The dawn after the Farewell Feast bled gold over the horizon, painting the hills of Ashroad in firelight. Kaelen stood where the valley path split into two—one leading back into the familiar forests of the tribe, the other winding toward distant mountains where clouds gathered like watchful beasts. His spear rested across his back, the Origin Brand burning faintly on his arm like a whisper of destiny.
Flint, of course, was already complaining.
"My feet hurt, and we've only been walking for—what—half an hour? If the sects want geniuses, they should send carriages. Or better yet, spirit cranes. I'd look amazing on a crane."
Kaelen gave him a flat look. "You'll be lucky if a donkey lets you ride it."
Mira approached from behind, her hair tied in a simple braid, her eyes sharp and steady. She carried no pack, only a single pendant in her hand—the same jade token she had gifted Kaelen at the feast. She pressed it into his palm once more.
"Remember, Kaelen. A sect tests more than talent. They'll measure your heart, your choices. Don't lose sight of yourself."
Her words were firm, but there was an unspoken softness there, one that Kaelen carried with him like a second flame in his chest.
Flint smirked, nudging Kaelen. "Don't worry, Mira. If Ashboy here forgets himself, I'll remind him. Loudly. Every hour."
Mira raised an eyebrow. "And who will remind you, Flint?"
"Obviously I'll remind myself. I'm very responsible," Flint said, before tripping over a rock and nearly faceplanting.
Kaelen couldn't help the laugh that escaped, the sound easing some of the tightness in his chest. This was it. The first steps away from Ashroad, toward the sects that shaped the fate of kingdoms. Toward a destiny he had never asked for, but one he could no longer turn away from.
The path cut between jagged hills and sparse woods, and before long they began to pass others—youths from distant tribes, clans, even wandering cultivators' children. Some walked in groups, banners strapped to their backs with tribal insignias. Others carried weapons gleaming faintly with spiritual light. All were headed in the same direction: the Gathering of the Sects, held once every decade to accept new disciples.
Flint leaned closer to Kaelen, whispering. "Look at them. Every one of them thinks they're the chosen one. Spoiler alert—they're not. Except maybe that guy with the glowing sword. He looks like trouble."
Kaelen studied the youth Flint mentioned: tall, with silver hair and cold eyes, his sword humming faintly as though alive. The boy didn't glance at anyone, didn't need to—his presence carved space around him.
Mira noticed Kaelen watching and murmured, "That's Ciryus of the Starweave Clan. His sword is bound to a starmetal core. He'll be dangerous."
Kaelen's hand tightened around his spear. He wasn't afraid, but the gulf between him and cultivators born to wealth and resources was undeniable. Still, the ember within him pulsed as if to say: Do not waver.
That night, travelers along the road gathered in a hollow near a riverbank. Fires sparked to life, voices overlapping as youths boasted, argued, or silently sharpened weapons.
Kaelen, Flint, and Mira sat near their own small flame. Flint roasted something that might've once been a rabbit but was now little more than charcoal.
"I call this delicacy 'Ash on a Stick,'" he said proudly. "Only the finest for our sect debut."
Kaelen groaned. "You're going to kill us before the sects even test us."
Before Flint could reply, another group approached their fire. At its head was a girl dressed in pale azure robes, her hair bound with silver threads. Her gaze was calm but carried weight, like the surface of a lake hiding unseen depths.
"I am Liora of the Moonveil Tribe," she said softly. "May we share your fire? Space is scarce."
Kaelen nodded, shifting aside. Flint, of course, grinned. "The more the merrier. Especially if you brought food that isn't… this." He gestured at his charred skewer.
Liora's lips curved faintly. From her pack, she produced dried fruits and flatbread, offering them without hesitation. "Consider it a trade."
As they ate, conversation unfolded. Liora spoke little of herself but asked questions—about Ashroad, about Kaelen's training, even about the faint mark glowing on his arm.
Kaelen hesitated but answered carefully. "It's an Origin Brand. It came from ruins beneath our hills."
Her eyes flickered with something unreadable. "Then you carry more weight than you realize. The sects will not overlook that."
Mira stiffened, her gaze narrowing. Kaelen sensed her silent warning: be cautious.
But Flint, oblivious, leaned in with his usual bravado. "Don't worry, Kaelen. If anyone tries to snatch his brand, they'll have to go through me first. And my spear of unparalleled magnificence."
"You don't even have a spear," Mira said flatly.
"Exactly," Flint replied. "No one can predict my weapon if I don't have one."
Even Liora laughed at that, the sound like wind over water.
Kaelen lay awake long after the fire dimmed, staring at the stars. He thought of Mira's pendant, of the Origin Brand, of the path ahead. For the first time, he felt the immensity of the world pressing down. But the ember within did not falter—it urged him onward.
Tomorrow, the mountains awaited. And beyond them, the sects.
By the next morning, the road narrowed into a single trail climbing into the mountains. Mist swirled low across the ridges, swallowing sound. The air itself seemed heavier, infused with spiritual energy that clung to the lungs like liquid flame.
Flint gagged dramatically. "Is this what cultivation feels like? Because if it is, I want a refund."
Mira smacked the back of his head. "That's spiritual density, you idiot. It means we're nearing the sects' testing grounds."
Kaelen felt it too—the weight of the air, but also the quiet hum beneath it. His spear thrummed faintly on his back, resonating with something ahead. The ember within his chest flared, restless, like a beast pacing its cage.
Other youths climbed alongside them, some straining, others gliding as if the mountain itself bowed to their steps. The silver-haired boy, Ciryus, moved like flowing starlight, untouched by fatigue. He never glanced back, but Kaelen felt the silent pressure of his presence like a blade at his spine.
First Trial: The Stone Bridge
By midday, the path ended at a gorge split by a roaring river. A single bridge of stone spanned the gap, but it wasn't ordinary. Strange runes crawled across its surface, glowing faintly.
A man in gray robes sat cross-legged at its entrance. His hair was streaked with white, his eyes sharp as polished obsidian. Without rising, he spoke, his voice carrying over the crowd.
"First trial: the Bridge of Will. Cross with steady heart. Those who falter, fall."
Murmurs rippled among the gathered youths. The gorge below yawned wide, its depths hidden by mist. The roar of water was constant, hungry.
The first to step forward was Ciryus. He walked the bridge without hesitation, runes flaring brighter with each step. The air itself bent faintly around him, as if acknowledging his strength. He crossed in moments, unshaken.
Others followed, some trembling, some failing. One boy halfway across screamed as the runes beneath his feet shattered, and the river swallowed him whole. The crowd's faces blanched, but the man in gray robes did not move.
"It tests will," Mira murmured. "Not strength. Doubt yourself, and the bridge rejects you."
Flint's knees knocked together. "Great. Guess I'll die dramatically then. Kaelen, if I fall, tell my nonexistent wife I loved her."
Kaelen shoved him forward. "Go."
Flint squealed but stumbled onto the bridge. His legs shook with every step, yet somehow he lurched across, muttering to himself the entire way. At the final step, he collapsed on his face, gasping. "Told you. Easy."
Mira crossed next, her movements precise, calm, her gaze never wavering. The runes glowed gently beneath her feet, accepting her like an old friend. She stepped onto the far side without pause.
Now only Kaelen remained.
He inhaled once, feeling the ember pulse in his chest. Steady. Don't falter.
The first step landed, runes sparking underfoot. He took another, then another. Halfway across, the runes flickered. Shadows curled up from the mist below, whispering.
"You are unworthy."
"You are only a tribal child."
"You will fail."
Kaelen clenched his jaw, forcing his focus inward. The ember roared like fire in a storm.
I may have nothing now, but I will carve a path with my own hands.
His next step blazed brighter, the runes surging in response. The shadows shrieked and dispersed, and in one final stride Kaelen crossed, his body trembling but his spirit unbroken.
The man in gray robes watched, expression unreadable, but Kaelen felt the weight of his gaze linger.
The path continued higher, until at last the trees fell away and a vast plateau unfolded. At its center rose gates of black stone etched with ancient symbols, towering higher than fortresses. Above, banners of countless sects fluttered, each bearing unique emblems—dragons, lotuses, suns, blades, even strange beasts Kaelen could not name.
Hundreds of disciples in sect robes stood beyond the gates, watching as the newcomers approached. Some eyes were cold, others curious, a few openly dismissive.
Flint leaned close, whispering, "So many sects. How do we even choose?"
Mira's voice was quiet, firm. "We don't choose. They choose us."
The gray-robed man stepped past the crowd, his voice booming like thunder.
"You stand before the Gathering of Sects. From this moment forward, every choice, every failure, every triumph will shape your path. Prepare yourselves—for beyond these gates, the true trials begin."
The gates rumbled open, stone grinding against stone. A rush of energy spilled out, heavy and intoxicating. The crowd surged forward.
Kaelen stepped across the threshold, his heart hammering. The ember within him blazed, hotter than ever.
This was it. The world of the sects.
Inside the black gates, the plateau stretched farther than the eye could see. Temples of stone and wood spiraled skyward, each topped with an emblem glowing faintly with spiritual light. Waterfalls spilled from sheer cliffs into lakes so clear their depths seemed endless. Strange birds circled overhead, their wings glittering like crystal shards.
Everywhere, banners flapped—ten thousand at least—each representing a sect. Together they formed a forest of colors, shifting in the mountain winds like a living mosaic.
Kaelen slowed, his throat dry. This… this is the heart of cultivation?
Flint whistled low. "Guess this isn't the kind of place you spit on the ground, huh?"
Mira rolled her eyes but her voice softened. "Each sect here has history stretching back centuries, even millennia. Some are said to be older than kingdoms themselves."
The disciples in their robes eyed the new arrivals with the detachment of hunters watching prey. Some smirked, some whispered. A few, Kaelen noticed, simply studied him with quiet intensity—as if already weighing whether he would survive the next trial.
At the center of the plateau, a great dais rose from the earth, carved with dragons entwined in flame. Upon it stood a dozen figures radiating such pressure that Kaelen nearly staggered. Each wore distinct robes—crimson, azure, gold, bone-white, even ink-black like void.
An elder with a beard of pure silver raised a hand. Instantly, silence blanketed the plateau.
"New disciples," his voice boomed, echoing like a temple bell, "you stand before the gathering of sect envoys. From this day forth, you will no longer be sheltered children. You will face trials of strength, spirit, and heart. Only those who prove themselves may be chosen."
His eyes swept the crowd, and Kaelen felt as though they lingered on him a fraction longer.
Another envoy, cloaked in crimson flame, stepped forward. His gaze was sharp, predatory. "Remember: no sect seeks the weak. Fail, and you will return home empty-handed—or not at all."
The weight of his words struck the crowd like hammers. Several candidates paled.
As the candidates were ushered toward the testing grounds, Kaelen felt a presence beside him. Ciryus, the silver-haired prodigy, walked with the calm poise of a noble son, his stride effortless. Without looking at Kaelen, he spoke softly, his tone smooth as polished steel.
"You crossed the bridge. Impressive, for one of your… background."
Kaelen's jaw tightened. "And you think that makes you untouchable?"
Ciryus finally turned his head, pale eyes glinting with faint amusement. "Not untouchable. Simply inevitable."
Before Kaelen could answer, a sharp laugh cut in. A tall girl with scarlet braids stepped between them, her gaze fierce and playful all at once.
"Boys and their pissing contests. Try not to fall in love with yourselves before the trial even starts."
Flint whispered, "She's terrifying. I think I like her."
The girl glanced at him, smirk tugging her lips. "Then survive long enough to prove it." She strode ahead, leaving Kaelen with a strange mix of irritation and intrigue.
As dusk fell, the candidates were led to a vast courtyard lined with glowing torches. They would sleep here tonight before the first inner trials began. The air buzzed with tension—rivalries forming, alliances whispering, ambitions burning.
Kaelen lay beneath the open sky, the banners fluttering overhead like watchful eyes. His spear rested beside him, its presence steady.
He thought of his village—of laughter by firelight, of the elder's steady voice, of the graves he left behind. And of the promise he made to himself when everything was taken.
I will rise. I will not be just another nameless disciple swallowed by this mountain of sects. My path will blaze so bright it cannot be ignored.
The ember in his chest pulsed in agreement, its heat steady, unyielding.
Somewhere in the dark, Ciryus watched him, unreadable. And farther still, unseen beyond the banners, ancient eyes stirred—eyes that had waited centuries for the arrival of one chosen by flame.
The night deepened. The sect trials awaited.