Chapter 63 – Training Part 3

Of all the things Tian Jue Dui demanded of Qiang Ming, the most harrowing wasn't physical exertion, or even enduring pain.

It was learning.

Specifically, learning the three remaining secondary professions—mechanic, array master, and spirit refiner.

Qiang Ming had always prided himself on being a capable blacksmith. He was a 4-star Blacksmith, and while he wasn't particularly special among legends, he was solid. Competent. Reliable.

But to his Master? That meant nothing.

"You're average," Tian Jue Dui had told him bluntly on the first day of profession-focused training. "In a world of Limit Douluos and Dire Beasts, average gets you nothing but regret."

Qiang Ming didn't take offense. He took it as a challenge.

And so began the most intellectually exhausting period of his life.

Tian Jue Dui wasn't just a quadruple saint—he was the quadruple saint. The only person alive certified as 8-Star in all four secondary professions. A feat that defied logic, time, and human limits. Had he chosen to slow down in one and hyperfocus on another, he might've even touched 9-Star. But as he put it: "Mastery is breadth and depth, not just depth alone."

Having such a teacher was like being thrown into a storm made of books, blueprints, spiritual arrays, and volatile materials.

Trying to learn all four disciplines at once was… well, Tian Jue Dui had his own words for it:

"It's like trying to become a pro in soccer, tennis, swimming, and soul racing at the same time. You're going to drown if you can't grow gills."

But somehow, Qiang Ming didn't drown.

He swam.

He swam upstream—roaring.

His success wasn't blind luck. It was a perfect storm of factors converging at once:

Innate talent, honed through a lifetime of combat and cultivation.

A mutated, awakened bloodline, the blood of a Three Eyed Golden Lion King pulsing through his veins, reinforcing his stamina, cellular regeneration, and endurance to inhuman levels.

A spiritually enhanced mind, shaped by the agonizing-yet-effective Monarch Will method, allowing him to endure torturous memorization and mental training without cracking.

And most importantly—his Third Eye.

That eye wasn't just for show. It gave Qiang Ming a passive photographic memory, and when he actively opened it during study, his comprehension would multiply manyfold. Concepts that would take ordinary geniuses months to grasp, he could master in days.

That didn't mean it was easy.

His days were segmented with military precision: mechanical design and inscription in the mornings, spirit refining exercises after mid-day meals, theory of array alignment in the afternoon, blacksmithing rotations until nightfall—and all of it followed by his now-routine medicinal baths and grueling cultivation practice.

He barely slept. He rarely ate outside of high-grade pills. His free time was spent either collapsed on the ground or catching up on techniques from the previous week he didn't fully digest.

He burned through six months this way.

And yet, he thrived.

By the time a full year had passed within the Pride's realm, Qiang Ming had grown. Not just taller, stronger, and sharper—but denser, like every fiber of his being had been compacted and forged under pressure.

He was now 14 years old, and for the first time in his life, he felt like someone worthy of his potential.

And he remembered something—something his Master had promised, almost off-handedly.

"Survive the semester, and I'll answer your question. Choose wisely."

So, on one of his rare granted "vacation days," Qiang Ming walked out into the soft night air, the stars blinking high above the private realm, and approached his Master—who, as usual, sat cross-legged beneath a formation of floating soul lamps, meditating in complete stillness.

Qiang Ming bowed deeply and said:

"Master. The semester ended. I'm still alive. I'd like to know more about you."

Tian Jue Dui opened one eye. The black vortex within that pupil swirled slowly, unreadable.

"I will give you three answers. Choose your questions well."

Qiang Ming crossed his arms and looked to the sky, thinking.

He had learned so much this year. About cultivation. About hammers. About lions and gods and war. But the man in front of him, the one who had given him everything… still felt like a mystery.

So he asked:

"First—who are you to Shrek? Someone of your level must hold a great position."

"Second—how old are you, truly? You carry centuries in your eyes."

"Third—what is your title as a Titled Douluo?"

There was silence. The stars blinked on above them, and for a moment, the world seemed to quiet. Then, Tian Jue Dui opened both eyes.

His joking mask was gone. In its place was something vast. Eternal.

"I," he said slowly, "am Tian Jue Dui, aged 324 years."

"I am Shrek Academy's Elder of Rites—the final torchbearer. If the Academy falls, if its memory is erased, it is my duty to restore it from nothing. Even human civilization, if need be. That's why I am a Quadruple Saint—I had to be. One spear can slay a beast. Four spears can rebuild an empire."

"As for my title…" he looked into the sky. "It is mostly forgotten now. Maybe purposefully, maybe by time's own erosion. But in the older scrolls, they called me—the Absolute Sky Douluo."

He paused.

"…Though if you dig deep into the forbidden archives, you might find another name. One whispered by madmen and saints alike."

Qiang Ming leaned in slightly.

Tian Jue Dui smiled faintly.

"The Unascended God."

With those words, the silence returned.

The stars twinkled again, uncaring. And Qiang Ming felt a strange chill—not of fear, but reverence. For the first time since meeting his Master, he didn't just admire him.

He respected him.

Tian Jue Dui then said, quieter now, "Survive the next semester, and you may ask again."

Qiang Ming bowed again, deeply. And then, respectfully, turned and walked back to the Pride's lair.

There, waiting for him as always, was the medicinal bath he had prepared. He stripped, stepped into the scalding pool of herbs and essence, and sank beneath the surface.

The warmth engulfed him. Soothing. Nurturing.

Then the pain came.

The Three Eyed Abyss technique began to churn, dragging in ambient spiritual energy from every direction and cycling it through every cell of his body. He clenched his jaw. Sweat beaded down his temples.

Then came the Monarch Will—his mental training technique. Every pulse was like a blade to the mind. Every exhale, an exercise in not screaming.

This was his life now.

Growth and pain. Pain and growth.

And Qiang Ming endured.

Because there was still so much more he needed to become.