The air tasted different here.
Thinner. Sharper. As if the mountains themselves exhaled sword qi with every breath of the wind.
The Celestial Sword Pavilion's Trial Grounds were nothing like Mistvale. Gone were the soft dirt paths and wandering hens; here, the stone beneath one's feet hummed faintly, etched with ancient carvings of swords that had long rusted into legend. Towering peaks ringed the valley like silent sentinels, their snowy crests cutting through low-hanging clouds. Dozens of torches lined the great plaza's edges, their flames still and silent—too disciplined to flicker.
A storm of cultivators had already gathered.
Hundreds, maybe over a thousand—young men and women in silken robes bearing clan crests, wandering sect tokens, or nothing at all but pride. Disciples from small sects whispered nervously at the fringes, while those of wealthier sects or noble families took center paths, excluding practiced indifference.
And then, like falling stars that dared to land among clouds, came the heirs.
---
She stood on obsidian steps like a painting waiting to be admired. Feng Yan, daughter of the Vermillion Phoenix Clan, wore robes of scarlet and gold feathers that shimmered when she moved. Her fan—closed—rested against her shoulder, and her lips curved the practiced ease of someone who knew she was always the most beautiful thing in the room.
"Poor lambs," she whispered, eyes half-lidded as she scanned the outer sect hopefuls. "Don't they know bloodlines are half the battle?"
At the opposite end, where the shadows stretched longer, stood Shui Daiyu of the Black Tortoise Clan, clad in emerald-black robes that hung like silk armour. Her eyes were unreadable behind the veil, but the thin smoke of poison curling from her sleeves did most of the talking. None dared stand within three paces of her.
She watched the field like a surgeon contemplating dissection.
And between them stood Jian Nian, second heir of the Rustless Blade Clan. Mute, expressionless, and a sword hilt slung across his back—no blade, just the memory of one. He said nothing, but when a gust of wind passed, the other heir's robes fluttered. His did not.
Even the air around him feared to offend.
---
Beyond these titans stood other rising stars—disciples of influential sects, alchemists from the Twin Lotus Institute, twins from the Mirage Valley Sect, a towering brute with tattoos from the Ironspine Cultivation Guild.
And among them stood Jin Chen of the Frostblade Clan—a mid-sized but once-prestigious sect clawing its way back to relevance. Jin Chen's features were sharp, his frost-blue robes impeccable. His presence exuded the arrogance of someone used to being praised—but the moment his gaze fell upon Lin Feng, jealousy festered beneath the surface.
"Who does he think he is?" Jin Chen muttered, watching the plain-dressed youth steal every gaze without trying. "Walking beside her like that... tch."
The trial grounds were a sea of firelit ambition.
But all conversation paused when a pair of figures approached from the far path.
---
They were not dressed like nobles. They wore no crest. And yet, every head turned.
Lin Feng walked ahead, black eyes cold, body draped in a plain black shirt and dark jeans—out of place, and yet somehow more commanding than all the silk-robed prodigies combined. Across his back, the sleeves of a too-small robe swayed slightly. His muscles—coiled steel beneath obsidian skin—looked more like those of a battlefield general than a recruit.
Beside him, Li Meixiu smiled cheerfully, one arm tugging lazily at his sleeve, the other clutching Mr. Bunbun, her rabbit plushie, now wearing a tiny red scarf someone from Mistvale had sewn on.
"Oh my," she said, blinking at the sea of staring cultivators. "Did we overdress or undress?"
A ripple of laughter passed through the onlookers. Some mocked. Others stared in awe.
But none ignored them.
A few male cultivators, especially among the younger sect disciples, glanced at Meixiu with dazed expressions—lips parted, eyes wide.
"She looks like a goddess..."
"Who's that woman? She's too young to be an elder. But she walks like the world should part before her."
"Maybe she's a hidden expert disguised as a concubine..."
More than one girl, meanwhile, eyed Lin Feng's physique and brooding aura.
"Is he taken?"
"If not, I volunteer."
One whispered, "If I marry him, does the rabbit plushie come too?"
Li Meixiu gave a playful smile, fully aware of the attention.
She leaned closer to Lin Feng and whispered behind her fingers, "You know, A-Li... maybe I should've worn lipstick. That way, my suitors would fight harder."
He shot her a deadpan look. "You're already a distraction."
She beamed. "Compliment accepted."
---
A loud gong sounded from the top of the trial platform.
An old man floated down from the cliff's edge—robes the color of worn parchment, beard like drifted snow, and eyes that had seen more swords break than lives spared. He moved slowly, but when his feet touched ground, the entire plaza stilled.
Even the phoenix heiress bowed.
He was the Outer Pavilion Elder, one of the last true disciples of the Pavilion's second generation.
"The trials begin," he rasped. His voice was not loud, but it echoed as if the mountains themselves repeated his words. "All candidates. Step forward and kneel."
And from a shaded cliff far above the grounds—unseen by most—inner sect elders watched. Hidden beneath illusion arrays, a woman in moonlight robes stirred her tea. While others simply watched.
---
The ground trembled with the toll of an ancient bell—low and bone-deep, as if struck from the heavens themselves. The clouds parted above the trial grounds, revealing a jagged stretch of mountain cliff—and from its base, carved into polished obsidian stone, rose a staircase of exactly one hundred steps. It twisted upward like the spine of a sword plunged into the clouds.
Each step shimmered faintly, carved with sigils so old they bled sword intent into the air. The oppressive weight that rolled down from the summit wasn't mere gravity—it was the collective will of centuries of sword cultivators, etched into stone and soul alike.
The gray-robed elder with a voice like dry steel stepped forward, staff tapping once beside the base of the staircase.
"This," he said, "is the First Trial. The Gravity Stair. Each step will test not only your body, but your heart, your foundation, and your will. The sword does not welcome the proud—it recognizes only truth."
He swept his sleeve outward.
"Begin."
---
At first, the silence held.
Then came the rush. A group of over-eager disciples from minor sects sprinted toward the staircase, laughter and bravado on their lips. They surged past the first ten steps—cheers rising from their peers.
But the eleventh step hit like a hammer.
One boy's knee buckled mid-step, and he crashed down, teeth biting into his tongue. Another clutched his chest, screaming that something was "cutting his lungs from inside." By the fifteenth, half the eager starters had been thrown back down by the unseen force.
Their bodies bounced off the jade formation barrier surrounding the staircase, cushioned only slightly before hitting the dirt.
"Fools," muttered a girl in a blue lotus robe. "They treated a sword trial like a race."
The air grew still again, tension rebuilding.
---
That stillness shattered when Feng Yan stepped forward.
Clad in shimmering red robes embroidered with phoenix feathers, the second princess of the Vermilion Phoenix Clan moved as though flames followed her every step. Her fan clacked open with a snap, and she gave a languid stretch, lips curled in a sly smile.
"Do try to keep up," she purred, casting a glance behind her.
Her first steps were effortless. The sword intent curled around her but didn't resist—it licked at her like a playful breeze. Her fire qi formed a gentle spiral, dispersing pressure as she ascended with elegant twirls. At the thirty-third step, she paused to pluck a blossom from her hair and flick it into the wind.
She didn't flinch until the sixty-second.
There, her breath stilled, and her smile faltered. Not from fear—but respect. She bowed her head toward the staircase and stepped off to the side gracefully—not because she was forced to stop, but because she chose not to overstep.
---
Shui Daiyu of the Black Tortoise Clan followed soon after. Tall, poised, her robes dark as a moonless lake, and her hair coiled with silver-etched pins resembling snake fangs.
She said nothing. No smiles. No gestures.
Each step she took exhaled a breath of poison qi. Her cultivation didn't shield her—it altered the pressure entirely. She became mistlike, slow moving, precise, as if she was not defying the weight but flowing around it.
By the seventieth stair, a faint green hue outlined her figure, barely visible—but unmistakably powerful.
She paused, blinked once toward the summit... and descended without a word.
---
Then the quiet presence of Jian Nian drew eyes.
No introduction. No fanfare. Just a mute swordsman, clad in faded ash-blue robes. A single hilt hung across his back—a hilt with no blade. His presence felt like a sharp edge sheathed within silence.
He walked with mechanical precision. Ten steps. Twenty. Fifty.
At the sixty-seventh, a vein burst in his neck—blood ran—but he did not stagger. He raised a hand, touched the air itself... and something in the sword intent shimmered.
He bowed to the mist-shrouded summit and walked down, his silence echoing louder than any victory shout.
---
A ripple passed through the crowd.
The Phantom Twins arrived next—silver and black-robed figures from the Silent Moon Clan, identical in every way but aura. Where one radiated a gentle, dreamlike qi, the other pulsed with shadows like a breathing illusion.
They stepped in tandem, vanishing on the second stair—reappearing on the fourth, then the sixth.
Gasps followed them.
But the sword intent hated illusions. By the forty-ninth, it struck back. The girls staggered, blood smearing from their nostrils, grins wide.
"Fun," the silver twin whispered.
"I like this sword," the black one agreed.
They bowed, giggling, and stepped aside.
---
Then the world fell quiet.
Because he stepped forward.
Lin Feng, clad in his usual plain black shirt and jeans, muscles flexing gently beneath fabric that looked far too modern for a cultivation trial. He made no gesture, offered no pose.
He simply scooped up his mother into his arms like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Li Meixiu blinked. "A-Li? What are you—"
"Saving you the walk," he said. "Hold tight."
And she did, curling slightly in his arms, twilight robes brushing gently in the wind. Mr. Bunbun peeked over her shoulder like a silent guardian.
He stepped into the staircase.
One.
Two.
Ten.
By the twentieth, others had started to murmur.
By the fortieth, they had fallen completely silent.
Lin Feng hadn't slowed. Not once.
No qi.
No trick.
Just raw physical will. The pressure that shattered others only seemed to tighten his jaw, not stop his climb.
A farmer's boy at the foot of the stairs whispered, "He's... carrying her..."
Feng Yan's eyes narrowed in something between irritation and curiosity. "He's stronger than he looks."
At the seventieth step, sweat finally beaded across Lin Feng's brow. His arms didn't tremble, but the fabric across his shoulders stretched taut, like steel under strain.
And still, he climbed.
Meixiu blinked, warm and drowsy in his arms. "Mmm… such a nice nap."
"Not the time," he muttered.
"But you're doing so well, baby. Is that muscles from all those dumbbells?"
He said nothing—but climbed harder.
At the ninetieth step, the air itself thickened to something unbreathable—so dense even light bent slightly around it. The stone beneath Lin Feng's feet pulsed with spiritual weight, not in anger, but in recognition—as though the trial itself had finally acknowledged his presence as something apart from the rest.
The outer sect elder, a sharp-eyed man in storm-grey robes, leaned forward with furrowed brows. His spiritual senses had been dull from years of observing arrogant disciples fail these trials—but now, something in his old bones twitched.
"He's still carrying her," the elder whispered, almost reverently. "And his qi... it hasn't surged once. Not a ripple. No technique, no technique, no resistance. Just... will."
At the ninety-fifth, sweat finally traced Lin Feng's temple, a single drop sliding down his jawline—but his stride never faltered. His muscles bulged beneath his plain black shirt, fabric stretching dangerously close to tearing at the seams. Meixiu, nestled in his arms, blinked lazily—half-awake, half-dreaming—and gave a sleepy hum.
"Almost there, A-Li," she murmured.
He didn't speak. He only climbed.
At the ninety-ninth, a ripple passed through the observation veil high above the trial ground—where inner sect elders watched from their hidden balcony, seated in shadowed alcoves.
One, cloaked in deep blue with a face like carved stone, suddenly leaned forward. His eyes widened ever so slightly, and he whispered beneath his breath:
"This one... doesn't defy the pressure. He carries it. Wears it like skin."
Another woman with silver hair wrapped in seven gold clasps tapped a knuckle to her chin. "He doesn't borrow the sword's legacy. He climbs as if it owes him passage."
A third, wrapped in layers of illusion-suppressing talismans, activated his qi lens—and promptly recoiled. "He's suppressing his true foundation. Even the gravity can't unravel it. Who the hell is this boy?"
None of them could look away.
---
And then—step one hundred.
Lin Feng stepped onto the final platform like a storm given human shape. His chest rose and fell once. Not with exertion—but finality. He turned his body, letting Meixiu's feet touch solid stone gently. She remained tucked close, her arms still looped lazily around his neck, eyes half-lidded with affection.
She looked down the long stairway behind them and murmured, "Oh, we're here already? That was fast."
The elder at the base of the stairs—who had spent decades watching sons of nobles and genius sect heirs collapse before reaching the sixtieth—took a trembling step back. He stared at Lin Feng like he was witnessing a natural disaster wearing shoes.
"He... didn't flinch," the old man breathed. "He climbed it while carrying someone. Not even the Sword Saint's own disciples could do that, in their first year. He-he crushed the pressure. With nothing but flesh."
The crowd below murmured, stunned into silence.
And in the high balcony, the woman with seven gold clasps whispered:
"Lin Feng..."
She didn't write it down.
She carved it—into the jade scroll in front of her using her own fingernail, slicing stone like butter.
"...He's not a talent. He's a monster."
---
And somewhere behind the silent awe, tucked in Meixiu's arms, Mr. Bunbun gave a small, gravelly growl.
Low. Ominous. Disapproving of the attention.
---