The sky trembled—a deep, sickly green.
Thick clouds pressed down, suffocating the mountain peaks in an eerie twilight. Silence, heavy and complete, ruled.
Then, a scream of light.
A slash of pure crimson, two hundred feet long, erupted from the highest peak. It tore through the green gloom like a blade through rotten silk, scattering the clouds to wisps.
In the clearing aftermath, a figure rose.
A hundred feet tall, translucent and forged of shimmering jade-green light. It had the form of an ancient cultivator, hands clasped in a final, profound seal. It rose slowly, as if getting up from a lifetime of kneeling.
It hovered, a monument of serene power, for several long minutes.
Then, it faded into nothing.
---
Deep within the mountain, in a chamber sealed for decades, the air crackled with settling energy.
A young man in his twenties sat cross-legged on stone. Before him floated a child-sized figure—a perfect, miniature copy of the giant outside, robed in condensed light.
The young man brought his palms together. The small, luminous being streamed forward, pouring into his chest.
His body shuddered. Light bled from his pores as his hands flew through a series of intricate seals, condensing the rampant energy into the core of his being.
Stillness.
He opened his eyes. A faint jade luminescence faded into deep, ordinary brown.
He took a long, shuddering breath that echoed in the silence.
"Finally," he whispered, the word holding the weight of centuries. "The peak of the Mortal Realm."
He stood, muscles protesting, and tied his simple green robe. The mundane action felt sacred.
He sat on his plain jade bed, releasing a sigh that carried a lifetime's exhaustion.
"After so many life-and-death fights... I survived." He looked at his scarred, calloused hands. A bitter smile touched his lips. "Born without a spirit root. Called trash. A mortal stain."
His voice dropped to a whisper, lost in memory.
"What I've done... feels impossible, even to me."
He closed his eyes.
---
157 Years Earlier
The sky above Lingshui Village was a clear, untroubled blue. Midday sun warmed peaceful, terraced fields.
In a barren plot at the village edge, a fifteen-year-old boy lay on his back.
Yan Lin.
His clothes were patched and thin. His face was pale, but his eyes were deep and dark, staring at the vast sky as if trying to read its secrets. His lips were pressed tight, holding back a torrent of unspoken words.
One day until the Spirit Root Test.
The thought was a cold stone in his gut. His father had been gone a week, traveling to the prefecture. Begging for work. For a loan. For the single entry fee that came once every hundred years.
A hundred years.
The number was a death sentence for his hopes. He'd be dust long before the next trial.
If I get in... He dared not finish the thought. It wasn't about conquering heavens. It was about the monthly stipend. Silver. Grain. His father's back wouldn't break. His mother's fingers wouldn't bleed from mending others' clothes.
A full meal. Every day.
His grand ambition was a full bowl of rice. The simplicity of it was more crushing than any celestial dream.
---
The silence broke with footsteps on dry earth.
A familiar, labored rhythm.
Yan Lin was on his feet in an instant.
Twenty paces away, his father, Lin Shan, walked into the field. The man was in his late thirties but looked a decade older, life carved into his sun-leathered face. His farmer's robes were dust-stained. In one hand, a small cloth bag. In the other, a faded leather pouch.
His shoulders were slumped with weariness, but his eyes—the same deep brown as Yan Lin's—found his son. The exhaustion in them softened, just a fraction.
Yan Lin's breath caught. His world narrowed to the shape of that pouch.
Was it flat? Or did it hold a token?
Lin Shan stopped a few feet away. He didn't smile. Smiles were luxuries they couldn't always afford.
"Yan'er."
He held up the pouch. It bulged, slightly, with a hard, angular shape inside.
He tossed it underhand.
Yan Lin caught it. The weight was solid. Real. His fingers, suddenly clumsy, fought the drawstring.
He peered inside.
There, against the worn leather, was a token of dark, polished wood. A single character was inscribed upon it:
试
Trial.
The official entry token for the Hundred-Year Spirit Root Test.
The world went silent. Bird song, wind, distant village sounds—all faded. There was only the cool, smooth weight of the wood in his palm.
He looked from the token to his father's face. He saw the new dust, the deeper fatigue, the untold story of a week of humiliation and pleading that had bought this one chance.
No speeches. No silver. Just a father returned, and a wooden key to a forbidden door.
Yan Lin's throat locked. He couldn't speak. He just nodded, clutching the pouch to his chest, the token's edges pressing into his flesh like a promise—and a brand.
The path was open.
Tomorrow, he would walk it.
---