—————
My body was changing faster than I had anticipated.
The realization crystallized during a morning training session, when I found myself moving with speed and precision that exceeded what my cultivation level should have permitted. The exercises that had challenged me months earlier now felt almost trivially easy, my muscles responding with fluid power that spoke of enhancement beyond simple spiritual development.
The soul beast meat was doing more than accelerating my cultivation.
My innate absorption ability, operating at thirty percent efficiency, was not merely extracting spiritual essence from the food I consumed. It was also integrating physical attributes—the enhanced strength, speed, and durability that soul beasts developed over their cultivation. Each meal of properly prepared beast flesh was subtly optimizing my human body, pushing it toward something that exceeded normal human parameters.
I estimated my physical capabilities now matched a Spirit Master perhaps ten ranks above my apparent level. My strength exceeded what my frame suggested. My reflexes responded faster than conscious thought. My endurance permitted exertion that would have exhausted ordinary students.
The enhancement was advantageous but created new considerations.
Physical superiority without corresponding combat skill was of limited value. If I ever faced genuine combat—against Spirit Masters or soul beasts—raw strength would not be sufficient. I needed techniques that could translate my physical advantages into actual fighting capability.
I needed to learn how to attack.
—————
The decision to pursue swordsmanship emerged from practical analysis rather than aesthetic preference.
My serpentine nature had relied on venom and constriction for combat—techniques poorly suited to human form. My current spirit abilities were focused on concealment rather than offense. If forced to fight, I possessed no reliable method of harming opponents beyond basic physical violence.
This was an unacceptable gap in my capabilities.
I researched the martial traditions available through Academy resources, evaluating options against my specific circumstances. Unarmed combat styles would emphasize my physical advantages but offered limited reach and lethality. Staff or spear techniques required weapons that were conspicuous to carry. Thrown weapons demanded specialized equipment and created supply dependencies.
Swords, I determined, offered the optimal balance.
A sword was socially acceptable for a Spirit Master to carry—many cultivation traditions incorporated bladework as a complement to spirit abilities. The weapon provided reach without excessive bulk, lethality without the complexity of more exotic arms. And swordsmanship training was available through the Academy's optional combat curriculum.
I enrolled in the introductory sword course during the final month of my second year.
The instruction was basic—grip, stance, elementary cuts and thrusts—but I approached it with the same methodical intensity I applied to all learning. My enhanced physical capabilities made the physical aspects relatively simple. The technical refinements required more attention.
Master Shen, the elderly Spirit King who taught the course, noted my progress with mild surprise.
"You have aptitude," he observed after watching me practice the fundamental forms. "Natural body coordination, good spatial awareness. Most students your age struggle with the basics for months."
"I've always been observant," I replied. "Watching others helps me understand movement."
The explanation satisfied him. He increased the complexity of my drills, advancing me through the curriculum faster than typical students progressed.
The sword felt natural in my hands—an extension of will rather than a separate tool. I discovered that my enhanced reflexes translated directly into blade speed, my strength into cutting power, my spatial perception into accuracy.
Within two months, I had mastered the introductory curriculum and begun intermediate techniques. The progression was satisfying in ways that pure cultivation had never quite achieved.
I was learning to be dangerous.
—————
My friendships had solidified during the second year into something that genuinely resembled the human bonds I had initially only simulated.
Wang Tao remained my closest male friend, his straightforward loyalty proving reliable through the various small crises that punctuated Academy life. His cultivation had progressed to rank eighteen, respectable if not exceptional, and his Earth Hammer spirit had developed techniques suitable for front-line combat. He had begun talking about eventual career paths—mercenary work, sect membership, perhaps military service—with the practical mindset I had come to associate with his personality.
"You should consider the same path," he suggested during one of our evening conversations. "Your talent's wasted in a provincial academy. Once you hit Spirit Elder, you could transfer to the Imperial Academy, maybe even catch a sect's attention."
"I prefer to avoid attention," I replied honestly. "A quiet career suits me better."
"Quiet careers don't make money. You want to support a family someday, you need to think bigger."
The assumption that I would want a family struck me as peculiarly human—and oddly not objectionable. "Perhaps. When I'm stronger."
Xiao Mei had blossomed during the year, her confidence growing as her cultivation advanced to rank sixteen. Her Silver Rabbit spirit had developed speed-enhancement abilities that made her valuable in team training exercises, and she had begun receiving attention from senior students evaluating potential team members for future expeditions.
"It's strange," she admitted during a rare moment of personal conversation. "People who ignored me last year now want to be friends. Is that how it's supposed to work?"
"Power changes how people see you. It doesn't change who you actually are."
"Who am I, then?"
"Someone who became strong despite difficulties. That's worth more than those who had everything handed to them."
Her smile was small but genuine. "You always know what to say."
Chen Wei remained the youngest of our group, his cultivation reaching rank fourteen through dedicated effort that his modest talent required. His enthusiasm had not diminished despite progress slower than he'd hoped, and he had found a niche as a skilled technician rather than a combat-focused cultivator.
"Not everyone needs to be a fighter," he rationalized, though his tone carried traces of disappointment. "Support roles are valuable too."
"Essential," I corrected. "Combat power without logistics, healing, and technical support accomplishes nothing. You're building skills that teams will desperately need."
His expression brightened. "You really think so?"
"I know so. The strongest Spirit Masters are nothing without the infrastructure that supports them."
The encouragement was strategic—maintaining Chen Wei's morale benefited the group dynamic—but it was also true. His value was real, even if he struggled to see it clearly.
And then there was Huang Mei.
—————
My relationship with Huang Mei had evolved into something I had no framework to properly categorize.
She was friend, certainly—perhaps my closest friend, measured by time spent together and depth of conversation shared. But she was also something more, something that existed in a space between the categories I had learned to navigate.
We worked together in Spirit Hall's kitchen now, her cultivation cooking skills having advanced to the point where her father trusted her with genuine responsibilities. Our collaboration produced results that exceeded either of our individual capabilities—my analytical senses identifying optimal preparations, her spiritual perception guiding technique adjustments in real-time.
"We make a good team," she observed during one session, her hands moving through practiced motions as she prepared a complex dish. "Better together than apart."
"Complementary skills," I agreed. "Your perception catches what my analysis might miss."
"It's not just the cooking." She paused, seemingly gathering courage for what came next. "I think better when you're around. Feel more confident. Like I can handle things that would overwhelm me alone."
The admission carried weight I was not certain how to address. "You're stronger than you believe. My presence merely reminds you of capabilities you already possess."
"Maybe. But I still like having you nearby."
Her cheeks had colored slightly, the shyness that still emerged during personal moments making the statement seem more significant than its surface meaning.
I found that I liked having her nearby as well. The recognition was disconcerting in its implications.
—————
The news arrived in early summer, carried by merchants and traveling Spirit Masters whose conversations I monitored during kitchen work.
Tang Hao had clashed with Spirit Hall.
The details were fragmentary, filtered through multiple retellings that had distorted facts into legend. But the core elements were consistent: the former Clear Sky Sect heir, one of the most powerful Spirit Masters of his generation, had fought against Spirit Hall's forces in some kind of confrontation whose specifics remained unclear.
"They say he killed an elder," one merchant reported with the hushed tones of someone sharing dangerous information. "Maybe more than one. Spirit Hall's been searching for him ever since."
"Clear Sky Sect's gone into seclusion over it," another added. "Sealed their mountain, cut all ties with outside affairs. Nobody knows what's really happening."
I listened carefully, correlating the information with my fragmented memories of the Douluo Dalu narrative.
Tang Hao. The protagonist's father. His clash with Spirit Hall—presumably related to the death of Tang San's mother, the slaughter of a hundred-thousand-year soul beast whose sacrifice enabled some critical plot development.
If the clash had just occurred, then Tang San was either newly born or about to be. The main protagonist of this world's story was entering existence, beginning the journey that would eventually reshape the entire continent.
The timeline was crystallizing.
I had approximately twelve to thirteen years before Tang San would reach the age where his adventures began in earnest—his enrollment at Shrek Academy, his encounters with the major powers, the escalating conflicts that would draw in Title Douluo and eventually gods themselves.
Twelve years to continue building strength. Twelve years to prepare for the storm that was coming.
It seemed like considerable time. But watching the merchants discuss Tang Hao's impossible power—a Title Douluo whose strength had challenged Spirit Hall's accumulated might—I recognized how far I still had to go.
My power was nothing against such forces. My stealth capabilities, even fully restored, would not protect me from beings who could reshape reality through spiritual power alone.
I needed to be stronger. Much stronger.
The swordsmanship training took on new urgency.
—————
The integration of soul power into blade techniques came gradually, developing through experimentation rather than formal instruction.
Master Shen taught traditional swordsmanship—physical technique without spiritual enhancement, the foundation that Spirit Masters would later augment with their abilities. But I found myself naturally extending my soul power through the weapon, feeling the blade as an extension of my spiritual self rather than merely a physical tool.
The first breakthrough came during solo practice in an empty training hall.
I was working through intermediate forms, my sword tracing patterns through the air with increasing fluidity, when I noticed something strange. The blade seemed to resonate with my movements, responding to my will in ways that exceeded physical causation.
I paused, examining the sensation more carefully.
Soul power. I was unconsciously channeling spiritual energy through the weapon, enhancing its speed and sharpness beyond what physical force alone could achieve.
The technique was not taught in Master Shen's curriculum—it was apparently advanced material reserved for higher-cultivation students. But my enhanced soul power reserves and my instinctive understanding of energy manipulation had allowed me to stumble upon it independently.
I experimented with the effect over subsequent sessions, learning to consciously control the flow.
The soul power enhancement could increase cutting force significantly, allowing strikes that would slice through materials my unenhanced blade would merely scratch. It could accelerate blade speed, making blocks and parries difficult for opponents accustomed to purely physical swordwork. It could even be projected slightly beyond the physical edge, creating a cutting zone that exceeded the weapon's apparent reach.
But the most significant discovery involved my latent sensory abilities.
My Absolute Perception skill remained dormant, requiring the fourth soul ring to fully activate. But fragments of its capability apparently existed at lower levels—a subtle vibration sensing that I had not previously recognized as active.
I discovered that I could extend this sensing through my sword.
The effect was remarkable. By channeling the vibration perception through the blade, I could feel minute movements in the surrounding space—air currents, approaching objects, the subtle shifts that preceded attacks. The sword became an antenna for spatial awareness, granting me a form of combat precognition that would appear, to observers, as merely exceptional reflexes.
More importantly, the technique could be displayed publicly without revealing my true nature.
"Your reactions are… unusual," Master Shen observed during a sparring session. "You seem to sense attacks before they fully begin."
"I've been practicing a technique," I explained carefully. "Extending soul power awareness through the weapon. It's like having a longer reach for perception."
The explanation was technically accurate while concealing the skill's true origin. Master Shen accepted it as the development of a talented student, apparently unaware that he was witnessing a hundred-thousand-year soul beast's abilities disguised as ordinary cultivation progress.
"Creative application," he acknowledged. "Continue developing it. Such techniques can become signature abilities with sufficient refinement."
I intended to refine it considerably.
—————
The third year of Academy enrollment began with my cultivation at rank twenty-eight.
The advancement rate remained consistent—approximately one level every fifty days, occasionally faster when particularly high-quality soul beast meat became available. The trajectory I had calculated nearly two years earlier was proving accurate, my projections matching reality with satisfying precision.
My third ring approached steadily.
The rank-thirty threshold would permit integration of another ring, and my spiritual foundation had developed the stability to support a significant condensation. I had decided on approximately four thousand years—a solid purple ring that would fully activate Thermal Sovereignty while remaining within bounds of "exceptional talent" rather than "impossible anomaly."
The ring color masking would conceal its true grade, of course. To outside observers, I would appear to possess three yellow rings of respectable but unremarkable age. My actual purple-grade power would remain hidden, available when needed but invisible during casual assessment.
Three months into the term, my cultivation crested the threshold.
The advancement came on a winter night so cold that frost had formed on the dormitory windows despite interior heating. I sat in meditation while my dormmates slept, cultivating through the quiet hours when distraction was minimal.
The transition from rank twenty-nine to thirty felt different from previous advancements. There was a sense of completion, of a foundation fully formed, that the earlier ranks had not carried. Spirit Elder. The third major threshold of cultivation, marking genuine capability in the Spirit Master hierarchy.
The third ring condensation followed three days later.
I performed the process during deep night, as I had with the second ring, ensuring no observers could witness the formation. The power drawn from my internal reservoir measured exactly four thousand years—enough for full skill activation without excessive display.
Thermal Sovereignty awakened with the ring's formation, the capability flooding through channels that had remained dormant since transformation.
I tested the skill immediately, feeling its effects manifest with the precision I remembered from my serpentine existence. Heat signatures bloomed into perception, the dormitory around me transforming into a thermal landscape where each sleeping body radiated distinctive warmth. The walls, the floors, the very air—all became readable through the filter of temperature variation.
And when I focused the skill inward, my own thermal signature dimmed to near-invisibility.
I was warm-blooded now, generating heat that could be detected by thermal-sensing predators or spirits. But Thermal Sovereignty allowed me to suppress that signature, to become a gap in the thermal landscape rather than a source of radiation.
Combined with Void Embrace and Silent Passage, I now possessed the complete stealth triad that had made me one of the most effective hunters in the deep jungle.
Visual concealment. Auditory concealment. Thermal concealment.
Any one of these could be pierced by sufficiently focused examination. But layered together, operating simultaneously, they created a concealment profile that would defeat all but the most determined and powerful investigation.
I was invisible in light. Silent in motion. Cold in a world of warmth.
The serpent had become a ghost.
—————
But the ring's formation brought an unexpected development.
The masking capability I had discovered with my second ring—the ability to alter the displayed color of soul rings—had evolved. With three concealed rings, I found that I could do more than merely shift colors. I could suppress rings entirely, hiding their presence from external observation.
I experimented carefully, probing the limits of this enhanced concealment.
Full suppression allowed me to appear as a lower-rank cultivator than I actually was. I could display two rings, one ring, or even no rings at all—though the latter was impractical for normal interaction.
Partial display let me reveal exactly as many rings as I wished, in whatever colors I chose to project. Three yellow rings. Two yellow and one purple. Any combination that suited my tactical needs.
The capability transformed my strategic options entirely.
A Spirit Elder with three visible rings was notable but common. A Spirit Master with a single visible ring was unremarkable, beneath attention. I could shift between these presentations at will, adapting my apparent cultivation to circumstances.
An enemy assessing me would perceive weakness. They would prepare for the opposition my visible rings suggested. And then they would face the full force of my concealed power, their calculations rendered worthless by capabilities they had never known to factor.
The advantage was enormous.
I was not merely hidden. I was actively deceptive, projecting false information that would lead any assessor to catastrophically underestimate my actual threat level.
The serpent had learned to lie with his very soul.
—————
The working relationship with Huang Mei deepened as the year progressed.
Chef Huang had begun trusting us with increasingly complex preparations—dishes for significant Spirit Hall visitors, cultivation meals for important functions, even occasional contributions to the Academy's enhanced meal program. Our complementary skills had become recognized as a genuine asset, producing results that exceeded what either of us could achieve independently.
"You two should consider opening a cultivation restaurant someday," Chef Huang joked during one particularly successful session. "Your combined abilities rival what I could do at your age."
"Father!" Huang Mei's embarrassment was evident in her flushed cheeks. "We're still students."
"Students who produce master-quality work. Don't underestimate yourselves." He sampled the dish we had prepared, his expression shifting to professional assessment. "The spirit energy retention is excellent. Nearly ninety percent preservation through cooking—that's exceptional for this ingredient type."
"Lin Xiao identified the optimal temperature range," Huang Mei explained. "I adjusted technique based on his guidance."
"Partnership," her father acknowledged. "The foundation of great cooking—and great cultivation. Remember that."
The lesson resonated beyond its culinary context.
—————
The months flowed past with the steady rhythm I had established.
Training. Cultivation. Kitchen work. Social obligations. The elements of my life interlocked with the precision of well-designed machinery, each component serving its purpose while supporting the whole.
My swordsmanship advanced to the intermediate curriculum's completion, Master Shen acknowledging that I had absorbed the material faster than any student he had previously instructed. The soul power enhancement techniques I had developed—presented as creative cultivation innovation—were beginning to resemble a coherent combat style.
"You're ready for advanced material," Master Shen declared during a term-end assessment. "The senior sword curriculum is typically reserved for Spirit Ancestors, but your technique foundation exceeds what your cultivation level would suggest. I'll recommend you for early admission."
"Thank you, Master Shen."
"Don't thank me yet. Advanced training is significantly more demanding. Your natural talent has carried you this far—beyond this point, only dedication and suffering will produce improvement."
I was familiar with suffering. It held no terror for me.
My cultivation reached rank thirty-three as the year approached its conclusion—three full ranks since achieving Spirit Elder, advancement that continued to mark me as exceptional without crossing into suspicious territory. The soul beast meat I consumed through kitchen perks remained my primary cultivation accelerant, each meal building power that would have required normal students months of dedicated meditation to achieve.
Huang Mei's development had progressed as well, though at the pace typical of talented students rather than my enhanced rate. Her cultivation had reached rank fifteen, and her Healing Lotus spirit had developed techniques that made her increasingly valuable for team training exercises.
"We're not kids anymore," she observed during one of our cooking sessions, her hands moving through now-practiced techniques with unconscious grace. "Remember when we first met? I was terrified of everything."
"You've grown."
"We both have." She glanced at me with an expression I had learned to recognize as affection. "You more than anyone. When you first came to the Academy, you were like… like something pretending to be a person. Now you're actually here. Present. Real."
The observation was more accurate than she could possibly understand.
"You helped with that," I admitted. "Your friendship made being human easier to learn."
"I didn't teach you anything. You figured it out yourself."
"You provided the example. The template for genuine connection." I paused, uncertain how much to share. "Before the Academy, I was… isolated. Not by circumstance but by nature. I didn't understand why people valued each other beyond utility."
"And now?"
"Now I value you for no reason except that you exist. Your happiness matters to me separately from any benefit it provides." The words felt strange to speak aloud, but they were true. "That's what you taught me. Even if you didn't know you were teaching."
Her eyes had grown bright with emotion I could identify as tears forming. "Lin Xiao…"
"I'm grateful," I concluded simply. "Whatever I become, part of it will be because you showed me how to be more than I was."
She embraced me then, a sudden fierce hug that my human body had learned to interpret as profound affection. I returned the gesture with arms that had grown comfortable with such contact, feeling her warmth against my form in ways that triggered responses I was still learning to understand.
Friends. We were friends, certainly.
But something in the moment suggested we were also becoming something more.
—————
The year concluded with a formal assessment that confirmed my standing among the Academy's elite students.
Rank thirty-three. Three soul rings displayed as yellow-grade, concealing purple-grade power. Sword skills approaching advanced cultivation levels. Academic performance in the top percentile. Social integration complete and stable.
The transformed serpent had become an established member of human society.
My strategic position had improved dramatically since those desperate early days after emergence from the cocoon. I possessed resources, connections, capabilities, and cover stories that would protect me through almost any scrutiny short of Title Douluo examination.
But the timeline continued advancing.
Somewhere in the Star Luo Empire—if my memories of the narrative were accurate—a young Tang San was learning to walk, to speak, to begin the journey that would eventually challenge gods themselves. The events I remembered were perhaps ten years away from beginning in earnest.
Ten years to continue building strength. Ten years to expand my capabilities. Ten years before the storm that would reshape the continent began to truly rage.
I would use every day of that time.
The sword training would continue, developing combat capability that could complement my stealth abilities. My cultivation would advance through the Spirit Ancestor ranks, approaching the levels where true power became possible. My social network would expand, building connections that might prove valuable when the great events began to unfold.
And my humanity—the strange, unexpected transformation that had occurred alongside my physical changes—would continue to develop in ways I could not fully predict.
Huang Mei caught my eye across the kitchen as we cleaned up from our final session of the term. Her smile carried warmth that I had learned to treasure, connection that I had learned to value.
The serpent had found something worth protecting.
Now I needed to become strong enough to actually protect it.