he trial grounds of the Sigu Sect had grown tense after Zhang Yifeng's dazzling performance. The disciples who came after him could not help but feel the weight of comparison pressing down on their shoulders.
Even the elders seated above seemed less patient now. Some leaned lazily in their chairs, arms folded, while others observed with sharp eyes, waiting for a glimmer of talent worth noting. The younger disciples fidgeted, some whispering nervously, others secretly relieved that their turns had already passed.
Jian Wushen stood quietly among them, his spear strapped across his back, its golden tip gleaming faintly under the sunlight. His expression was calm, but his eyes were fixed on the trial platform. The words of the Oracle still lingered in his mind, like ripples in a pond that refused to fade.
You are not strong enough. Return when you are ready.
He clenched his fist at his side, feeling the texture of his own skin press against his palm. To the world, he appeared unmoved. But deep within, a fire burned quietly, steadily, feeding on the mockery and whispers that had begun to circle around him since his earlier falter.
---
A Parade of Disciples
"Next challenger—Feng Yiran of the Northern Hall!"
The elder's voice snapped the crowd to attention.
A tall youth stepped forward, his expression proud, his steps brisk. He carried a sword at his waist, the hilt wrapped in scarlet cloth. The disciples murmured his name as he ascended the trial platform.
"That's Feng Yiran. I heard he comprehended low-grade sword intent last month."
"Low-grade or not, sword intent at his level is still rare."
"Do you think he can stand up to Zhang Yifeng?"
"Don't be foolish. No one here can match Zhang Yifeng."
The guardians appeared once more—three towering figures of spiritual light, weapons gleaming, their aura oppressive. Feng Yiran drew his sword with a sharp cry, his aura exploding outward in a blaze of crimson.
His sword danced like fire, fast and aggressive, each strike accompanied by faint ripples of sword intent. The crowd gasped as sparks of light flared with every clash.
"He's really using sword intent!"
"Impressive! He might defeat two guardians at least!"
Feng Yiran fought fiercely, his strikes pushing back one guardian, then cutting down another. But sweat soon glistened on his brow. His sword intent flickered, his aura beginning to waver. The last guardian pressed forward relentlessly.
With a final desperate roar, Feng Yiran slashed downward, severing the guardian's arm. But the backlash sent him sprawling across the platform. His sword clattered to the ground as the guardian dissolved.
"Trial complete," the elder declared.
The crowd erupted in cheers.
"Two guardians destroyed! That's already among the best results today."
"Not on Zhang Yifeng's level, but still respectable."
Feng Yiran staggered to his feet, saluted the elders, then walked back into the crowd, his pride intact despite his exhaustion. His gaze swept past Jian Wushen briefly, lingering for only a moment before moving on.
---
Whispers of Comparison
More disciples were called one by one. Some managed to destroy a guardian, others failed miserably. A few showed sparks of talent, but none could compare to Zhang Yifeng's overwhelming display.
The crowd's murmurs grew restless.
"Everyone after Zhang Yifeng just feels… dull."
"Even those who manage one guardian seem ordinary in comparison."
"It's the curse of appearing after a true prodigy. No matter what you do, you look like a shadow."
Then their whispers shifted, their gazes sliding toward Jian Wushen once again.
"And that one hasn't even gone yet…"
"Hah, what's the point? He already embarrassed himself earlier."
"Maybe he'll faint again before even lifting his spear."
Soft laughter rippled among the younger disciples. A few pointed openly, their eyes gleaming with ridicule.
Jian Wushen did not respond. His eyes remained fixed on the trial platform, his silence unshaken.
---
The Elders' Gazes
On the high platform above, the elders observed quietly. Some frowned, others exchanged glances.
"That boy with the spear," one elder murmured, stroking his beard. "Earlier, the trial formation reacted strangely when it was his turn."
"Strangely? He faltered, nothing more," another elder scoffed. "If he cannot even endure the formation, what potential does he have?"
"Perhaps. But there was… something odd in the way his aura fluctuated. Did you not feel it?"
"I felt nothing worth noting. Compared to Zhang Yifeng, he is nothing more than a weed beneath a towering tree."
Their voices were low, but not so low that Jian could not sense their disdain. He did not look at them, but his heart recorded every word.
---
The Calm Before the Storm
As more disciples took their trials, the crowd's excitement waned. The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the arena. Zhang Yifeng stood silently off to the side, arms folded, his calm expression unchanged as though none of this concerned him. His presence alone was enough to keep the atmosphere heavy.
Jian Wushen closed his eyes briefly, taking a deep breath. He felt the weight of the Immortal Spear on his back, its presence steady, almost alive. The weapon given to him by Sun Wukong was no ordinary spear. It was a reminder that his path was far greater than anyone here could comprehend.
When the time comes, I will not falter again.
---
The Call
At last, the elder overseeing the trial raised his hand once more. His voice rang across the grounds, heavy with authority.
"Next challenger—Jian Wushen of the Outer Hall!"
The crowd erupted instantly.
"Hah! It's finally his turn."
"Let's see if he can even last a breath this time."
"This should be amusing."
Dozens of eyes turned toward him. Some were mocking, some curious, a few indifferent. But all waited.
Jian Wushen opened his eyes. The fire within them flickered faintly, like a spark ready to ignite. He stepped forward, each movement steady, unhurried.
The crowd parted slightly as he walked, whispers trailing in his wake. His hand reached back, fingers brushing against the smooth shaft of the Immortal Spear.
At that moment, a faint ripple spread through the air, so subtle that only the most sensitive cultivators felt it. A few elders narrowed their eyes.
But Jian Wushen did not notice their reactions. His gaze was locked on the trial platform.
He stepped onto the stone floor, the runes of the formation flaring to life beneath his feet.
The trial guardians began to stir.
And the entire arena fell silent.
---