The first light of dawn stretched over the peaks like molten gold, spilling into the jagged cliffs of the northern mountains. Jian Wushen opened his eyes, the sensation of the previous day's inheritance still coursing through his veins. His body felt simultaneously ordinary and extraordinary—a paradox of strength and control. Every muscle, every tendon, every joint pulsed with a quiet energy that could easily topple a lesser warrior, yet he moved with the grace of someone who had been trained in the ways of stealth, cunning, and deadly precision.
He stood atop the cliff where the cave yawned behind him, the lingering essence of Sun Wukong's consciousness still whispering in his mind. The golden light of the Immortal Spear—the legendary weapon he now held in memory and spirit—seemed to hum, resonating with the rhythm of his heartbeat. Jian Wushen had no illusions: mastery was not merely physical. The spear was an extension of the mind, the spirit, and the subtle footwork that determined the difference between life and death in a single strike.
Taking a deep breath, he began to move. First a simple forward thrust—light, controlled, precise. The golden aura flickered as the spear sliced the air, leaving a faint trail. Rocks cracked under its invisible pressure. Leaves and small branches scattered in the force of the strike, yet Jian landed as if he had merely stepped on the ground, nothing more. His senses, sharpened by the monkey king's inheritance, detected every nuance of air, every slight shift in pressure. This was the first real test of his power.
He leaped, spinning mid-air, feeling the weight and balance of the spear in a motion that would have felled an ordinary beast with a single strike. And yet, it was not mere strength that made this display remarkable—it was the precision, the cunning in the way he moved, the understanding that each motion could be a trap, a lure, or a decisive strike. Wukong's teachings reverberated in his consciousness: "Cunning turns the battlefield into a canvas. The foot is the brush; the mind, the artist. Never rely on sheer strength alone."
After hours of testing, Jian allowed himself to relax. He sat on the cliff edge, watching the morning clouds drift like ghosts through the mountains. A smile touched his lips. He had not yet unleashed the full potential of the inheritance, but he could feel it—every nerve, every sinew, every spark of life within him was attuned to something greater.
It was then that another memory surfaced—the monkey king had also passed down alchemy skills. Jian's eyes widened slightly. Sun Wukong had not merely given him martial knowledge, spear mastery, or tactical cunning; he had also left the secrets of transforming materials, concocting potions, and enhancing both the body and spirit through the alchemical arts. The possibilities were endless. With even a basic understanding of Wukong's alchemy, he could enhance his body further, refine medicines, and craft elixirs that could make an ordinary cultivator seem godlike.
But first, he needed supplies. He couldn't wander into the Sigu Sect as a starving, ragged boy. His mind flickered back to the gang that had chased him the day before. Though they had been ruthless and cruel, Jian knew that some of their wealth could now be his. Using the keen senses honed by the inheritance, he tracked their remaining camp. With the grace of a shadow, he crept closer, unseen, every step silent, every movement calculated.
The gang slept in disarray, drunk from their own bravado. Jian took what he needed: a few rolls of cloth, some coins, dried meat, and a small satchel of medicinal herbs they had carelessly left behind. Each item he pocketed carefully, leaving no trace. It was not theft—it was survival. By the time the sun had risen fully, the camp was as undisturbed as the wind that passed through it. Jian Wushen vanished into the forests beyond, his ordinary appearance belying the extraordinary presence he carried within him.
The journey to the Sigu Sect was long and treacherous. The sect lay in a valley shrouded by mist, nestled between two jagged ranges that had claimed countless travelers over the centuries. Jian Wushen walked steadily, each step measured, each movement precise. The Immortal Spear rested lightly against his back, its aura faint yet undeniable, and every once in a while, he would extend his senses, feeling the faint stirrings of life, the pulse of qi in the air, the resonance of hidden dangers.
He encountered wild beasts along the way—some of them large, with claws like razors, others small but venomous. Jian didn't panic. He tested his spear, thrusting it with precision that would have unnerved even seasoned warriors. A fox-sized creature lunged, its fangs bared. Jian sidestepped effortlessly, pivoting his feet in a footwork pattern that left him perfectly balanced. With a swift flick of the Immortal Spear, the creature was incapacitated, unharmed but stunned, and rolled harmlessly away. The forest remained intact; he left no trace of unnecessary violence.
Hours turned into a day. Jian's mind was calm, his focus absolute. Every swing of the spear, every pivot of his feet, every breath he took was deliberate. He experimented with footwork he had glimpsed in Wukong's memories, realizing the true depth of the monkey king's teachings. The spear was not merely a weapon—it was a compass, a guide, an extension of the self. Combined with footwork, it allowed him to move faster than the eye could follow, to strike from angles others could never predict.
Finally, the outer gates of the Sigu Sect came into view. Massive stone statues flanked the entrance, carved centuries ago with intricate sigils that pulsed faintly with qi. Disciples moved with grace and discipline, their robes clean, their postures perfect. Jian Wushen's ordinary appearance—ragged, average face, rough hands—would have drawn scorn from most. But he moved with the confidence of one who had seen the vastness of the cosmos in memory, of one whose body had already felt the currents of the heavens.
He stopped at the edge of the crowd of hopeful outer disciples, observing. Young men and women stood nervously, some clutching weapons, others nervously muttering mantras to themselves. Jian noted their weaknesses almost instantly: misaligned footwork, lack of awareness, panic in the presence of authority. He didn't need to speak; his eyes, sharp and calm, were enough to assess each potential rival.
A low murmur ran through the crowd as the first stage of the Sigu Sect outer disciple entrance examination was announced: a test of awareness, agility, and basic qi control. Participants would be paired against minor guardians of the sect—automatons or summoned beasts—to assess their natural talent and composure. The best performers would gain recommendation letters, modest rewards, and, most importantly, the backing of the sect should they survive the trials.
Jian Wushen's lips curled into a faint smile. This was exactly what he needed. Not just survival, but opportunity, resources, and a stage to display the first trace of his inherited power. With the Immortal Spear at his back, his newly inherited alchemy knowledge in mind, and the cunning instilled by the memory of Sun Wukong, he stepped forward, calm, confident, and ready.
Let the trial begin.
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