The mountain path wound upward like a pale ribbon, climbing into the clouds.
Shen Yelan followed the others in silence. His legs were heavy, his breath shallow, but his eyes never left the steps ahead. Behind him, the gates of the Radiant Sword Sect grew smaller, the noise of the city fading until only the mountain wind remained.
Just hours ago, he had stood before the elders in the testing courtyard, the taste of blood still faint on his tongue from the Spirit Stair trial. The elder's calm words — "You may stay. Outer disciple rank." — still echoed faintly in his mind.
Now, that promise carried him upward.
The outer sect elder leading them walked slowly, his gray robes fluttering.
"From this point onward," he said, voice flat but clear, "you are disciples of the Radiant Sword Sect's outer division. You will train, serve, and prove yourselves. Only those who pass the inner trials may step further. Remember that."
The group murmured in agreement. Some looked excited, others nervous.
Yelan said nothing. The mountain air was thin; each breath stung his chest. Still, he climbed.
At last, the path opened into a wide plateau. Wooden houses stood in neat rows, each with a small courtyard and a flag bearing the sect's emblem — a golden sword piercing the clouds. Beyond them, terraced fields and training platforms stretched toward the edge of the cliffs. Disciples in white and gray moved between them, swords on their backs, their movements swift and clean.
"This is the outer sect's lower quarter," the elder said. "You'll live here until you earn a higher rank. Discipline is your first teacher. Laziness is your enemy. The bell rings at dawn; if you're late, you'll taste the whip."
He motioned toward a cluster of wooden houses. "Find your assigned rooms. Food is distributed at midday. The first trial begins tomorrow at sunrise. Dismissed."
The crowd scattered.
Yelan looked around. The air smelled faintly of pine and smoke. His new home was a small hut at the end of the row — rough walls, thin roof, but clean. He set down his bundle, sat on the wooden bed, and exhaled slowly.
He was finally here.
For a long moment, he sat motionless, listening to the wind brushing against the wooden walls. His fingers brushed the worn edge of his sleeve — a small habit from home. Everything around him felt new, but his thoughts were quiet.
Outer disciple… lowest-grade earth root… yet still here.
That thought alone steadied his breath.
Outside, voices drifted through the air.
"Did you see that boy during the entrance test? He failed the first trial and somehow still got in."
"Must've been luck. Or pity."
"Luck doesn't last in this sect."
Yelan pretended not to hear. He took out his water flask and drank. His hands were still trembling from the mountain climb, but his heart was steady.
When the bell rang for the evening meal, he followed the others to the canteen — a wide, open hall filled with long tables. Disciples moved in lines, receiving bowls of rice and vegetable broth.
As he sat, a cheerful voice spoke beside him.
"New face, huh? I'm Luo Ming. You came from the southern villages?"
Yelan nodded. "Willow Village."
"Ah, I passed through there once," Luo Ming said, grinning. "Good air, bad roads."
Yelan gave a faint smile. "That's true."
They ate quietly for a moment before Luo Ming leaned closer. "You heard what the elder said? Tomorrow's the first trial — sensing spiritual energy. Most will fail. They say even those with roots sometimes can't sense it in time."
Yelan's hand paused over his bowl. "And if one fails?"
Luo Ming shrugged. "You stay in the outer sect and work — clean, carry water, tend the fields. After a year, you can try again… if you're still allowed to."
Yelan nodded slowly. His eyes lowered, thoughtful.
That night, the dormitory was quiet. The mountain wind brushed through the cracks in the wall, carrying the faint scent of pine and cold stone. Yelan sat cross-legged on his bed, eyes closed, breathing evenly.
He tried to follow the teachings he had overheard — to still his thoughts, to draw in the world's breath.
But no warmth came. No flow.
Only the steady rhythm of his heart, the faint creak of wood, and the whisper of the wind.
He sat there until the moon rose high, its light falling through the window like silver dust.
At dawn, the bell rang.
Hundreds of outer disciples gathered at the training field. A senior disciple in white robes stood before them, hands clasped behind his back. His eyes were sharp, his tone strict.
"Today, you will attempt to sense spiritual energy," he said. "Sit. Breathe. Feel the flow between heaven and earth. Those who succeed will take their first step on the path. Those who fail will remain as laborers."
The field fell silent.
Yelan sat with the others, closing his eyes. He listened — to the wind, to the faint hum of the world around him. His breathing deepened.
He waited.
Minutes passed. Sweat beaded on his brow. Around him, faint gasps sounded as others succeeded — small sparks of light flickered across the field, like fireflies born from the air itself.
But within him, there was only emptiness.
He tried again, harder this time. His body trembled. A dull ache spread through his chest.
Still nothing.
The senior disciple's voice cut through the silence. "Time's up."
The sparks faded. The successful stood apart; the rest lowered their heads.
Yelan opened his eyes. His hands were cold.
"Those who failed will report to the labor division," the senior said. "You will serve the sect for one year before you may attempt again."
Luo Ming glanced at Yelan, uncertain. Yelan only nodded once, quiet.
As the group dispersed, clouds drifted over the sun.
He stood at the edge of the field, watching the mountain peaks disappear into mist. His jaw tightened, but his gaze didn't waver.
He had failed.
He turned toward the labor yard without hesitation.