The sun rose sharp and bright, gilding the thatched roofs of the village. A rare buzz of excitement swept through the dirt streets, for today was no ordinary day.
The Iron Sword Sect had arrived.
Their banners snapped in the wind—red cloth embroidered with silver blades. Ten robed disciples strode into the square, their swords gleaming at their sides. They were young, handsome, brimming with spiritual qi that made the villagers bow instinctively. Behind them came a gray-haired elder, his presence heavy as iron, eyes sharp as drawn steel.
"The Iron Sword Sect seeks new disciples," the elder declared. His voice rang across the square, cold and commanding. "Any child above ten will be tested. Those with talent will leave this place behind and walk the path of cultivation."
The crowd erupted. Parents pushed their children forward, faces bright with hope.
Jin Mu stood at the back, clutching the sleeve of his foster mother. His stomach churned, but her gentle nudge urged him forward.
"Just try, Mu," she whispered. "Even if nothing comes, at least… you'll know."
One by one, the children lined up. The elder produced a Spirit Testing Stone, smooth and round, pulsing faintly with inner light. Each child pressed their hand to it. When qi stirred, the stone glowed in colors marking talent: dull gray for the weak, bright silver for the gifted, golden for the rare prodigy.
The rival stepped forward first—the same boy who had mocked Jin Mu at the well. He pressed his palm to the stone.
Golden light burst forth.
The villagers gasped as if the heavens themselves had descended.
"A golden root!"
"Only once in a hundred years!"
"He will become a true cultivator!"
The boy smirked, basking in the awe, his gaze flicking toward Jin Mu with open mockery.
One after another, the others tested. Some silver, some gray. Each result drew cheers or sighs.
At last, Jin Mu's turn came.
He stepped forward on shaky legs, palms damp with sweat. He pressed his hand to the stone.
Nothing.
The elder frowned. "Again."
Jin Mu tried, pressing harder. He clenched his jaw, veins bulging in his arm. Still, the stone remained dull and lifeless.
The rival's laughter rang out across the square. "Hah! Still crippled. Did you think heaven would change its mind for you?"
Snickers spread like wildfire through the crowd.
"Hopeless."
"Useless."
"A burden, nothing more."
The elder withdrew the stone, his face a mask of indifference. "Sealed meridians. No qi circulation. He is unfit." His voice carried no malice, only cold dismissal—as though Jin Mu were less than the dust at his feet.
Jin Mu lowered his hand. His chest was hollow, his throat burning with unshed words. He did not cry. He did not beg. He only stared at his rival, whose golden light still shimmered faintly in the air.
The rival leaned close, his voice low, meant only for Jin Mu.
"Remember this day, trash. When I ascend, you'll still be crawling in the mud."
Jin Mu's fists clenched until his nails cut his skin. Blood welled between his fingers, but he said nothing.
The sect gathered their chosen disciples, golden boy at the front, glowing with pride. The banners lifted. The swordsmen marched. The village cheered.
And Jin Mu stood alone in the dust, blood dripping from his palms, the laughter echoing in his ears.
That night, he sat once more outside the hut, beneath the cracked roof, staring at the pale moon. His chest burned—not with qi, but with something fiercer.
Even if I must tear open the heavens with my own hands… one day, I will rise.
The vow settled like iron in his bones.