Grey stone. Grey robes. Grey silence.
Yan Lin passed under the arch and entered a world stripped of color. The testing plaza spread before him—vast, cold, and geometric. At its center stood the Black Stele.
It wasn't majestic. It was absolute.
A slab of obsidian three men tall, its surface so dark it seemed to swallow the midday light. No inscriptions. No decorations. Just perfect, judgmental blackness.
A line of hundreds snaked toward it. No one spoke. The only sounds were the shuffle of feet on worn stone and a dry, amplified voice calling numbers.
"Candidate Three-One-Nine. Approach."
The Machine
Yan Lin took his place at the end. He watched as those ahead were processed with chilling efficiency.
A girl touched the stone. It glowed a steady, deep blue.
"Water-Aspected True Root. Mid-Grade. Pass."
She was directed right without ceremony.
A boy produced a flickering, sickly orange light.
"Fire False Root. Unstable. Outer disciple assessment."
He was pointed left,shoulders already slumping.
Each judgment took less than ten seconds. Each verdict was delivered in the same flat tone. Celebration and devastation were both equally irrelevant to the machine.
Yan Lin's hand found the token in his pouch. The polished wood felt suddenly ridiculous. A child's toy brought to a war.
The Wait
The line inched forward. Time stretched and compressed in strange ways. He could hear his own heartbeat. He watched a steward at a side table making precise marks on a jade slate after each verdict. Recording. Cataloging.
He saw a boy about his age step up. Hand on stone. Five seconds of nothing. Then a faint, muddy grey smear—like ash mixed with water. No light. Just... stain.
The steward didn't even look up.
"No spiritual root detected. Mortal. Reject."
The boy stood frozen for a full three seconds before an attendant gently took his elbow and guided him toward a different archway entirely. His face was blank. Empty.
Yan Lin's mouth went dry.
His Turn
"Candidate Four-Seven-Two."
The number wasn't his name. It was what he was here: an entry to be processed.
He stepped onto the dais. The stone was cold through his thin sandals. The steward—a man with tired eyes and a permanent frown—didn't look up from his slate.
"Place your right hand on the Stele. Do not attempt to channel. It will react if there is anything to react to."
Yan Lin's palm was sweaty. He wiped it on his patched trousers, the rough fabric catching on his calluses.
He lifted his arm.
For a flashing moment, fragments assaulted him:
· His father's exhausted eyes handing him the token
· The bully's foot grinding his hand into the dirt
· Old Man Fen's voice: "...bloom in the cracks..."
· The grey-robed girl's analytical glance
He pushed his palm flat against the surface.
Cold.
Not the cold of stone. The cold of absence. Like touching the void between stars.
Breathe.
Nothing happened.
Maybe it's slow, a desperate, childish part of him whispered. Maybe mine is deep. Special.
Five seconds.
Behind him, the line shifted impatiently.
Ten seconds.
The steward glanced from the Stele to his slate, a faint line appearing between his brows.
Fifteen seconds.
A murmur rippled through the nearest candidates. They'd never seen a wait this long. Even the successful ones waiting to the right were watching now.
Then—movement.
Not light.
Not color.
A stain.
A swirl of sickly, diluted grey leaked from beneath his palm. The color of dirty dishwater. Of ashes after the fire has died. It didn't glow. It diminished, making the blackness around it look even deeper, even more absolute.
The steward's tired eyes flickered. Not with surprise. With recognition. He'd seen this before. Many times. A known category in the system's ledger. A common error.
He lifted a small, carved jade to his lips. His voice, dry and clear and utterly without inflection, amplified across the silent plaza:
"No Spiritual Root. Mortal. Waste."
The words didn't feel like an insult.
They felt like a diagnosis.
A terminal classification. The final note in a medical chart.
Waste.
The steward made a mark on his slate—a quick, practiced symbol Yan Lin couldn't see but understood instinctively. The administrative notation for disposal.
An attendant was already at Yan Lin's elbow. "This way."
Yan Lin's hand fell from the stone. It left no imprint. The grey stain faded, absorbed back into the blackness as if it had never been.
As he was guided—not pushed, not dragged, but firmly steered—off the dais, he heard behind him:
"Candidate Four-Seven-Three. Approach."
The machine had already moved on.
The Collapse
They didn't lead him to a holding area. They simply guided him off the main path of the plaza, toward a plain stone wall with a simple archway.
Then the attendant released his elbow and walked away without a word.
Yan Lin stood there.
Alone.
Not in a room. Not in a yard. Just... aside.
He watched the line continue to move. Candidate Four-Seven-Three was a girl with nervous eyes. Her hand touched the stone. It glowed a soft, steady green. "Wood-Aspected True Root. Low-Grade. Pass." She was directed right.
No one looked at Yan Lin.
Not the stewards. Not the candidates. Not the attendants.
He had become invisible the moment the verdict was spoken.
His chest felt... hollow. Not empty like a container, but hollow like a bell that had been struck and now only echoed with silence.
Waste.
The word echoed in that hollow space. Not as an insult. As a fact.
The Stele hadn't rejected him. That would imply it had considered him. It hadn't.
It had classified him.
He was a category. An entry. A thing that, by definition, could not participate in the system. Not as a disciple. Not as an outer servant. Not as anything.
He looked down at his hand—the same hand that had touched the Stele. It looked ordinary. It still had the faint red marks from where the bully's foot had ground it into the dirt yesterday.
Strength is in the heart, his mother had said.
But what if your heart was just another muscle? What if it could be measured and found wanting? What if it, too, was just... mortal?
A sound escaped him. Not a sob. Not a gasp. Just air leaving a collapsed space.
He was still standing there, frozen by the wall, when Candidate Four-Eight-Eight received their verdict (a mid-grade metal root, pass). He was still there when the shadows began to lengthen across the grey plaza.
The world had given its verdict.
The world had already moved on.
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