Chapter 10: The Gathering Storm
Dawn broke storm-gray and restless, clouds hanging low over the Iron Banner Sect as if the sky itself brooded on what was to come. Jiang Wei awoke to a dormitory pulsing with anxious energy. Ming Xue was already securing her boots, eyes sharper than usual. Yao Ping mumbled about strange dreams, and even Han Zhi seemed fevered with anticipation.
Word of the outer disciple tournament had spread like wildfire during the night, whispered in every hall and training yard. By breakfast, the entire sect was ablaze with rumors—of rewards grand enough to elevate an outer disciple directly to the inner court, of challenge matches featuring veterans eager to test their dominance, and of rare treasures, perhaps even a legendary spirit stone, set aside for the victor.
Jiang Wei felt pressure settle in his chest, heavy and uncertain. For all his modest triumphs so far, he'd never fought with stakes so high. As he queued for plain rice and soup, the pebble on his wrist throbbed with strange vigor, as if urging him onward.
The morning drills were twice as intense. Elder Hui oversaw the newest arrivals, his criticisms sharper, his encouragement rare. "If you wish to survive the tournament, show it now!" he barked, assigning grueling routines—endurance sprints, weapons practice, channeling of spirit energy under the driving wind. Many faltered; Jiang Wei persisted through the ache, breath steaming, peering through sweat as rivalries simmered on all sides.
A murmur rippled through the ranks when Wen appeared, her white-sashed robe dazzling in the brittle sunlight. "Tomorrow, at sunrise, the preliminary duels begin," she announced, her tone grave. "This is not just a contest of skill, but of heart. Only forty will advance from more than a hundred. Fight with honor, and remember: in victory and defeat, a cultivator's true self is revealed."
Later, teams gathered to strategize. Ming Xue honed her blade silently, eyes far away. Yao Ping boasted he'd finally developed a technique worthy of the opening rounds—though his confidence thinned under Ming Xue's cool stare. Han Zhi did not join the bravado; instead, he asked Jiang Wei softly, "Do you ever feel like you're still that outcast, just waiting for the crowd to turn?"
Jiang Wei met his gaze, recalling every sneer in Xiangfeng Village, every lonely night by the creek. "Every day," Jiang Wei admitted. "But I also remember that I kept walking." He looked to Yao Ping and Ming Xue, surprised by his own certainty. "So, I'll keep walking. Tournament or not."
Afternoon brought a rare lull. Jiang Wei found solitude beneath the ancient juniper, meditating on the flow of spirit energy in his veins. Images flickered—clashing swords, bursts of power, the chill of defeat and fire of hope. The pebble grew warm as a memory surfaced—*a distant throne and spectral banners snapping in a wind older than memory*. The voice returned, echoing in the quiet: *Do not fear the battle. The storm is the forge.*
He opened his eyes to find Ming Xue standing nearby. "You're not afraid," she observed quietly.
Jiang Wei shrugged. "I am. But I want to see what happens when I refuse to step back."
She nodded, a rare smile shadowing her lips. "Good. I would rather spare with someone who stands than one who prostrates." She offered a hand, and together they sparred, their wooden blades ringing in brisk, precise patterns—a silent pact, forged through sweat and respect.
When night returned, tension knotted every corridor. Songs of glory drifted from older disciples, while novices like Jiang Wei steeled themselves against fear. As he lay in his bunk, the pebble radiated a tranquil confidence stronger than before, blending with the anxious hope that filled his chest.
Above, thunder rumbled on the mountains, a distant drum heralding change. Jiang Wei closed his eyes knowing that tomorrow, every step would matter more than ever. The path of the Monarch demanded courage, and beneath the Iron Banner, he swore to find his—whether through triumph, struggle, or the gathering storm itself.