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The Azure Heaven Pavilion's halls grew harsher as disciples aged. No longer were lessons gentle drills with wooden swords. At eleven years old, Feng Xieyun found himself thrown into the crucible of the Pavilion's Outer Disciple Trials.
Steel clashed, Qi flared, sweat ran like rain. Boys and girls only a few years older fought with the desperation of wolves, for recognition here meant everything—access to better manuals, to mentors, to paths that led toward immortality.
For Xieyun, recognition was dangerous. The System reminded him constantly:
> [Quest Active: Pavilion Recognition must be gained by age twelve.]
[Warning: Overexposure will trigger Lin Clan interest.]
So he wore his mask as always. His sword strokes were modest, his Qi circulation sluggish, his demeanor humble. To most eyes, he was still the weakest among them, barely tolerated.
Yet when sparring turned brutal, when accidents "nearly" broke bones, when blades "slipped" too close to his throat, those who sought to humiliate him somehow always stumbled. Their ankles twisted. Their grips failed. Their Qi faltered for just a second.
None saw the threads. None felt the subtle tug of his concealed arts.
Xieyun made certain his victories looked like flukes.
"Lucky again, eh, mouse?" sneered one boy, clutching a bruised wrist after his own sword slipped free.
Xieyun only bowed politely, lowering his gaze. "I apologize, Senior Brother. I must have been blessed with clumsy fortune."
Laughter rippled at his expense. But within his mind, the System purred:
> [Progress: Pavilion Recognition 23%.]
---
Yet not all eyes were blind.
One evening, as the sun bled orange across the horizon, Xieyun sat meditating in the pine grove behind the training fields. The faint hum of the Demon Scripture coursed within him, purifying impurities like fire consuming paper. He was alone—or so he thought.
"You hide yourself well, child."
The voice was soft, dry as autumn leaves.
Xieyun's eyes opened slowly. An elder stood there, robes of faded blue, beard long and silver, his presence light as drifting smoke. He was Elder Mo, a Pavilion instructor known for teaching philosophy more than martial arts. Most disciples considered him harmless, irrelevant.
Yet Xieyun's Karmic Echo stirred. Danger.
"Forgive me, Elder," he said, lowering his head. "I was only practicing breathing."
Elder Mo's gaze lingered. "Yes. Breathing. And yet… when I listen, I hear two breaths from you. One calm and shallow, as expected of a mortal child. But the other…" His eyes narrowed. "The other whispers of storms."
Xieyun's mind sharpened like a blade unsheathed. He summoned his mask. "I… do not understand, Elder."
Mo chuckled faintly. "Perhaps not. Perhaps I am only an old man chasing phantoms." He turned away, walking into the pines. But his final words carried on the wind:
"Storms cannot be hidden forever."
---
That night, the System reacted.
> [Alert: Potential Detection Threat Identified — Elder Mo.]
[Recommendation: Monitor closely. Probability of hidden agenda: 78%.]
Xieyun sat in silence long after. Elder Mo's words dug into him. Was the old man merely perceptive—or did he know something more?
The Pavilion was not the safe haven it appeared. And in the shadows, threads began weaving toward a hidden truth that would not reveal itself until much later.