Chapter 30: I Became an Ancient Martial God Without Doing Anything?

The world inside the Pot of Creation was steadily evolving under the guidance of the Ancestor Luo. The small humans were gradually advancing; their brains, once simple constructs at the time of their creation, had become increasingly complex over the generations. Both their physical constitution and mental capacities had risen in a spiraling ascent.

Especially after the transmission of the Five Supreme Martial Paths, which opened ways for spiritual exploration, Wood Martial God brought forth innovations. Receiving the inheritance of the ancient Martial God, he created the Divine Martial Canon, using martial practice to seek the Way, forming the seed of the Dao, projecting the spirit from the body, turning into a rainbow and ascending beyond. Through generations of human genius, the practice was refined, and at last, they acquired the method of refining qi and consuming elixirs. Thus, humanity took its first true steps on the path of cultivation. From then on, all schools of thought blossomed, and now, there emerged a figure named Cang, who created the Rite of Spirit Invocation, drawing wisdom from all things, greatly accelerating the intellectual development of the small human race.

None of these developments surprised Ancestor Luo, as he had always been watching. What puzzled him was his reputation as the so-called Ancient Martial God. He had done almost nothing—Wood had left only a few vague words, and even the “Martial God's Golden Body” was taken away—yet the people, ever fond of their stories, made him into a mysterious ancient sage who found the Way through martial arts, ascended in a blaze of glory, and merged with the Dao of Heaven.

The small human race had quickly cast off the shackles of slavery and entered a feudal age. A hundred years earlier, the first tribal alliance formed a nation.

This nation was called Yu, meaning “Heaven's Blessing,” and its king was called Zu. To distinguish himself from the commoners and to ensure his descendants could inherit his position, he gave himself a surname.

This, however, sparked a rebellion. Though Zu was a peerless figure, wielding the legendary Blood-Drinking Mad Blade—crafted by Ancestor Luo and ranked first among divine weapons—he faced the combined assault of seven other supreme masters, each bearing a divine weapon of their own.

In the end, the first king of Yu fell in the third year of his reign, his body torn apart and buried in far-flung corners of the land. Yu collapsed soon after, splintering into six new nations, each ruled by one of the king’s slayers. As for why there were only six and not seven, the last master had renounced his arms and retired from the world.

These six kingdoms—Tai, Lin, Yu, Yue, Xin, and Chen—divided the land of Yu among themselves, devouring surrounding tribes and swelling in size until, ten years later, their territories far exceeded the old Yu.

Drunk on power, the six kings clung to their thrones, following Zu’s example of surnames to perpetuate their dynasties. But unlike Zu, they were cunning—they distributed power among their followers and invited them to take on surnames as well, ensuring broad support and preventing any repeat of Zu’s fate.

Yet they miscalculated one person: the master who had laid down his arms and retired.

When word reached him, he immediately emerged from seclusion and went straight to the capital of Chen, where the six kings were gathering to formalize the shared surnames. There he challenged them: Had they forgotten their pact?

The pact was threefold: to share both joy and hardship with the people, to be as one with the people—not rulers above them—and to be born and die as commoners.

Shamed by his reproach, the six kings summoned their followers and armies to surround this lone challenger for daring to defy the “order of the world.”

But his abilities were extraordinary. Unlike the six kings who had grown soft in luxury, he had never ceased his rigorous cultivation—seeking the Way above, staying true to his heart, and experiencing the world below. He had achieved a great breakthrough. So even when beset by the six kings and their forces, he shattered their resistance.

In the end, the six kings were slain, the chief offenders among their armies executed, and the rest of the forces disbanded on the spot.

Afterward, he personally restructured the six kingdoms, unifying them under one banner. Yet he took no power for himself. Instead, he bestowed the surnames once claimed by Zu and the six kings upon all people, so that everyone now had a name and a surname.

He named the new, unified nation “The First,” and its king would be known as “Tai.” Each king was required to change his name to Tai and relinquish his surname, which could only be reclaimed upon abdication and the removal of the crown and robes.

Having established the new order, this remarkable man withdrew once more into seclusion, but no one dared defy the pact he made with the people.

As for his name? He bore no surname—only the name Cang.

He was the very figure who created the Rite of Spirit Invocation. When founding the First Kingdom, he freely disseminated his method, so that all might cultivate.

After fulfilling these deeds, Cang vanished from the world, and no one knew where he had gone. But the people believed he still lived. Even a century after the First Kingdom’s founding, they believed he watched over the world, witnessing the changes of the ages and reflecting on the affairs of mortals.

Should anyone once more become greedy for power, he would surely return to rid the world of evil.

Would he grow old? Would his fists falter one day? That was a laughable thought. Which cultivator did not live for centuries? Especially those of high attainment—living past two hundred years was not uncommon, and proof abounded.

For someone like Cang, his lifespan might well be three hundred, five hundred years… or more.

But where was he?

In all the world, only he and the heavens would know. And the heavens had a name: Ancestor Luo.

Ancestor Luo, like a satellite, watched the small humans’ every move in real time.

Thus, he truly knew where Cang was. Ancestor Luo found these people genuinely fascinating.

Cang, after much wandering, had secluded himself within the ancient “Holy Mountain” of the human realm.

Ancestor Luo worried that another might one day ascend in broad daylight and call out to the world: “Do not ascend! Do not ascend!” That would be mortifying for him. Had he ever wronged anyone so?

Landlords collect their rent; is it so wrong for a creator god to collect a little wisdom from his creations?

Meanwhile, Cang was indeed studying the so-called Way of Heaven in the Holy Mountain.

Ancestor Luo was tempted to offer some advice: “Your level is too low; do not let your imagination run wild. Focus on steady cultivation—one step at a time is the right path.”

Above all, Cang’s wisdom was truly astounding. He had gathered the knowledge of all before him and, with the great Sun and Moon Rite passed down by Ancestor Luo, created a method capable of drawing the essence of all things. Ancestor Luo was genuinely concerned he might stray onto a dangerous path.

While Cang meditated in the mountains for many years, a new change emerged in the world.

Evil arose.

A demon was born from the very method Cang had created.

The demon plundered the essence of heaven and earth, of all living things, of all that existed.

Any who fell victim to its predation were reduced to nothing but withered bones, their blood, flesh, and even marrow utterly consumed.

It was truly terrifying.

The world was thrown into panic, desperately hoping for Cang to emerge and save them.