CHAPTER 3

  “The second trial.”

  “Sever the Stone.”

  From above, Leng Wuqing’s voice descended like a cold wind skimming across still water.

  “You have half schichen to prepare.”

  “Those whose Spiritual Power is depleted, recover.”

  “Those who have yet to steady their minds from the first trial… calm yourselves.”

  She paused, her gaze sweeping across the new recruits who were still catching their breath.

  “Prepare well.”

  “Good luck.”

  With that, she turned and left. Her white robes shifted lightly in the wind, the Outer Sect Elder following behind her.

  Only when their figures disappeared beyond the stone corridor did the remaining new recruits finally exhaled, as though a weight had been lifted from their chests.

  Yang Feng released a slow breath as well.

  He looked down at his hands, still trembling faintly.

  Then he clenched them.

  I must steady my heart.

  I cannot allow fear to linger.

  In a quiet corner of the Outer Sect Plaza, beneath the shade of a broad tree whose leaves filtered out the harsh noon sunlight, a pocket of coolness lingered amidst the heat.

  Leng Wuqing sat upon the ground, her back resting lightly against the trunk.

  She looked out toward the new recruits who had scattered to recover, then lifted her gaze toward the sky.

  White clouds drifted slowly overhead.

  The mountain wind passed through, cool and steady, stirring a few loose strands of hair by her temple.

  The air was so still that even her state of mind seemed to settle with it, the quiet spreading inward until her thoughts no longer carried their usual edge.

  There was an untroubled calm to it, almost at ease, perhaps even something close to a rare good mood.

  She had drawn her sword today, but not to kill. This time, it had been to show others the path that lay before them.

  A face came to mind.

  A child she had once saved six years ago.

  A youth who, today, was no longer the child he had been.

  “Yang Feng… was it?”

  “So he survived.”

  All her life, Leng Wuqing had known only the sword.

  Cutting. Killing. It had long since become instinct.

  She had saved so many that she could no longer remember them all.

  Yet that child from years ago, there had been something about him.

  And after what he displayed today…

  perhaps her judgment had not been mistaken.

  Leaning against the tree beside her, the Outer Sect Elder finally spoke, his voice low enough to disturb the quiet only slightly.

  “May I ask you something, Peak Master Leng?”

  “Hm?”

  “What is it?”

  “I heard that this year’s quota for the Outer Sect is forty-three disciples. It seems… higher than before.”

  “Last time, there were only thirty-four.”

  Leng Wuqing did not look at him. Her gaze remained distant, her tone light, yet carrying the chill of mountain wind.

  “You have served as Outer Sect Elder for many years,” she said. “Since before the Sect Master took me in.”

  “You should understand one thing.”

  She paused.

  “The number we must recruit depends on how many we have lost.”

  The words fell quietly, like a stone dropped into still water.

  The Outer Sect Elder’s expression darkened.

  Thirty years in this position… he understood far too well.

  Watching Outer Sect disciples grow, break through, and step into the Inner Sect — that was a joy.

  But the price paid for that joy was no less great.

  Within the Heavenly Sword Sect, the place where casualties were highest…

  had always been the Outer Sect.

  Neither of them spoke again.

  Only the mountain wind moved beneath the shade of the tree, light and steady, carrying away the weight that lingered unspoken between them.

  Half an hour later, the seventy-odd new recruits who remained stood in ordered rows at the center of the Outer Sect Plaza, their expressions no longer resembling those from the beginning of the trial. The ragged breathing had faded, and the frantic searching in their eyes had disappeared; those who remained had seen their fear, confronted it, and stepped past it.

  The atmosphere had grown subdued, heavy as a thin veil of mist settling over stone.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Leng Wuqing stood above, her gaze sweeping across them once.

  “I will call your names.”

  “You will step forward one by one.”

  “Each of you has three attempts.”

  “Remember. The limit is two minutes.”

  “I do not care what Spiritual Power you use, what sword method, what technique…”

  Her voice lifted slightly.

  “So long as…”

  “You split this stone sphere in two.”

  At the center of the plaza, a dark stone sphere rested in stillness, unadorned by carvings, untouched by formations, without the faintest trace of Spiritual Qi fluctuation. It was merely stone, so dense that even sunlight seemed unable to find a surface to reflect from.

  And yet,

  everyone knew

  it was not simple.

  And so, the names began to be called.

  “Liu Rumei.”

  A young woman stepped forward.

  Her sword left its sheath.

  She drew in a breath and poured her Spiritual Power into the tip of the blade.

  A straight strike fell.

  Clang.

  The shrill sound of metal against stone rang across the plaza.

  Her sword snapped.

  The broken blade rebounded and stabbed into the stone several paces away.

  The sphere of stone… bore only a faint white mark.

  She bit down hard, retrieved the broken weapon, lowered her head, and stepped back.

  She did not attempt a second strike.

  …

  The quiet air began to stir.

  Whispers spread like ripples across water.

  “That’s impossible…”

  “How is anyone supposed to pass?”

  “What kind of trial is this?”

  The murmuring grew louder.

  The confidence they had carried only moments before… began to crack.

  Then another name echoed.

  “Zhou Yikang.”

  A tall youth stepped forward, muscles taut, resolve clear in his eyes.

  He tested the stone once.

  Then again.

  And a third time.

  Cracks spread along his blade.

  On the final strike, the sword shattered completely.

  The stone sphere fractured a little deeper.

  Only a few inches.

  He stood still for several breaths.

  Then quietly withdrew.

  One after another, they failed, names continuing to echo across the plaza as swords broke in succession, as some struggled through all three attempts only to see their blades chipped and splintered before their blades finally shattered without splitting the stone, and others were hurled backward the moment their strikes met its surface, the recoil answering their effort with cold indifference.

  Metal clashed.

  Breath grew ragged.

  Steel broke.

  The air grew hot.

  Anxiety spread like dry grass catching flame.

  Faces that had once been steady… grew heavy.

  Then pale.

  Then hollow.

  Yet amid the rising disorder… there were still those who stood upright, their gazes unwavering.

  Those…

  who truly believed in their swords.

  “Huang Lingxiao.”

  The moment the name was called, the air across the plaza shifted almost imperceptibly, not because he was the strongest present, but because of the surname.

  Huang.

  Within the Heavenly Sword Sect there were five peaks. Blazing Fire Peak was foremost in fire-aligned sword arts; its Peak Master was Huang Langzi, and even the Outer Sect Elder bore the same name.

  The youth stepped out from the line in robes of red trimmed with gold, a belt embroidered with intricate flame patterns resting at his waist.

  He did not conceal his bearing.

  He did not need to.

  Some were born already standing higher than most.

  Huang Lingxiao came to a stop before the stone sphere and placed his hand upon the hilt of his sword.

  He did not strike at once.

  Spiritual Power gathered around him, not in a sudden eruption, but gradually, like embers breathing beneath ash, heat building without haste.

  The ground beneath his feet dried.

  The air itself shimmered.

  He opened his eyes.

  He drew.

  A dry, slicing sound passed through the plaza.

  Dark red flames wound themselves along the blade, not flamboyant, not wild, but tightly bound, condensed into a keen, cutting edge.

  “Flame-Blazing Slash.”

  He stepped in and brought the sword down.

  For a brief instant, there was only contact.

  Then the sound followed.

  A contained blast rolled outward as fire surged nearly a zhang high, heat sweeping across the square in a visible wave.

  The stone sphere separated cleanly into two halves.

  The cut surface was blackened, smoke rising in thin strands.

  Several new recruits swallowed.

  This was no reckless burst of strength.

  The heat was measured.

  Refined.

  The kind that came from lineage carried over years.

  Huang Lingxiao withdrew his blade. The edge still glowed faintly red.

  He did not bow.He let his gaze sweep across the crowd instead.

  The pride in his eyes was not concealed.

  It did not need to be.

  “Ou Bakang.”

  The second name was called, the elder’s tone unchanged.

  Yet the atmosphere shifted once more.

  If Huang Lingxiao had been fire, all heat and dominance, then Ou Bakang was water, quiet, measured, and patient.

  The youth in blue stepped forward.

  His robes were neat, unadorned, free of ostentation.

  But those who understood lineage needed no display.

  The Ou clan.

  The Ou clan was the direct bloodline of Mystic Array Peak, whose Peak Master, Ou Wuji, was known not for explosive displays of strength, but for calculation carried to its finest detail.

  Ou Bakang stood before the stone sphere.

  He did not gather power in visible waves.

  He did not let heat distort the air.

  He merely exhaled softly.

  His sword rose.

  The movement of his wrist was so slight it was almost invisible.

  Yet in that breath, his footing had already shifted three times.

  The Ou sword style did not pursue dominance.

  It pursued weakness.

  The first strike fell.

  A thin incision appeared upon the surface of the stone.

  The second.

  A crossing line, measured to the smallest fraction.

  The third.

  Sword Qi as fine as thread pierced precisely through the point where the two cuts met.

  Clink.

  There was no explosion.

  No burst of flame.

  The stone separated quietly, the cut so even it seemed pre-measured.

  Ou Bakang withdrew his blade.

  He bowed his head.

  No arrogance. No provocation.

  Yet the crowd understood that this kind of opponent was more dangerous than Huang Lingxiao, not because his sword burned hotter or struck louder, but because it did not overwhelm, it did not roar, and it did not miss.

  “Liu Yue Ling.”

  The final name among the three who had drawn attention.

  A young woman in deep violet stepped forward.

  She did not belong to any peak within the Heavenly Sword Sect.

  Yet those who understood the Eastern Domain would recognize the surname.

  The Liu clan.

  A reclusive lineage.

  Unaffiliated with any sect, unburdened by displays of power, yet in every generation, a true sword talent would emerge.

  Liu Yue Ling did not speak.

  She simply stepped before the stone sphere and stood there.

  Her gaze was calm.

  No heat.

  No visible calculation.

  Only stillness.

  She drew her sword.

  The motion was light, almost unremarkable.

  Spiritual Power rose around her, but did not flare outward. It drew inward instead, condensing into stillness.

  The tip of her blade trembled once, and in that subtle motion Sword Qi revealed itself, not as flame, not as water, but as something purer, a current of refined sharpness gathering along the edge until the air around it seemed quietly thinned.

  Clear enough that several nearby new recruits stepped back without realizing they had done so.

  She took a single step.

  From above, the blade descended.

  Not heavily.

  Not violently.

  Just a clean diagonal line.

  There was no explosion.

  No scattering dust.

  Only a faint sound, like wind brushing past leaves.

  A thin cut appeared.

  And the stone separated.

  The surface was so smooth it held no fracture, no uneven edge, as though the blade had passed through something softer than rock.

  At the summit of the Ninefold Qi Refining Tower, Leng Wuqing’s gaze lingered on her a breath longer than before.

  Sword Qi stabilized.

  “At this age…”

  “Not bad.”

  Three individuals, three distinct styles, three kinds of talent, three different paths unfolding before the same stone.

  Each strike had left more than a mark upon the sphere; it had carved an impression into the hearts of those watching.

  And slowly the crowd began to understand that the Heavenly Sword Sect did not lack genius, nor powerful bloodlines, nor exquisite sword arts, nor those born already standing higher than most.

  And among them, amid talents nurtured by lineage and sect alike, a youth in black stood quietly, his dark green outer robe stirring faintly in the wind.

  No mastery of Spiritual Power.

  No intricate sword technique.

  No distinguished bloodline.

  No stabilized Sword Qi.

  He had only one thing.

  A Straight Slash.