The academy's rigid schedule had become second nature, but comfort wasn't an excuse for complacency. Each day followed the same pattern: morning classes covering soul master theory and cultivation techniques, afternoon combat drills that left my muscles aching, team battles that tested strategy as much as strength, and then the real work began.
While other students collapsed into their beds or gathered in common areas to socialize, I retreated to either the library's dusty archives or the solitude of my dormitory. The Bloodlust soul ring demanded more understanding, and I was determined to decode every aspect of its power.
The ring wasn't just a simple buff—it was an intricate system of energy manipulation that most soul masters would never bother to analyze. They activated their skills through instinct and accepted whatever effects emerged. But I approached it like an engineer reverse-engineering a complex machine.
Every activation followed a precise sequence. My soul power would flow from my core into the ring's crystalline structure, following pathways that seemed almost organic in their complexity. The energy would spiral through multiple channels, each one amplifying different aspects of the skill before converging into the final manifestation. I mapped these pathways obsessively, sketching diagrams and noting variations in flow patterns.
"Okay, so if the main channel handles raw power amplification," I muttered to myself during one late-night session, tracing energy flows on my makeshift diagram, "then these smaller branches must be modulating the mental effects. Classic feedback loop situation."
The more I studied these sequences, the more convinced I became that soul skills weren't immutable. They were systems—and systems could be optimized.
"Everyone's just accepting their skills as unchangeable gospel, but like... why though?" I asked the empty room. "This is literally just energy manipulation with extra steps."
Three months of dedicated practice yielded my first major breakthrough. The berserker rage that came with Bloodlust had always been its greatest weakness. Sure, the physical and speed enhancements were incredible, but losing control in the middle of combat was a liability I couldn't afford. Through careful experimentation, I learned to throttle the skill's intensity.
By consciously restricting the soul power flow through specific channels, I could dial back the buff's strength while dramatically reducing its mental side effects. A 5% boost with full clarity was infinitely more valuable than a 10% boost with compromised judgment. The duration extended too—what once lasted a minute at maximum intensity could now be maintained for nearly two minutes at reduced power. This level of modulation was apparently unheard of, as I don't see others do it. Or at least others my age.
But my control had boundaries. Modifying Bloodlust when cast on myself was one thing—I had complete access to my own soul power circulation. Affecting others remained impossible. The skill had to pass through their soul force to take effect, and I couldn't manipulate energy that didn't belong to me. Their bodies acted as barriers, preventing the fine-tuned control I'd developed.
Still, even this partial success felt monumental. It was proof that soul skills could be controlled, that the traditional understanding was incomplete.
My second breakthrough came during a particularly late practice session. The library had closed hours ago, and I was alone in my room, working through activation sequences by candlelight. Traditional soul ring manifestation involved the ring materializing around the soul master's body—typically floating at chest height or orbiting the torso during use.
I'd never questioned this. It was simply how things worked.
But as I focused on the ring's materialization, I began experimenting with its size and positioning. What if the traditional method wasn't optimal? What if it was just... tradition?
The first time I managed to shrink the ring down to bracelet size, I thought I'd made a mistake. But there it was—a perfectly formed soul ring, complete with its crimson glow and intricate patterns, hovering around my wrist like some sort of mystical accessory.
"Okay, that's actually fire," I grinned, rotating my wrist to watch the miniaturized ring spin. "It looks absolutely sick!"
The practical benefits were immediately obvious. A smaller ring meant less visual disruption during combat, potentially faster activation times, and better concealment if stealth became necessary. But beyond the tactical advantages, I couldn't help but imagine future soul rings arranged like this—each one orbiting my arms like glowing bangles of power.
The aesthetic appeal alone made the experimentation worthwhile, but I suspected there were deeper implications. If ring size could be modified, what other aspects of soul skill manifestation were malleable? The possibilities felt endless.
While my soul master training progressed, my entrepreneurial ventures had exploded beyond my wildest expectations. What began as a simple plan to fund my cultivation had become a legitimate business empire.
The toy market in this world had been stagnant for centuries. Children played with wooden dolls, simple balls, and basic board games that lacked any real complexity or innovation. My introduction of Rubik's cubes alone had caused a sensation—a puzzle that challenged spatial reasoning and provided endless replayability was revolutionary here.
Chess sets followed, then increasingly sophisticated mechanical puzzles, strategy games that required actual thinking, and construction toys that encouraged creativity. Each product launch generated buzz throughout the city. Nobles purchased them as conversation pieces, parents bought them to challenge their children, and even fellow soul masters found them useful for mental training.
My workshop had expanded from a single room to an entire building. I'd hired fifteen full-time employees—craftsmen, designers, and a small sales team to handle the growing demand. The income, after salaries and materials, was more than sufficient to fund the high-protein diet and specialized equipment my cultivation required.
The work schedule I'd implemented was apparently revolutionary in its own right. A forty-hour work week with guaranteed days off was unheard of in this world. Most laborers worked from dawn to dusk, seven days a week, with breaks only for major festivals.
My employees treated me like some sort of benevolent deity. They worked with enthusiasm I'd never seen before, took pride in the products they created, and several had asked if they could bring family members into the business.
The irony wasn't lost on me. In a world obsessed with cultivation and strength, I'd accidentally become known for treating people humanely. Rest wasn't seen as weakness by my workers—it was a luxury they'd never imagined possible.
But success bred complications.
Within two months of my toys hitting the market, knockoffs began appearing. Cheaper versions with inferior materials and sloppy craftsmanship flooded the streets. The copies were obviously inferior—my Rubik's cubes turned smoothly and held their alignment, while the knockoffs jammed and fell apart—but they were also significantly cheaper.
"Of course it's nobles," I sighed, crumpling up the investigation report.
Investigation revealed what I'd expected: a noble family was behind the operation. To my sources, they had connections throughout the merchant district and enough influence to pressure manufacturers into copying my designs. They'd even hired former customers to reverse-engineer my more complex puzzles.
In a world without intellectual property laws, I had no legal recourse. Innovation belonged to whoever could replicate it fastest.
But honestly? I wasn't that pressed about it.
My products had established a reputation. Customers knew the difference between authentic craftsmanship and cheap imitations. More importantly, I had something House Meridian couldn't replicate: a head full of Earth's toy and game innovations spanning decades.
Let them copy my current catalog. By the time they figured out how to mass-produce Rubik's cubes, I'd already be introducing Tetris-inspired puzzles, advanced board games, and mechanical toys that would make their copies look primitive.
They were playing catch-up to my past while I planned their future.
The real challenge would be staying ahead of their copying speed while maintaining quality. But that was a problem for future me. Present me had soul rings to master and cultivation levels to achieve.
Besides, competition kept things interesting. And in a world where strength determined everything, economic warfare felt refreshingly straightforward compared to the political maneuvering I'd witnessed among the noble houses.
My biggest concern wasn't the knockoffs—it was maintaining the balance between business success and cultivation progress. Money was a tool, not an end goal. The moment profit became more important than power, I'd lose sight of what really mattered in this world.
But for now, the balance held. My toy empire funded my soul master development, and my soul master training provided the discipline and focus that made my business decisions sharp.
Both paths were ascending, and I intended to keep climbing.