The old wooden door creaked open from the inside by Su Yuntao, groaning under the strain.
Outside, the eyes of the villagers and parents who had been waiting for a long time instantly focused on this Grand Spirit Master from the Spirit Hall.
Their gazes were a mix of tension, anticipation, and a trace of barely noticeable humility.
Warm sunlight rushed into the dim wooden hut, dispelling some of the chill, but it failed to warm Ning Chuan’s currently cold heart.
Holding his sister Ning Xiaohe’s hand, Ning Chuan stood in the shadows inside the hut, listening to Su Yuntao’s official, emotionless announcement from outside.
“This year’s Martial Soul Awakening Ceremony in Holy Soul Village is complete.
A total of nine individuals underwent Awakening.
Among them, one possesses Spirit Power.”
As soon as these words were spoken, a wave of barely suppressed commotion and low exclamations erupted outside!
Possessing Spirit Power!
This meant Holy Soul Village would produce another Soul Master this year!
Whose child could it be?
Old Village Chief Jack’s face immediately flushed with excitement, and he unconsciously straightened his back a little, as if already seeing a glimmer of hope for Holy Soul Village’s return to glory.
However, Su Yuntao’s next words poured cold water over most people’s enthusiasm.
“Tang San, Martial Soul: Blue Silver Grass, Innate Full Spirit Power.”
“Whoa—!” The crowd completely erupted!
“Innate Full Spirit Power?!
Heavens!
That’s the legendary top-tier talent!”
“But… Blue Silver Grass?
How could it be Blue Silver Grass?
This…”
“What a pity!
Such a pity!
Full Spirit Power paired with a Waste Martial Soul… what kind of cruel twist of fate is this?”
A mix of astonishment, regret, disbelief, and even a hint of absurdity spread through the crowd.
Everyone’s gazes turned complexly toward the black-haired boy who had silently walked out of the hut and now stood in a corner with his head lowered.
The son of the blacksmith Tang Hao… was actually such a bizarre combination of genius… and waste?
The excitement on Old Village Chief Jack’s face froze, transforming into deep regret and sorrow.
He quickly walked over to Tang San, his lips trembling as if he wanted to say something, but he didn’t know where to begin.
Ignoring the villagers’ reactions, Su Yuntao continued reading the remaining list in his rapid, indifferent tone:
“Ning Chuan, Martial Soul: Blue Silver Grass, no Spirit Power.”
“Ning Xiaohe, Martial Soul: Luminous Grass, no Spirit Power.”
“Wang Ergou, Martial Soul: Sickle, no Spirit Power.”
“… The above eight individuals all lack Spirit Power and cannot become Soul Masters.”
The announcement of these last few names barely caused a ripple in the crowd.
Everyone’s attention was still fixated on the shocking news of “Innate Full Spirit Power, Blue Silver Grass.”
For children like Ning Chuan, destined for ordinariness, the villagers only cast brief glances.
Their gazes might have held a trace of sympathy, but more prevalent was an indifferent acceptance of the expected outcome, and a swift categorization that placed them firmly among the common lot.
After all, this was the norm for the vast majority of people in Holy Soul Village, and indeed, across the entire continent.
Ning Chuan listened to the exclamations of amazement outside the house caused by Tang San, and the heavy silence that followed due to his own group, the stark contrast gripping his heart with a deep sense of helplessness.
Sunlight streamed through the doorframe, casting long shadows on the ground.
Ning Chuan stood within the shaded boundary, as if isolated in another world.
A world where everything was determined by bloodline and Martial Soul.
Without Spirit Power, it meant losing the stepping stone to strength, status, and even dignity.
One was doomed to struggle at the very bottom of this continent, repeating the fate of toiling endlessly in the fields, or becoming an ordinary, unremarkable person in the city, or even worse, being seen as an expendable ant in the eyes of nobles and the Soul Master class, subject to exploitation at will.
This stark, predetermined shackle of fate was utterly cruel and suffocating for a modern soul who came from an era of information explosion, where, at least in theory, infinite possibilities existed.
Ning Chuan had seen the light—the light where everyone, in theory, had the chance to change their fate through hard work.
Even if that light was sometimes illusory, at least there was hope.
But here, without Spirit Power, even the right to strive was stripped away.
“Xiao Chuan, Xiao He.”
A low but familiar call pulled Ning Chuan back from his icy thoughts.
Looking up, he saw Ning Dazhuang and Liu Lan had somehow made their way through the crowd and were now standing beside them.
Liu Lan crouched down and gently pulled Ning Xiaohe, whose eyes were red as she fought back tears, into her arms.
With rough yet warm hands, she stroked her daughter’s head, her voice softer than that of the usually sharp-tongued farmer’s wife: “Good girl, don’t cry, don’t cry.
It’s alright, it’s alright.
Not becoming a Soul Master is no big deal.
Look, your father and I aren’t Soul Masters either, and we still live our lives, don’t we?
It’s enough to be safe and sound…”
Though Liu Lan tried to sound lighthearted, the fleeting disappointment and heartache in her eyes didn’t escape Ning Chuan’s notice.
What parent didn’t hold even the tiniest hope for their child?
Even if that hope was as faint as a spark.
Ning Dazhuang stood before Ning Chuan.
This usually silent, honest man, often ordered around by his wife, showed little disappointment on his face.
Instead, there was a kind of solid calmness.
He reached out with his broad, rough hand, calloused and scarred from woodworking, and gave Ning Chuan’s shoulder a firm pat.
The hand was strong, making Ning Chuan sway slightly, yet it strangely brought a sense of steadiness.
“It’s fine, son.” Ning Dazhuang’s voice was quiet, even a bit hoarse, but carried an undeniable certainty.
“Our Ning family has been ordinary folks for generations, and we’ve managed just fine.
With strength and hard work, we won’t starve.
In the future, learn carpentry from me.
It’s a decent trade to make a living, nothing to be ashamed of.”
No blame, no sighs—only the simplest acceptance and the most practical arrangement.
Looking at the pure, genuine concern in his father’s eyes and his mother’s efforts to comfort his sister, the cold resentment and frustration that had surged in Ning Chuan’s heart after his failed Martial Soul Awakening quietly melted away, if only a little.
Yes, in this world, he wasn’t left with nothing.
At the very least, he still had this simple, heartfelt affection as his harbor.
At that moment, Su Yuntao had already packed up his things completely.
After briefly instructing Old Village Chief Jack, he leaped several times and swiftly disappeared in the direction of the village entrance under the villagers’ reverent yet complicated gazes, hurrying off to meet his goddess.
With the protagonist gone, the villagers gradually dispersed, their discussions still revolving around Tang San, the exceptional case.
No one spared another glance at Ning Chuan and his sister, as if they were merely the most insignificant background characters in this annual spectacle.
Old Village Chief Jack sighed and walked over to Ning Dazhuang’s family.
He looked at the downcast Ning Chuan and Ning Xiaohe, who was sobbing in Liu Lan’s arms, forcing a comforting smile onto his aged face.
“Dazhuang, Liu Lan, take the children home.
Life must go on.
They’re still young, and there’s a long road ahead.”
“Ah, understood, Village Chief,” Ning Dazhuang replied in a muffled voice.
Liu Lan also stood up, holding Ning Xiaohe, and nodded to the village chief.
The family of four walked silently toward their simple wooden house.
The journey home felt much heavier than the one to the village square.
Ning Xiaohe seemed to have cried herself out, quietly sobbing on her mother’s shoulder.
Neither Liu Lan nor Ning Dazhuang spoke again, walking in silence.
Ning Chuan followed behind his parents, head lowered, his gaze unfocused on the uneven dirt path beneath his feet.
His right hand instinctively tightened slightly—he still had a chance.
The “All-Heavens Garbage Recycling Station” was his opportunity to defy fate.