He woke to the sound of insects.
Quiet clicks and low hums from the garden outside — a steady rhythm, like wings on stone. Familiar, but distant. Like someone else's memory.
His eyes cracked open.
Gray light spilled in through the thin screen window. Mid-morning.
For a second, he thought he heard laughter.
Small. Bright. High-pitched.
A girl's voice.
But when he turned his head, there was no one there.
Just the edge of the garden wall…
And a crooked pine tree that bent toward the sun.
For a moment, he thought he saw water.
A wide stretch of it — still and silver. A lake.
But when he blinked, it was gone.
No lake here.
Just flowers, stone, and that same leaning pine.
He wiped his face with the back of his hand — paused.
His fingers came away damp.
A tear.
Then — a flicker of sensation pulled him back.
An itch. Just above the waist.
Reality returned in pieces. The ache in his ribs. The dry stickiness of sweat. The faint sting in his shoulder where the bite had been.
Right. Yesterday.
He'd managed to smear a fresh layer of ointment across the wound, and throw on a clean robe. Then collapsed face-first into the bedroll like a man half-dead.
He hadn't meant to fall asleep.
But the day had been too much.
He shifted, slowly, and pushed himself upright with a groan.
Every muscle ached. His shoulder throbbed. His side felt like someone had tried to carve it open with a spoon.
The itch at his waist flared again. He ignored it.
He sat there for a moment, legs crossed on the rumpled bedroll, staring at the floor. Letting his thoughts catch up.
He'd done it.
Finally.
The Frostdew Flower was gone. His pores were open.
The qi in his body still moved — faint, but present.
Inner Essence Realm.
He didn't feel stronger. Not yet.
But the difference was there, somewhere beneath the skin. A pressure. A hum. A thread waiting to be pulled.
And now that it was real — now that it was his — there were things he needed to do.
First stop: the Badge Hall.
Every disciple who broke through had to report it.
An elder would confirm the advancement, update their identity tag, and record the change in the sect's records. Standard procedure.
But the part that mattered? Privileges changed with rank.
New realm. New doors.
He stood.
A sharp wave of nausea hit him. He gritted his teeth, steadied himself against the wall, and waited until it passed.
Then made his way outside.
The garden was still drenched in dew.
Vines clung to the walls. Pale blossoms spilled over the stone path. Somewhere, a bell rang — high and distant.
He followed the walkway around the side of the residence, passing the crooked pine again.
The same one from the dream.
It looked smaller now. Less sacred.
No lake behind it. Just moss and a half-sunken lantern.
He shook his head and kept walking.
As he left Jasmine Garden, the sect stretched out ahead — terraces, pavilions, carved steps disappearing into mist.
Everything felt sharper, heavier, yet faintly unreal, like he was still half in the dream.
But the path to the Badge Hall was familiar.
Down the slope, past the second tier courtyards.
By the time he reached the long, low building of white stone and gold trim, the haze had thinned.
Two minor disciples loitered on the steps. They glanced at his robe, then quickly looked away.
He climbed the last few stairs and pushed open the door.
Inside, the air was cool and dry.
Scrolls lined the back wall. A wide desk stretched across the front, carved from dark lacquered wood, plain but precise — like everything else in the sect.
It looked exactly the same as it had a week ago, when he first stepped through these doors to officially join.
Only difference now was the ache in his ribs and the qi humming faintly beneath his skin.
The same lone elder sat behind the desk, robes slate-grey, hair pulled into a loose topknot. He didn't look up right away — just held out a hand without speaking.
Riven reached into his chest pocket and pulled out the thin octagonal tag. Cold to the touch. Faintly veined like stone.
It was standard issue — same shape, same size for every disciple.
Just a different color.
Core gold.
They really like this symbolism.
He placed it in the elder's palm.
The man finally looked at him — once — then pressed two fingers to the tag.
A quiet pulse passed through the badge. The embedded qi-seal shimmered faintly, then stilled.
"Confirmed," the elder said. His voice was low, slow, unimpressed. "Inner Essence Realm. First stage."
He moved to slide the tag back across the desk.
Paused. Looked again.
He recognized this kid.
Had joined just last week — five months late into the year.
Unusual timing. Unusual everything.
The Headmaster himself had handed down the order to assign him core disciple status.
At that age? With that cultivation?
He was either some hidden genius…
Or the Headmaster's illegitimate son.
The elder hadn't asked.
Wasn't his job to care.
But still — it stuck.
Maybe that's why, instead of waving him off, he added:
"You're eligible for bronze-rank missions now. Check the board at the Mission Pavillion."
A beat. Then:
"And since you're in the Inner Essence Realm… you'll qualify for the Newcomer's Trial next month."
He tapped the desk once — soft, sharp.
"You should visit the Martial Skills Pavillion before that."
Riven nodded.
This was the whole reason he'd rushed the breakthrough.
The Newcomers' Trial — a competition held once a year for disciples who'd joined in the last twelve months.
Normally, it was just another test. A chance to show off and gain the elders attention alongside some simple prizes.
But this year was different.
There was a special prize.
The top three performers would be allowed to follow an elder to the Emerald Banquet —
A high-grade gathering hosted in the largest city in the province: Verdance.
Riven didn't care about the banquet.
He cared about the city.
A place that big had to have maps. Real ones. Detailed, updated — the kind that might actually help him figure out where he'd been dropped.
Where he was.
And more importantly — how to get home.
Surely, there had to be something.
He slipped the token back into his chest pocket and turned to leave.
The elder didn't say goodbye.
Neither did Riven.
Five minutes later, Riven stood in front of the Martial Skills Pavilion.
It didn't look like much.
Square. Plain. Thick timber walls and a roof glazed in dark green tile.
But no disciple in their right mind would mistake it for ordinary.
This was one of the sect's hearts.
The place where their internal martial arts were stored.
He stepped through the doors.
A single elder sat at the front behind a long lacquered desk.
Older than the one at the Badge Hall. Shaved head. Eyes like still water.
He didn't speak — just gave the smallest of nods.
These guys really hate talking.
Riven returned it. Then kept moving.
The room stretched deep. Further than it looked from the outside.
Pillars rose between rows of shelves, each marked with signs describing the techniques they held.
It wasn't an unfamiliar structure.
He'd seen something like this before — at the Scripture Hall, where he'd chosen his cultivation manual: the Frozen Gale Codex.
That place had rows of shelves like these too. Organized, categorized.
But there, everything was sorted by element — ice, fire, metal, wood, shadow and so on.
Not here.
Here, the divisions were based on purpose:
Movement arts — for footwork, dodging, pursuit.
Offensive arts — broken further by style: sword, blade, fist, palm, kick, claw, etc.
Defensive arts — body-hardenings, counterflows, reactive guards.
Special techniques — rare or odd skills that didn't fit anywhere else.
Riven paused in front of one of the divisions.
A familiar exhaustion tugged at his ribs — but under it, something else.
Something warmer.
Excitement.
This was the part he'd been looking forward to the most.
Even with everything else. Even like this.
He still remembered his father's strikes summoning tornadoes.
His mother pulling up walls of water the size of houses.
He knew he wouldn't reach their level.
Not yet.
But even so.
It's time.
Riven stepped forward to the first scroll.