Chapter 22: Soul Power, Level Three
"Soul power, level three."
"Level three? Hah! That waste has cultivated for three years and only reached level three—what a joke."
"And mind you, we're talking level three of a spirit scholar, not level three of a Spirit Master or Spirit King! One level per year!"
"This disgrace has completely shamed the family. Imagine it—Thunder Douluo Yu Yuanzhen having such a useless son."
"It's not that the patriarch fails—it's that his son does. Look at the other boy, born of a concubine—he's the most gifted genius of our sect, already level nineteen after only three years. Now that son is worthy of the patriarch's name."
"This brat isn't even a proper Spirit Master. How does he have the nerve to claim core disciple resources—and three shares, at that! Three! Give those to me and I'd already be a Spirit King!"
"Who's going to stop him? He's the patriarch's son. That's all the qualification he needs."
"If the patriarch weren't his father, this trash would've been thrown out long ago—left to starve instead of eating and drinking for free here."
Within the Blue Lightning Tyrant Dragon Sect's Resource Pavilion, Yu Xiaogang, his cropped hair gleaming with frost under the mocking eyes of onlookers, walked forward steadily.
"Three shares of core disciple resources," he said flatly.
The elder behind the counter frowned, clearly dissatisfied. But seeing the sect master's token in Yu Xiaogang's hand, he dared not object, handing over three sets of supplies with a sigh. Without emotion, Yu Xiaogang stored them in his soul tool and turned to leave.
After he was gone, the elder muttered under his breath, "I can't imagine what the sect master's thinking. What value could this boy possibly have? Even this sect's vast resources can't be squandered like this…"
Outside, the jeers resumed.
"Well, if it isn't Cousin Xiaogang again," came a sneer. "Collecting your shares, huh? Three in one go—how generous. How about sharing a little with your dear brothers?" Yu Xiaoke approached with a smirk.
Yu Xiaogang clutched his soul tool protectively. "No chance. These are my training resources. You know what happened to the last ones who tried to take them. Try again, and I'll tell Father—and he will punish you."
A shadow flickered across Yu Xiaoke's eyes. In an instant, he stepped forward and drove his elbow hard into Yu Xiaogang's chest, sending him sprawling to the ground.
"Ah!" Yu Xiaogang screamed, clutching at his ribs.
Yu Xiaomen quickly ran over, lifting him up. "How careless can you be?" he scolded Yu Xiaoke. "Watch where you're going! You just ran straight into my brother—apologize now!"
Yu Xiaoke feigned contrition. "Cousin Xiaogang, I'm really sorry. That was an accident—I didn't see you. Are you hurt? I didn't mean it, truly."
Yu Xiaogang's eyes burned red as he shoved Yu Xiaomen away. "Liar! You did it on purpose! Everyone saw! I'll tell Father—you'll pay for this!"
Turning to the others, Yu Xiaoke raised his voice. "You all saw, right? It was an accident. He bumped into me himself."
Yu Xiaozhu joined in the lie. "That's right! We all saw it. Xiaogang threw himself at your elbow!"
"And he calls you careless?" added Yu Xiaoren with a snort. "He walked straight into you. Honestly, for someone who's trained three years, he's still so weak. You just nudge him and down he goes—what a useless piece of trash."
Yu Xiaogang's fists trembled. The veins in his neck bulged as he glared at their laughing faces. "You… you… you—!"
The onlookers froze for a moment. Was he actually going to fight back? Though any one of them could flatten him easily, he was still the patriarch's son. If they injured him badly and he ran to complain, that would spell trouble.
But instead of attacking, Yu Xiaogang suddenly covered his face with his hands—and bolted, running off down the path. They stared after him, dumbfounded.
So… he ran again.
…
That night.
"Damn it. Curse them all."
Yu Xiaogang sat submerged in a bath of precious body‑refining medicinal fluid, his face twisted with anger. Once, when he was under six, the younger disciples had bowed to him, calling him "Young Master Xiaogang." Yu Xiaoke, Yu Xiaozhu, Yu Xiaoren—all of them had fawned over him, bullying Yu Xiaomen just to win his favor.
But now? Everything had changed.
When their martial souls awakened, those same flatterers turned their cruelty on him, all to curry favor with Yu Xiaomen—the "bastard." Because of talent. Because of fate.
"Why, heaven?" he hissed through gritted teeth. "Why give that half‑blood Yu Xiaomen a 9.5 innate soul power while I—descendant of the Golden Holy Dragon—end up with this… Luo Sanpao? Why?! Why?!?"
"AAAAHHHH!" he screamed, punching the water.
His skin reddened as the heat and potency of the medicine seeped in. The pain grew unbearable, forcing him to drag himself from the tub, gasping for air.
After resting a while, he mixed another batch of elixir, replacing the weakened brew. Most cultivators could soak for hours, absorbing eighty percent or more of the energy. But Yu Xiaogang's fragile body could endure only thirty minutes before he cried out from pain, absorbing barely a third of the essence.
His physical weakness filled him with despair. The first level had taken him three months to achieve; the second, a year; the third, another year and a half. The further he went, the slower he progressed. At this rate, even a snail would surpass him.
And he was still just a spirit scholar. The higher the rank, the harder the climb. Could he ever even reach level ten—to become a true Spirit Master? He wasn't sure anymore.
The thought gnawed at him, his frustration boiling into madness. "No," he snarled. "No, I will not remain ordinary! I will become a Spirit Master—a Grand Spirit Master, a Spirit Elder, a Spirit Ancestor! I'll do whatever it takes! If one share of resources isn't enough, I'll take two! If two aren't enough, I'll take three—four, five—whatever I need!"
He slammed his fist against the tub.
Watching his peers claim their first spirit rings while he was mocked as a failure had warped his heart beyond repair. He didn't care about the sect, about honor or family. He cared only about himself—about proving them wrong.
"I'll speak to Father tomorrow," he muttered. "I'll demand at least two more shares next month. Otherwise, I'll never catch up…"
(END CHAPTER)
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