The journey to the sect took three days. Three days on the back of a rattling cart, chained like a prisoner.
Jin Mu said nothing. His foster parents had wept as he left, their hands clinging to him until the disciples tore him away. The villagers had whispered as he passed—some fearful, some eager for his downfall. Only his rival's smirk had followed him like a shadow, full of triumph.
The cart rattled to a stop at last.
When Jin Mu raised his head, the Iron Sword Sect loomed before him.
Carved into the side of a sheer mountain, its gates were massive slabs of black iron, etched with sword talismans that pulsed faintly with spiritual qi. Towers jutted skyward, their tips hidden in the clouds, banners whipping in the high winds. Beyond the gates, he glimpsed sprawling courtyards, training grounds, and rows of disciples in crimson robes, their swords gleaming in the sun.
To Jin Mu, it felt less like a temple of cultivation and more like a fortress of war.
The elder who had brought him gestured curtly. "Bring him in."
The chains were unlocked, but not removed. Disciples dragged him forward, through the gates. As they passed, whispers followed.
"Who's that?"
"A new disciple?"
"No, look—chains. A prisoner."
"They say he has cursed qi. Dangerous."
Laughter spread among them. Jin Mu kept his gaze forward, his face calm, but each word cut deeper than steel.
They stopped in a broad courtyard where young disciples sparred with wooden swords. His rival stood there already, surrounded by admirers, his golden aura faint but radiant even without effort. When he saw Jin Mu dragged in, his smirk widened.
"Well, well," he drawled. "The cripple arrives. Not as a disciple, but as a dog on a chain."
The others laughed. One boy spat at Jin Mu's feet. Another muttered, "How could trash like this even step inside our gates?"
The elder's cold voice silenced them. "Enough." His eyes swept over the gathered crowd. "This boy's qi is strange, yes—but he survived it. That alone makes him worth testing. Until then, he is to live as an outer disciple. His worth will be proven—or his death will decide it."
Murmurs rippled. Some sneered, others scoffed. But rules were rules.
The chains were finally struck off. Jin Mu flexed his wrists, red and raw. He looked around at the faces of those who despised him—and said nothing.
That night, he was given a straw mat in a dim, crumbling barrack at the edge of the sect. The roof leaked, the walls cracked. He shared it with five other outcasts—weaklings, servants in all but name.
They eyed him warily, whispering among themselves. One, a boy with missing teeth, spat on the floor. "Another cripple among us. Don't expect pity."
Jin Mu lay on the mat, staring up at the leaking roof. His body ached, his chest burned with restless qi, but his eyes were steady.
The sect could chain him. The disciples could mock him. His rival could scheme against him.
But the storm within him was awake now.
And storms did not bow.