By IMERPUS RELUR
--
Three days later, Liang Chen walked barefoot down a mountain path, a wrapped bundle on his back and a sword tied in cloth.
Red Ember Village faded behind him. No one had tried to stop him. Why would they?
A cripple had no place in the Emberdust Sect, and no future among mortals.
But Liang Chen's destination was not the Emberdust Sect.
It was the Nine-Flame Gate, a minor outer sect that accepted new disciples once every few years from neighboring villages.
Their requirements were low: a minimum of Low-Grade Spirit Root, age under twenty, and physical soundness.
He had none of those. But he was going anyway.
---
The mountain pass opened into a large clearing where the outer gates of the sect stood—stone lions at each side, and banners fluttering gently with the symbol of a burning lotus.
A crowd had already gathered. Dozens of youths—some from poor villages, others wearing decent silks—stood in line to register.
A long wooden desk separated them from the gate, behind which sat a yawning outer sect disciple, stamping talismans with clear boredom.
Liang Chen stepped into the back of the line, eyes fixed on the stone steps beyond.
This world had gates.
But so did fate. And sometimes, you didn't wait for them to open.
You forced them to break.
---
"Next!"
A boy in front of him stepped up and offered his spirit root certification. The outer sect disciple scanned it.
"Mid-Grade Wind Root. Accepted."
Another stepped forward. "High-Grade Water Root. Accepted."
"Low-Grade Earth Root. Barely passable. Accepted."
Then came Liang Chen's turn.
The disciple didn't even glance at him properly. Just raised an eyebrow.
"Name?"
"Liang Chen."
"Spirit Root document?"
"I have none."
"Then you're wasting our time."
"I came to apply."
The man laughed. "And I came to waste paper. Get lost."
Liang Chen didn't move.
The crowd behind him began murmuring.
"He doesn't even have a root?"
"Probably from some ash farm."
The disciple waved his hand dismissively. "No spirit root, no entry. That's our lowest standard. Even beggars know that. Leave."
Liang Chen reached into his pack.
He pulled out his sword, still wrapped in cloth.
The disciple frowned. "What are you—?"
The moment the cloth fell away, the spiritual pressure hit the air like a shockwave. The Mortal-Grade weapon glinted faintly in the light, its edge clean, its body engraved with subtle runes.
Several outer disciples nearby turned to look.
"That pressure…"
"Is that a Mortal-Grade weapon?"
Liang Chen stepped forward. "I built this myself. No root, no training. Just a stone, and my hands."
The disciple narrowed his eyes.
"You expect to be accepted based on a weapon?"
"No," Liang Chen said. "I expect to be feared for what I'll become if you don't."
The air fell silent.
Even the wind paused.
The disciple stared at him long, then scoffed.
"Spirits help you, boy. But rules are rules. You'll never touch a cultivation method here. You'll never enter the training grounds."
He stamped a rejection talisman.
"You are hereby denied entry to Nine-Flame Gate."
The gate behind him closed.
Liang Chen took a breath and turned away, sword in hand.
He didn't look back.