The morning mist clung to the pavilions of the Clear Flow Clan like forgotten memories. Dew glistened on jade railings, and the slow ripple of water echoed beneath stone bridges, their arches aged with centuries of silent history. But beneath the serene veneer of tradition, tension simmered. Today was no ordinary day.
Inside the ancestral hall, its tall wooden beams carved with the image of hammers and flowing rivers, a young boy sat on a cushion of embroidered silk. He was six years old, small yet composed. His back straight, hands resting lightly on his lap, he bore the dignified calm of someone twice, thrice his age.
His name was Qiang Ming.
Black hair framed his fair, noble face, and his eyes—deep and obsidian—held a quiet depth. Though still a child, there was already talk within the clan: "The boy has his mother's poise and his father's spirit.""He is handsome now. Imagine when he grows up.""A true heir, if the heavens allow."
But in private, whispers carried a different tone. "Will he inherit the curse?""What if he fails like the others?""Another Clear Flow Hammer... broken before it begins?"
The room was filled with elders, each seated in a crescent around the boy. Some had long white beards braided with silver threads, others wore simple spirit jade circlets on their foreheads. And at the center, standing behind Qiang Ming with a firm yet gentle hand on the boy's shoulder, was his father: Qiang Shen, the current Duke of Clear Flow.
A man of tall stature and proud bearing, Qiang Shen wore robes of midnight blue and silver, the traditional colors of their lineage. But despite his strong outer appearance, deep lines had formed at the corners of his eyes—wrinkles carved by years of political pressure and the pain of watching a noble legacy erode.
Qiang Ming could feel his father's tension through the palm on his shoulder. He didn't fully understand the depth of it, but he knew that today mattered. Immensely.
A deep gong echoed once through the hall. The ceremony had begun.
An elder stood and spoke, his voice resonating with the solemn weight of tradition.
"On this, the fifteenth day of the Frost Moon, in the ten-thousandth year since the ascension of Spirit Ice Douluo, Huo Yuhao… we gather to awaken the Martial Spirit of the heir of Clear Flow. May the heavens bear witness."
A quiet murmur passed among the elders. That number—ten thousand years—was not ceremonial exaggeration. It had truly been a full ten millennia since the legendary Huo Yuhao broke the bounds of mortal cultivation and ascended to the heavens. And since then, many powerful clans had risen and fallen. The Clear Flow Clan, once an offshoot of the mighty Clear Sky Clan, had fallen into obscurity.
The cause?
Their inherited Martial Spirit: the Clear Flow Hammer—a diminished echo of the legendary Clear Sky Hammer—was defective. For centuries now, no one had managed to break past the thirtieth rank. It was as if the bloodline itself had been... castrated.
Some called it fate. Others whispered of a curse.
And yet, here sat Qiang Ming, the only heir, the only hope.
He followed the elder attendant quietly to the Spirit Awakening Chamber, a sacred room behind the ancestral hall. It was a dome-shaped sanctum inscribed with golden runes, glowing softly with internal spirit energy. Inside, at the center, stood the Spirit Stone: a crystalline pillar that pulsed with ancient power, ready to resonate with the soul of any child placed before it.
Qiang Ming was led to the platform and gently pushed forward. The stone shimmered, responding to his proximity.
The attendant chanted softly, then turned to the boy.
"Place your hand on the stone, young master. Relax. Let it draw out what lies within."
Qiang Ming nodded silently and obeyed.
As soon as his hand touched the cold surface of the Spirit Stone, warmth surged through his body. A pulse. Then another. Then—
A violent ripple of energy exploded from the stone.
The elders outside straightened in alarm, several rushing forward. Inside the chamber, purple light burst like a star behind Qiang Ming's back, and the ground trembled faintly. The boy's body lifted slightly off the ground as arcs of light twisted around him.
From the center of his back, a shape began to emerge.
At first, it seemed like a hammer—thick, blunt, and heavy. But its coloration was wrong. Its surface was black as night, with the glint of obsidian and veins of glowing purple crystal. Ethereal energy leaked from its edge like fog falling into the void. It was beautiful and ominous in equal measure.
And then—Qiang Ming changed.
His black hair shimmered, strands turning deep purple like ink poured into darkness. His eyes flickered, their color bleeding into a luminous violet hue. For a moment, the boy floated, surrounded by pure spirit light, as the Martial Soul stabilized behind him.
Silence.
The energy dropped. The boy fell to his knees, panting.
The elders rushed in. Some stared in awe. Others frowned, troubled.
One of the senior elders whispered, "It's... not the Clear Flow Hammer."
"Of course it's not," another snapped. "It mutated. This is something new."
"But is it better or worse?"
"Could be another dead-end. Or something far worse..."
Meanwhile, Qiang Ming stood again, steadying himself with a hand on his knee. His breathing slowed. The hammer—his Martial Spirit—still hovered behind him, humming faintly, connected to him like an extension of his soul.
He turned slowly toward the elders and his father, and for the first time, he spoke aloud since the awakening began.
"I can feel it," he said softly. "It's... deep. Heavy. Like it was waiting for me."
The hammer pulsed once, echoing his words.
Qiang Shen stepped forward, his expression unreadable. "Does it have a name?"
The boy paused. Then, without hesitation, his violet eyes lifted and he said, clear and calm:
"The Blackstone Abyss Hammer."
The chamber fell silent.
For the first time in generations, the Clear Flow Clan witnessed something they hadn't felt in centuries: possibility.
Hope.
Or perhaps, as some elders feared, the first tremor of something darker.