pride, trying to imitate the posture of his father.
“Probably a spear, like my father. He says the blood of warriors runs in our family.”
The girl giggled, about to reply, when a sharp cough interrupted the chatter.
“Ahem.”
The atmosphere stilled. Every child turned wide-eyed toward the man who entered the hall—Deacon Lao, the overseer of this branch.
Though this was only a provincial outpost, Deacon Lao was a respected figure. With cultivation at Soul King, Level 57, he was by far the strongest in the entire town. His presence alone carried authority, a reminder that even in the remotest towns, the hand of Spirit Hall reached far and firm.
Deacon Lao swept his gaze across the children, his expression stern yet not unkind.
“Children,” he began, his voice steady and commanding, “today marks the first step in your journey. You will awaken your Martial Souls here, and perhaps one day, you will become Soul Masters. Remember this—today is the seed, and your hard work will decide if it grows into greatness.”
The children’s eyes gleamed, some clenching their tiny fists in determination, others too nervous to even breathe. For them, the words of Deacon Lao weren’t just instructions—they were the first spark of a dream.
Outside the branch hall, parents gathered anxiously, waiting. Some whispered prayers to ancestors, others exchanged hopeful smiles, all of them dreaming of seeing their children walk the path of power.
----
But in the shadow of this hopeful scene, a different figure approached.
A man cloaked in rags, hair unkempt, his face gaunt yet his eyes carrying the madness of a storm. His steps were heavy, dragging, yet each one radiated killing intent.
It was Tang Hao.
His lips curled into a grimace as he stared at the Spirit Hall branch, the banners swaying gently in the wind. His voice was low, hoarse, but every syllable dripped with venom.
“Spirit Hall… you dare to force the Clear Sky Clan… you dare to persecute us…”
“ Father... even his health has worsened because of you.”
As he spoke, his killing intent boiled over. Above his head, a shadow began to take form—vast, black, suffocating. The Clear Sky Hammer, symbol of unrivaled destruction, loomed high, casting its terrible silhouette across the Spirit Hall branch.
Parents waiting outside turned their heads upward, eyes widening in horror. Some opened their mouths to scream, but the sound never came.
Then—
BOOM!
The hammer descended like the judgment of the heavens.
In a single strike, the Spirit Hall branch was reduced to ruin. The walls collapsed, the roof vanished, and the once-proud hall became nothing more than a gaping pit in the earth. The cries of children were cut off instantly, silenced under the crushing weight of Tang Hao’s wrath.
A suffocating silence followed.
Only outside, where a handful of parents had been spared by sheer distance, did the wails break out. Mothers collapsed to the ground, clutching their chests, while fathers screamed in rage and despair. The air filled with the mournful cries of parents, their voices trembling with grief.
But grief could do nothing. Against Tang Hao’s overwhelming might, no one in the town could resist. The strongest cultivator had been Deacon Lao, but now he and the children were dust.
Tang Hao did not even glance back. His shoulders rose and fell heavily as he turned and walked away, the hammer dissolving into nothingness.
To the devastated townsfolk, his retreating figure was not that of a man—it was a devil wearing rags, leaving behind only death.
And so he disappeared into the distance, leaving the once joyous day in ruins, leaving behind only ashes, silence, and sorrow.
( Author notes: Even in the original story it is mentioned that Tang Hao had destroyed many Spirit Hall branches. I have mentioned it a little more brutally)
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