The gates of the Ironwood Inner Sect were unlike anything Fang Xi had seen.
Not carved wood or stone, but an arch of living jade trees, their bark etched with runes older than the sect itself. The air hummed with spiritual pressure — dense, alive, watchful.
As Fang Xi stepped through the arch, he felt it.
A cold weight pressing against his chest. A whispering pulse in his bones.
This is where real cultivation begins.
And where most get buried.
Beside him, Jiang Ping looked dazed. "We… made it."
Fang Xi nodded, but said nothing. His eyes scanned the courtyard ahead.
Wide flagstones arranged in a spiral. Tiered buildings stretching up the mountain, each step a symbol of rank. Disciples in white and green robes moved like streams — calm on the surface, deep beneath.
Many paused to glance at the newcomers.
Most ignored Ping.
Several stared at Fang Xi.
They sense I'm different. Not in strength — but in posture. In silence.
They were greeted by an elder — a woman in pale robes with silver threads in her hair. Her presence was oppressive yet controlled.
"Welcome, Outer Trial Survivors," she said. "I am Elder Shou. You will now be assigned quarters, duties, and classifications."
Her eyes passed over Ping like wind.
They settled on Fang Xi.
"You are the one called… Fang Xi."
A statement, not a question.
Fang Xi bowed politely. "Yes, Elder."
She narrowed her gaze. "You killed Liu Yimei."
So word travels fast.
"She attempted to eliminate a fellow disciple outside the duel circle," he replied evenly. "I acted within the trial's rules."
Elder Shou held his eyes for a long moment — then gave a nod so slight it could've been imagined.
"Good. Weakness here is not corrected. It is consumed."
New World, New Chains
Their quarters were carved into the side of the mountain — small stone rooms with narrow beds and a single meditation slab. Sparse. Cold. Clean.
Jiang Ping looked disappointed. "Not even a window."
"You're not here to admire sunsets," Fang Xi replied.
Over the next days, Fang Xi observed everything.
He watched the structure.
Core Disciples lived in towers above. They held true power, guided by elders.
Inner Disciples trained daily under masters, divided into factions, cliques, and rivalries.
Service Disciples cleaned, maintained wards, and gathered resources. Mostly failed outer disciples or those without backing.
Fang Xi's name had been placed in the Central Training Hall, a rare distinction for someone without a clan.
They're watching me already.
He began cultivating in secret again, each night refining his sixth thread, slowly preparing the seventh.
He avoided attention. Observed other disciples.
He noted who lingered near the medicine hall. Who whispered during sparring. Who had bruises that didn't match training injuries.
He built a mental map of targets, threats, and opportunities.
On the third day, someone slipped a folded note beneath his door.
He opened it.
"We saw what you did. You'll need allies. Come to the ink courtyard before moonrise."
No name.
Just a symbol — two intersecting knives.
Fang Xi stared at it for a long moment.
Then smiled faintly.
Finally.
The game begins again.