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Soul Land 3: Weaver of Myths and Legends

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Synopsis
Reborn into the Spirit Pagoda era, Bai Chen awakens not a Martial Soul, but the Myth Loom—a divine system allowing him to weave forgotten myths, civilizations, and gods into reality itself. From Asgard to Atlantis, from Shiva’s cosmic dance to the dragons of legend, the Soul Land universe expands under his unseen influence. But Bai Chen never steps into the spotlight. Like a shadow behind the curtain, he hides as a background character, shaping destinies without recognition. The Spirit Continent grows into a world where gods, empires, and mythical beasts walk once more. And though no one knows his name, the myth weaver’s hand guides the rise of a grand new era.
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Chapter 1 - Chapter 1: Prologue – Death, Rebirth, and the Loom of Myths

The library was dying.

The air smelled of yellowed paper and ink that had long dried. Dust danced through shafts of pale moonlight spilling in from broken windows. Shelves leaned tiredly, groaning beneath the weight of forgotten books. It was midnight, yet the lone occupant of the library still worked, as if sleep were a stranger he had long ago banished.

Bai Chen sat at a cracked wooden desk, a dim lamp flickering beside him. His thin frame was hunched, his face gaunt, yet his black eyes burned with a quiet, unyielding fire. Around him were towers of manuscripts—ancient Vedic scriptures, Norse sagas, Egyptian papyri, Greek tragedies, and endless commentaries.

He was thirty-three, a lecturer at a small university, but more importantly, a man consumed by myths.

"Every legend hides a truth," he whispered, tracing his pen over paper. "Even if it is buried beneath centuries of exaggeration… the thread remains."

His final research paper sprawled before him: "The Loom of Civilizations: A Unified Theory of Myths." In it, he argued that human civilizations across the world—though separated by oceans and millennia—shared interconnected myths because they were fragments of a greater whole.

Odin sacrificing an eye for wisdom.

Shiva dancing the Tandava, weaving creation and destruction.

The lost city of Atlantis swallowed by the sea.

The phoenix that died and was reborn from ashes.

Different names, different cultures—but always, the same rhythm.

Myths are not lies, Bai Chen thought, his pen pausing. They are threads. Threads that once wove a greater truth. If I could trace them all, perhaps I could glimpse the original tapestry of existence.

His colleagues mocked him. "Stories," they sneered. "Good for novels, not for science."

Even his students left his classes with sighs, calling him eccentric.

But Bai Chen didn't mind. He had long abandoned the need for recognition. In myths, he had found something greater than fame—he had found eternity.

Tonight, however, his body betrayed him.

The pen slipped from his fingers. A dull ache spread across his chest, sharp and suffocating. His breath came ragged, vision darkening.

So this is it, he thought, as the lamp's glow blurred into a smear of gold. Death comes quietly, like a shadow turning a page.

His last sight was of an open book before him: an illustration of Shiva, poised in his cosmic dance, ringed by flames. The god's hands spun reality itself, weaving time, creation, and destruction into rhythm.

Bai Chen smiled faintly.

How fitting. The weaver dies watching the dance of the divine.

And then, darkness claimed him.

---

Awakening

He expected nothing. Oblivion. A blank void. Perhaps some echo of myths he had studied.

Instead—sound.

A heartbeat that was not his own. The rustle of leaves. The crash of water.

Bai Chen gasped, eyes snapping open.

Above him stretched a sky of impossible clarity—blue not of Earth, but deeper, richer, alive. Twin moons hung faintly above, their pale glow softened by drifting golden clouds. The air itself shimmered with faint motes of light, like reality's breath made visible.

He sat up, heart racing, and found himself by the shore of a crystal lake. The water mirrored the sky perfectly, broken only by ripples where jewel-feathered birds dipped their beaks. A faint hum vibrated in the air, not sound but energy. Spirit energy.

Bai Chen's hands trembled as he lifted them. They were small. Youthful. He stumbled to the water's edge, gazing into his reflection.

A boy of perhaps fifteen stared back. Black hair. Sharp, ordinary features. A face too plain to be remembered.

A background character's face.

He touched it, disbelief in his eyes. "Reincarnation?"

Memories surged into his mind like a flood. The Spirit Pagoda. Soul beasts hunted to near extinction. Spirit technology thriving across cities. Shrek Academy standing as a monument of cultivation.

This was not just any world.

This was Douluo Dalu—Soul Land 3's era.

Bai Chen laughed softly, a dry sound carried away by the lake's breeze. He, who had studied myths his whole life, had become one.

"Fate," he murmured. "You really do have a sense of humor."

The lake's surface stilled once more, and Bai Chen lingered there, staring at his plain reflection.

On Earth, he had been a man who lived in footnotes, overlooked in life, dismissed in death.

Now, fate had placed him in a world of Spirit Masters—where strength defined destiny.

And he was nothing.

No Martial Soul stirred within him. No soul power thrummed in his veins. His body felt weak, ordinary—an orphan boy's frame, nameless and unremarkable.

A cruel irony.

Reborn in a world of legends, yet condemned to be a background extra.

But then—

A tremor rippled through his consciousness. His thoughts flickered, then expanded, as though a door had opened in the void of his mind.

Darkness gave way to light.

---

The Loom

Within his inner world floated a colossal structure.

A loom of gold and shadow, endless in scope, stretching beyond horizons of thought. Threads hung in infinite layers, glowing faintly in colors beyond description. Each pulsed like veins, carrying fragments of reality itself.

Some threads blazed brilliantly—rich crimson of bloodlines, azure of seas, emerald of forests. Others were faint, brittle, fraying at the edges—forgotten memories of civilizations long gone.

And as Bai Chen gazed, a voice—not human, not divine, but vast and mechanical—resonated through his soul:

> [System Awakening…]

Designation: Myth Loom.

Bearer: Bai Chen.

Role: Weaver of Forgotten Histories.

His heart pounded. His scholar's instincts sharpened.

The Loom… Shiva's dance, the threads of Odin's fate, the Moirai of Greece… every culture had whispered of something like this. Could it be… real?

More words flowed, as though carved into the fabric of his soul:

> Rule 1: A myth requires an anchor.

(Relic, belief, remnant, or cultural seed.)

Rule 2: Each weave consumes Cosmic Essence.

(Essence is finite; replenish through fragments, worship, or equilibrium.)

Rule 3: A myth once woven becomes reality itself.

(But balance must be maintained—force too great, and reality rejects you.)

Bai Chen trembled. His hand instinctively reached for one of the threads, glowing faintly white. When he touched it, knowledge surged.

It was the memory of a small, nameless village, where people once prayed to a serpent soul beast for protection. Centuries ago, that beast had died. The faith faded. The guardian vanished.

But the thread remained—faint, fraying, forgotten.

Bai Chen's lips curved into a smile.

So myths are not born of imagination. They are remnants of reality. And I can… restore them.

---

The First Weave

He focused on the thread. In his mind's eye, the golden loom thrummed.

"Return," he whispered.

The thread pulsed. His body jolted as something vast tore through him, draining his spirit, wringing every ounce of strength from marrow and soul. His vision blurred with pain, yet he did not release the thread.

Light burst from the loom, cascading into the world.

Far from the lake, in the dark forests, a little girl carrying firewood stumbled upon a massive wolf. The beast lunged, teeth bared. She screamed—

And shadows rippled.

A colossal serpent, scales glistening like emeralds, coiled between girl and beast. Its golden eyes burned with quiet majesty. The wolf whimpered, tail tucked, fleeing into the night.

The girl trembled as the serpent lowered its head, brushing her cheek with warmth before dissolving into mist.

Tears streamed down her face. She fell to her knees, whispering prayers her ancestors had long forgotten.

The Naga Guardian had returned.

---

Consequence

Bai Chen collapsed by the lakeside, gasping. His body shook violently, sweat drenching him. He felt as though his soul had been wrung dry.

"Too… much," he muttered, clutching his chest. His spirit power was nearly nonexistent now, drained by that single act. His limbs felt hollow, his head pounding like a drum.

Yet his eyes shone with fevered light.

It had worked.

He had woven a myth back into reality.

The scholar in him wept with joy. The mythologist in him roared with triumph.

Every doubt, every ridicule he had endured on Earth—vindicated in this single act.

But even in exhilaration, he understood the danger.

Power like this could reshape the world. If known, every faction—Spirit Hall, Spirit Pagoda, Shrek Academy—would hunt him, dissect him, enslave him.

He clenched his trembling fists.

"No. This is not power to flaunt. This is power to… weave."

---

The golden loom receded into silence, leaving only faint ripples in Bai Chen's consciousness. His breathing steadied, but every muscle still ached, as if he had fought a hundred battles in a single instant.

The lake reflected his pale face. No aura of greatness shone from him, no divine mark branded his skin. He looked like what he had always been: plain, unremarkable, destined to be overlooked.

Perfect.

For in that forgettable reflection lay freedom.

History, he knew, was not written by those who shouted their names, but by whispers that endured long after voices were gone. Myths survived not because their creators demanded worship, but because they became necessary to the hearts of people.

If he revealed his loom, the world would strangle him in chains. But if he stayed silent, remained the nobody, the background character… then the world itself would unknowingly become his canvas.

A quiet smile spread across his lips.

"No one will ever know me," he whispered to the still waters. "Not Shrek, not the Spirit Pagoda, not even gods. I will be a shadow, forgotten, while the myths I weave reshape everything."

The twin moons above shimmered in answer, their pale light scattering across the lake. For a moment, the boy seemed like a ghost upon the shore, nameless, faceless, already erased from the story.

And yet, threads unseen hummed gently, waiting for his touch.

He imagined the future—Atlantis rising beneath the seas, Asgard hanging in the skies, Nagas slithering through jungles, Garuda soaring as soul spirits. He imagined cultivation not just of soul rings, but of philosophies, mantras, martial paths from a hundred Earthly traditions. A world richer, vaster, grander than even the Douluo plane had ever dreamed.

And he would never take credit.

No one would call him hero. No one would sing of his deeds. His name would not echo in history.

But behind every legend, every civilization, every myth reborn… his silent loom would hum, weaving unseen.

Bai Chen pressed a hand over his heart, sealing the vow with iron resolve.

"I am no chosen one. No savior. I am the myth weaver. The architect in shadows. The one who will never be remembered."

The lake rippled once, as if reality itself acknowledged his words. Then the night grew quiet again, and the boy rose, a plain orphan walking into a grand world that would never know his name.

Thus began the legend of the man who wove eternity from the background.