N-A-A Chapter 3 Martial Soul Awakening, Unexpected Incident
Chapter 3 Martial Soul Awakening, Unexpected Incident
"Tian'er? Tian'er!" the goddess of life called out urgently, reaching out to embrace him.
Just then, Zi Lingtian suddenly opened her eyes.
Those heterochromatic pupils, green on the left and purple on the right, had lost their usual liveliness and brilliance, replaced by a blank and confused look. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but couldn't utter a single word. He fell straight forward like a felled log.
The God of Destruction reacted swiftly, catching his son in his arms. Zi Lingtian's body leaned limply against him, his breathing steady, but he had completely fallen into a coma.
"What happened?" The God of Destruction's voice was deep and dangerous. His gaze swept over every corner of the magic circle, and after confirming that there were no problems with the awakening ritual itself, his brows furrowed deeply. "The awakening process went smoothly, and his body was not injured. Why is he unconscious?"
The Goddess of Life placed her palm on Zi Lingtian's forehead, and emerald light probed into the depths of his consciousness. After a moment, her expression became somewhat strange.
"His consciousness... is very confused," the Goddess of Life said slowly, as if trying to understand the information she had detected. "It doesn't seem like he was attacked; it's more like... his brain was flooded with a massive amount of information in an instant. This information was too complex for his consciousness to handle, triggering a self-protection mechanism, which is why he fell into a coma."
"A lot of information?" The God of Destruction's gaze sharpened. "What do you mean?"
The Goddess of Life shook her head, her expression complex: "I'm not sure either. But the source of that information... seems to be outside the realm of gods, or even outside this time and space. Tian'er's consciousness is passively receiving these things; once he's processed them, he should wake up."
The God of Destruction remained silent for a moment, then carried his son towards the inner hall: "Let him rest well. We'll ask him more questions when he wakes up."
The Goddess of Life followed behind him, her gaze fixed on Zi Lingtian's pale face, a vague unease creeping into her heart. What exactly were those messages flooding into her son's consciousness? Why did they appear at this crucial moment of awakening his martial soul?
All of this can only be revealed when Zi Lingtian wakes up.
Zi Lingtian had a very, very long dream.
In his dream, he wasn't the son of the God of Destruction and the Goddess of Life, nor was he a born descendant of a deity. He didn't possess twin super-god-level martial souls, nor did he have innate level 30 soul power. He was just an ordinary person, an ordinary person struggling to survive in this vast and cruel world.
He saw a cramped rental room with yellowed wallpaper on the walls and takeout boxes and delivery containers piled up in the corner. On a computer desk sat two monitors, their screens densely covered with spreadsheets and documents. The ashtray beside the desk was overflowing with cigarette butts, and the air was thick with the lingering smell of smoke and instant noodles.
He saw himself.
A young man in his early twenties, wearing a faded plaid shirt, with messy hair and heavy dark circles under his eyes, was sitting in front of a computer, frantically typing on a PowerPoint presentation. The clock in the lower right corner showed 2:43 a.m.
"This proposal is due by 9 AM tomorrow, and you're only on the third version? What does the client's dissatisfaction have to do with me? Figure out the changes yourself! Don't even think about leaving today until you've finished!"
A sharp voice came from the phone; it was his department manager. The man who always talked about "struggle," "wolf-like spirit," and "execution," the man who left work promptly at 5 p.m. every day but demanded that his employees work overtime until the early hours of the morning, the man who only gave him a bowl of instant noodles as "benefits" after he had worked continuously for 36 hours.
He hung up the phone expressionlessly and continued revising the PowerPoint presentation.
The screen changes.
He sat in a noisy little bar, across from two equally exhausted friends. Several bottles of beer sat on the table, and most of the peanuts were already gone.
"Old Zhang, what do you think we're striving for in this life?" He took a swig of wine and asked with a bitter smile.
"What's the point? Just to survive." Old Zhang sighed. "I still have 28 years left on my mortgage, 4 years left on my car loan, and my child is starting kindergarten next month. One semester's tuition is equivalent to three months of my salary. I don't want anything else, I just don't want my son to end up like me."
Another friend raised his glass: "Alright, alright, stop thinking so much, let's drink. Thinking too much can lead to depression, and depression means spending money to see a psychologist, which is another expense. We working-class people can't afford to get sick."
He smiled, clinked glasses, and drank it all in one gulp, but the weariness and numbness in his eyes were impossible to hide.
The screen then switched again.
That was the apartment he rented—or rather, the tiny single room in a densely packed building in an urban village, where you could shake hands with the tenant across the street if you opened the window, and sunlight never shone in. But the building had one unique feature: it had a full hundred floors. The landlord proudly described it as the tallest residential building in the city, and every tenant was proud of it, as if living on a high floor truly made them superior.
His room was on the 100th floor.
That night, he worked overtime until the early hours of the morning before getting home. Dragging his exhausted body into the bathroom, he mechanically turned on the tap and stood under the showerhead, letting the hot water wash over his aching shoulders and stiff neck. With his eyes closed, his mind was still preoccupied with the report due the next day, and there was still one piece of data he hadn't checked.
Then he heard a voice.
The sound came from above, growing louder and louder as it approached, like something falling at high speed. He instinctively opened his eyes and looked up at the small ventilation window in the bathroom.
He saw a huge car front.
A truck—no, a Dayun heavy truck—was descending from the sky at incredible speed, its headlights flashing blindingly in the darkness, its massive tires crushing the air with a deafening roar.
His brain completely shut down at that moment.
Why would there be a truck on a 100-story building?
These were his last thoughts before he died.
Then, everything returned to darkness.