Dawn had not yet touched the mountains, yet the plateau where the candidates stood was already bathed in starlight. The heavens above stirred, threads of radiance weaving together until a curtain of shimmering light unfurled across the stage. It bent the air, bending even sound, until the mortal world outside seemed impossibly far away.
The candidates shifted uneasily. Some whispered prayers, others clenched fists white with nerves. The glow of the veil painted every face in silver, stripping them of their masks—leaving only the truth of who they were.
Elder Zhao raised his hand. His words were calm, but they pressed against every heart.
"Within this Veil, you will duel. Victory is not merely the fall of an opponent. Victory is showing the essence of your cultivation—your heart, your will, your path. The stars will witness. The sect will judge."
The light rippled. Two names appeared in silver flame. A hush fell. The first pair vanished into the veil, swallowed whole by the shimmering curtain.
The mountain plateau became a place of waiting. Each duel was hidden within the veil's folds—only the sudden expulsion of a figure told the outcome. Sometimes they staggered back, defeated but breathing. Sometimes they were flung out, gasping and broken. No one could see the battles, yet each return painted a picture of struggle and failure.
Feng and Wen stood side by side, their eyes fixed on the veil.
Feng exhaled slowly. "Doesn't it feel like the stars themselves are watching?"
Wen grunted. "Good. Then they'll see me win."
Their banter was brief, but it steadied them.
Then, silver flame flickered again. One name glowed. Lin Feng.
The air tightened around him.
Feng's fingers brushed the hilt of his sword. He gave Wen a half-smile. "Guess it's my turn."
And then the veil pulled him in.
The world within was vast and unreal—an endless plain of darkness, studded with stars that hung impossibly close, as though he had stepped into the sky itself. The ground beneath him shimmered faintly, reflecting the heavens.
Across from him, a boy appeared: broad-shouldered, with a heavy saber slung across his back. His eyes were sharp, his stance brimming with confidence.
The boy smirked. "An innkeeper's son? This is where your luck ends."
Feng tilted his head, smiling lightly. "Luck, huh? Let's find out."
The saber came first, cleaving through the starlit air with brutal weight. The strike carried the force of a landslide, raw and merciless. Feng darted aside, feet gliding like flowing water.
And then—he blurred.
The boy blinked, shocked. One instant Feng was before him, the next he was several paces away, robes still whispering in the after-image.
Feng chuckled softly. "Chasing water with a blade… not easy, is it?"
The boy growled and charged, saber hacking and sweeping. Each strike split the air with sheer force, yet Feng's movements bent around them, fluid and untouchable. John's altered footwork carried him between steps, almost folding space itself. To his opponent, it looked like teleportation.
Still, Feng did not grow arrogant. Each dodge sharpened his timing, each movement attuned him further to the rhythm of the duel. He flowed, adapted, shifted—becoming less fighter and more river.
At last, the boy overcommitted, his blade plunging into empty air. Feng slipped behind him in a blur, and with a swift flick, tapped his shoulder with the flat of his sword.
The saber wielder froze. The veil shimmered. And then he vanished, expelled in silence.
Feng stood alone, chest rising and falling, sweat glistening—but his eyes gleamed with exhilaration. He had not merely survived. He had danced with freedom, and the stars had seen it.
Outside, murmurs rippled among the waiting candidates as the defeated boy stumbled out of the veil. Elder Zhao gave no sign of reaction, but his gaze lingered for a heartbeat.
Another ripple of silver flame.
Qiao Wen.
The plateau hushed. All eyes followed him as he stepped forward. Wen's stride was steady, though his hand twitched faintly at his side. He paused once, just before the curtain, casting a single glance toward Feng—who gave him the smallest of nods.
Wen drew a slow breath, and entered.
The veil swallowed him whole.
Inside, the world was once more stars and silence. His opponent emerged—a lean girl with sharp eyes and twin daggers glinting in her hands. She spun them idly, lips curling into a confident smirk.
"You look quiet," she said, circling him. "That's good. It'll make it easier when you fall."
Wen said nothing.
His eyes tracked her movements, calm and unflinching. His silence pressed against her words, heavy and immovable.
The girl grew restless, her smirk sharpening. She lunged, daggers flashing in silver arcs.
Wen's foot shifted. Just enough.
Her strike sliced air.
She spun, slashing again, faster, more vicious. Wen moved again, subtle and precise—his body there one instant, gone the next, his steps folding space as though the stars themselves bent for him.
Each miss gnawed at her composure. "Why won't you fight back?!" she snapped.
But Wen only watched her with that same stillness. His patience, his silence—it became a weapon sharper than any blade. Each heartbeat she failed to touch him, her own desperation grew.
Her breathing grew ragged. Her form faltered.
In that instant, Wen struck.
One cut. Swift, exact, unhesitating.
The daggers clattered to the starlit ground. The veil shivered. She vanished.
Wen stood alone, sword lowered, his face unreadable, but his silence roared louder than any victory cry.
When the veil finally lifted, the mountain plateau greeted them with cold dawn light. Candidates staggered out, defeated or triumphant, each carrying the weight of their trial.
And then came Feng and Wen, emerging last. Both stood straight, weary but victorious, their eyes burning with quiet fire.
The crowd of candidates shifted uneasily. For the first time, they looked at the two not as simple townsfolk—but as rivals, as contenders.
But no applause came.
The sect elders remained seated. Their gazes were sharp as unsheathed swords, their expressions hidden behind silence.
Elder Zhao said nothing.
The quiet stretched, heavier than any roar.
Feng and Wen stood beneath it, their victories unacknowledged, their hearts pounding with the weight of unseen judgment.
Had they impressed the sect? Had they failed to measure up?
The silence gave no answers.
Only the stars seemed to watch, their cold light spilling across the mountain, bearing witness to what came next.