Cloud Cang Mountain pierced through the clouds like a blade drawn straight from the earth.
As the spirit crane rose higher, Chutian could feel the thin air sting his lungs. Peaks stretched like islands in a sea of mist, each one crowned with palaces that gleamed faintly in the morning light.
By the time they reached the landing terrace, dozens of youths already stood there—sons and daughters of noble clans, each radiating quiet confidence. Their robes shimmered with faint protective light; their servants waited behind them, eyes sharp and proud.
Chutian stepped down from the crane, feeling painfully ordinary among them. His coarse travel cloak was still scorched from battle.
Whispers rippled through the crowd.
"That the one from Liuwu Town?"
"The boy who burned Blood Serpent Cult disciples alive?"
"Look at him—no spiritual aura at all. Must be a hoax."
He ignored them.
At the far end of the terrace, an elder in gray waited beside a pool of shining water—the Spirit Testing Mirror. Whoever touched it would reveal the strength and purity of their spiritual veins. Behind the elder, a group of outer disciples took notes with jade tablets.
"Next," the elder called.
A young man in golden robes stepped forward proudly, pressing his hand to the mirror. Blue light bloomed—pure water element. The crowd murmured appreciation.
Then another—pale green, wood element, average quality.
A few cheered, a few shrugged.
"Next!"
When it was Chutian's turn, the elder eyed him skeptically. "Name?"
"Chutian."
"Origin?"
"Liuwu Town."
The elder's brows lifted slightly; the name had already reached him. "Ah. The Pure Yang boy. Let us see if the tales hold truth."
Chutian placed his palm on the mirror's surface. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the water convulsed, turning gold, then white, then violently red—as if boiling from within. Steam hissed upward; cracks split the mirror's frame.
The crowd gasped. Several disciples stumbled backward.
The elder barked, "Enough! Release!"
Chutian obeyed, pulling his hand back. The mirror cooled, its surface scorched. No color remained. Only the faint hiss of dying steam filled the air.
The old man's expression was unreadable.
"Extraordinary yang resonance," he muttered. "But… destructive. It rejects our spiritual detection entirely."
He turned to the record‑keeper. "Mark him down—No measurable root. Incompatible constitution."
The words landed like a blade.
The surrounding youths broke into quiet laughter. "So that's the demon of Liuwu Town—a furnace without a flame."
"Pure Yang? More like pure curse."
Chutian stood silent, his fists tightening. Inside him, the fire stirred in response to his humiliation, begging to break free.
He forced it down. Not here. Not yet.
The elder spoke again, his tone cold.
"You may remain for observation. If within one month you cannot control your own qi without destruction, you will be dismissed… or cleansed."
He bowed slightly—half in courtesy, half in dismissal. "Next!"
As Chutian turned to leave, a soft voice stopped him.
"You're burning under your skin," it said.
He looked up to see a girl in white robes standing by the edge of the platform. Her presence was calm, almost cold, but her eyes—the color of winter frost—held a strange warmth.
"I'm not burning," Chutian replied quietly. "I'm learning to live."
For a moment, her gaze lingered on him, thoughtful. Then she smiled faintly. "Then prove it, Pure Yang boy."
When he turned away, the laughter behind him sounded distant. The fire in his chest felt steadier now—not gentled, but shaped.
He had entered the mountain not to beg for acceptance, but to begin his war.