The days in the Radiant Sword Sect passed slowly.
For new disciples, there were two kinds of work.
Those with good roots were sent to study under elders.
Those with poor roots were given labor.
And those with no roots — were often forgotten.
Shen Yelan belonged to the last kind.
After the failure of the sensing trial, his name was written among the laborers. There was no ceremony, no comfort. Just a wooden token that marked his place and a quiet order: serve for one year.
He lived in the outer sect's lower valley, where mist hung between the trees and few disciples came. His hut stood near the forest's edge — its roof leaked when it rained, the floor was rough stone, but he didn't complain.
Each morning, before the bell rang, he woke while the stars were still fading.
His first task was to fetch water from the mountain stream. The path wound through sharp rocks, wet moss, and tall grass that brushed his legs. The buckets were heavy, the water colder than ice. His hands often went numb, but he kept walking until he reached the sect's washing yard before sunrise.
After that came the gardens.
These were not peaceful flower gardens but the sect's spiritual herb fields — rows of fragile plants that needed exact care. The soil had to be turned just right, the water measured by ladle, the weeds removed one by one so no root would be disturbed.
Most disciples hated this work. The smell of wet soil clung to their clothes, and the cold wind from the mountain chilled their backs. But Yelan didn't mind. His movements were steady, his eyes calm. Every leaf, every drop of water — he treated them as if they were alive.
At noon, while others rested, he sat under a tree with his simple meal of cold rice and pickled greens. The sound of swords clashing echoed from the high terraces. Disciples trained under the elders' gaze, their robes fluttering like wings.
Sometimes, Yelan looked up at them.
Then, quietly, he lowered his head and kept eating.
Days turned into weeks.
Those who had entered the sect with him were already discussing spirit energy, sword techniques, and inner trials. Some had formed groups. None spoke to him.
He didn't mind that either.
At night, he returned to his hut, washed the dirt from his hands, and lit a small oil lamp. Sometimes he read from an old, torn book his father had left him — words about patience, balance, and the strength found in silence.
Sometimes he just listened to the wind brushing the trees outside.
One evening, as the sun sank behind the mountains, Elder Zhou — the caretaker of the outer sect — called for him.
"You," the old man said, his voice rough from age. "You're the one from Willow Village, yes?"
"Yes, Elder," Yelan replied.
"I've seen your work in the herb fields. You're slow, but careful. Starting tonight, you'll handle the night duty near the lower garden. Keep the water channels clear, check the fences, and make sure the lamps stay lit."
Yelan bowed deeply. "Yes, Elder."
"Don't expect thanks," Elder Zhou grunted. "The night there is quiet, but beasts sometimes wander near the forest. Keep a torch."
"I will."
That night, when the sect fell silent, he began his new duty.
The moon hung low, casting silver light across the fields. Mist covered the herbs, their leaves glimmering faintly. The stream beside the path whispered softly, carrying mountain water down to the valley.
He checked the channels first. Some were clogged with leaves and dirt. He knelt, clearing them with his hands until the water flowed smooth again.
Hours passed quietly. The torches flickered as he trimmed their wicks and refilled their oil. The air smelled of wet grass and cold stone.
When he finally stopped to rest, the moon was high. He sat by the stream, washing his hands in the cold water. The reflection of the moon rippled across his fingers.
His back ached. His palms were raw. But in that stillness, there was peace.
He looked toward the distant peaks where the main sect shone faintly in the night — towers glowing like stars. Somewhere up there, disciples cultivated under elders' guidance, walking paths of light.
Down here, he was surrounded by mud and shadow.
Still, his heart was steady.
Even if no one saw him now, even if his name meant nothing — he would not stop.
The heavens had given him a weak root, but they could not take away his will.
He stood, tightened the rope around his empty bucket, and began walking again through the mist.