The stone steps were steep and uneven, with treacherous hazards flanking both sides; the slightest carelessness would send one tumbling to their doom.
Not even half a day into the climb, Wang Lin's legs already felt as though they had been filled with lead. Sweat poured off him in rivulets, and he gasped for breath with every labored step. From the foot of the mountain, this stone-stepped path had looked short enough — yet walking it now, he found it stretched on without end, quietly seeding a despair that rose unbidden from the depths of his heart.
Ahead of him, a dozen or so powerfully built youths were also panting heavily, making their slow way upward. Not one of them had given up yet.
Wang Lin gritted his teeth and pressed on. He knew this was his last chance—the expectant gazes of his parents lingered ceaselessly in his heart. Just then, a youth behind him suddenly stumbled, his foot slipping on empty air, and his body plunged rapidly off the side. A terrified scream split the air at once.
"I give up, help!"
Everyone stopped in their tracks and looked down as one, only to see a flash of dark light as a disciple of the Hengyue Sect burst out from nowhere, caught the young man mid-air, and landed gently at the foot of the mountain.
Wang Lin's face was pale. He said nothing, carefully continuing to climb upward. Time passed swiftly, and two days later, the dozen or so youths ahead of him had vanished from sight.
Wang Lin had no idea how many of his companions had given up. He only knew one thing: he absolutely could not. Though his legs and feet had been worn raw with blood blisters, a piercing pain radiating constantly from each burst blister, he pressed on still, using his hands to crawl forward.
"The children's hearts are resolute — yet the Grand Dao knows no mercy. In vain, all in vain…" A long, mournful sigh drifted down from the summit of the peak. A middle-aged man with a sallow, waxen complexion descended the stone steps with an almost weightless ease, gliding swiftly past the young disciples one by one, his face etched with an expression of quiet lamentation.
As the middle-aged man passed by Wang Lin, he paused briefly. This boy was the sixth youth he had seen, yet without question the most wretched of them all. Blood soaked every inch of him, his clothes drenched through; his knees and toes were a raw, mangled mess of flesh. He was making his way forward inch by inch, pulling himself along with nothing but his hands. The middle-aged man let out a quiet sigh and asked, "Child, what is your name?"
Wang Lin's expression had gone vacant. His mind held only a single thought: to reach the summit even if it killed him. The middle-aged man's words never reached his ears. In his eyes, there was nothing in the world but this narrow path of stone steps.
The middle-aged man studied Wang Lin's eyes, visibly moved by the unyielding resolve he found there. He pressed his hand atop Wang Lin's head, then shook it slowly, murmuring to himself: "Extraordinary willpower—what a pity his aptitude is far too ordinary. No fate, no fate…" He held Wang Lin in one last lingering gaze, then continued on down the stone steps.
By the second night, Wang Lin's hands were a mangled ruin of flesh and blood. The stone steps he had crawled over bore a long, deep trail of crimson—though of this he was no longer aware. He drove his body forward on nothing but sheer force of will, his breath now reduced to the faint, faltering gasps of a dying man.
At the moment of sunrise on the third day, he seemed to dimly glimpse the end of the stone steps — yet at that very instant, a merciless voice rolled in like thunder, shaking him to the core.
"Time is up. Only three have qualified; the rest… have failed!"
Wang Lin let out a bitter laugh, his body swaying to one side before he collapsed onto the stone steps, unconscious.
The middle-aged man in black who had tested his aptitude three days ago stood at the mountain peak, gazing at Wang Lin—less than ten zhang away—his eyes betraying a merciless light.
At that moment, several Hengyue Sect disciples swiftly made their way down from the mountaintop, gathering every youth who was still holding on and escorting them up the mountain, where they were given medicine to take.
"Senior Brother, of the thirty-nine test subjects, twenty-five have withdrawn. Setting aside the three who qualified, eleven remain." A female disciple of the Hengyue Sect delivered her report in a cool, detached tone. She herself had endured this same grueling trial years ago—surviving it only through the martial foundation she had built since childhood, scraping through on sheer tenacity to earn a place as a registered disciple. Nearly a decade of hard effort later, she had still not been accepted as a true disciple.
The middle-aged man in black wore an icy expression. He gave a slight nod and swept his gaze over the eleven unconscious youths before speaking in an indifferent tone: "The three who qualified—take them to the Chores Division and arrange their duties going forward. The twenty-five who gave up—send them back to their respective clans. As for these eleven who held on until the very end, once they awaken, send them all to the Sword Spirit Pavilion and see if any of them share an affinity with a Sword Spirit. If none do, they are likewise to be returned to their respective clans."
Having said his piece, the middle-aged man didn't spare the youths so much as a glance, and left with a sweep of his sleeve.
Three days later, inside the Sword Spirit Pavilion, eleven youths—Wang Lin among them—stood to one side, their faces drained of color. Wang Lin's physical wounds had already healed, but the wounds on his soul had torn wider still; waves of searing pain gnawed ceaselessly at his body and mind.
This Sword Spirit trial was not presided over by the middle-aged man in black, but by an unfamiliar young man dressed in white — yet without exception, both wore expressions of icy indifference, their gazes falling upon the others as though looking upon mere ants, utterly merciless.
"This is the final test. Those who can enter this room have passed." The young man's words were brief, his face betraying unconcealed impatience.
Wang Lin's gaze fell upon an utterly ordinary dwelling. Its central door stood open, and peering inside, he could see ancient swords of varying lengths, arranged within.
The youths approached the room one by one in order. The first had barely come within five zhang of the building when a look of struggle crossed his face, and an invisible force pushed him back several zhang.
"Unqualified. Next!" the young man said flatly.
Wang Lin was the seventh. All six before him had been halted at the five-zhang mark, unable to advance a single step further. He smiled with bitterness, summoned what little hope still remained in his heart, and walked forward.
At five zhang, he stepped past with ease. Wang Lin was stunned; hope surged wildly within him. His mouth went dry, his heart pounded, yet he pressed forward another zhang — and still felt not the slightest discomfort.
The young man let out a surprised "Oh," his eyes flickering with a gleam of interest as his expression softened slightly. "Don't hesitate—keep walking forward," he said. "If you can enter that building and earn the sword spirit's recognition, it won't matter that you failed both previous tests. You will still be taken on as a true disciple!"
The other ten youths all wore expressions of envy — and hidden within that envy lay a deep, smoldering jealousy.
Wang Lin's heart clenched with anxiety; the expectant gazes of his parents flooded his mind once more. He stepped forward another zhang — only three zhang now stood between him and the gate. Heart filled with trepidation, Wang Lin stepped forward again.
At that very moment, a tremendous force suddenly erupted, surging madly toward Wang Lin. His body flew backward beyond his control, only coming to a stop more than ten zhang away.
The other youths standing to one side all wore expressions of contempt. In their eyes, Wang Lin should be no different from themselves—there was simply no chance for him, none at all.
Wang Lin let out a bitter laugh. The wound tearing through his heart grew wider still, as the expectant gazes of his parents slowly faded from his mind.
The young man's expression turned cold once more, as it had been before. He said flatly, "Unqualified. Next."