Yuanshan City had changed overnight. The first banners of sect trial season unfurled above the walls—red and blue, green and silver, fluttering in the sharp breeze. The gates were a river of faces: hopeful, anxious, proud, and desperate, all drawn by the promise that, for a handful of days, anyone might be chosen. In every alley and under every lantern, the city pulsed with an energy that felt both new and ancient.
For Cael and Aylin, the city's map was becoming familiar. They'd spent the last week wandering every street and market they dared, learning the twisty alleys and the rhythms of the crowds. The siblings moved as a team, silent when they needed to be, quick to step aside when the city's real power—young cultivators in fine robes, noble family guards, robed elders—swept past.
Cael wore his battered shield strapped to his back, a reminder and a promise, even in a city where most cultivators sneered at such things. He'd seen the way some of the other hopefuls grinned, nudging each other as he passed. "Shield boy," one had whispered, "must be here to clean up after the trials are done." But Cael held his head high, the lessons of Old Bo echoing in his mind with every step.
Aylin kept close, her hands never idle. Sometimes she fingered the pouch of dried herbs Seraphine had helped her prepare, sometimes she practiced simple breathing exercises or pressed her palm over her heart, feeling for the pulse of her Starleaf Root. She watched everything, the city's noise and color reflected in her serious eyes.
The main square was a storm of activity. Disciples from every righteous sect mingled beneath the flags—Azure Sword, Crimson Spear, Verdant Heart Hall, Golden Halberd Temple, and more. Some wore shining armor, others robes embroidered with strange symbols. Their laughter rang bright, but underneath ran a current of competition: the occasional sharp glance, the flash of contempt when old rivals crossed paths.
A young man from the Azure Sword Sect demonstrated a dazzling form, slicing through the air so quickly it left afterimages in the sunlight. A girl in green from Verdant Heart Hall knelt to tend a scraped knee, her hands gentle and her words low. A trio from Iron Fist Pavilion ran sprints along the riverbank, their shouts and laughter carrying on the wind.
Aylin tugged Cael's sleeve. "Everyone's so… sure of themselves. Do you think we'll look like that someday?"
Cael watched the crowds—a dozen kinds of confidence and bravado—but also the way some failed to hide exhaustion, the jealousy in their eyes when others drew the crowd's gaze. He shrugged. "Maybe. But I think being sure of each other matters more."
They found a quieter courtyard behind a tea shop—an old, sun-dappled space where weeds grew between the stones and the noise faded into birdsong. Here, they practiced.
Cael started with his shield, remembering Old Bo's words: *Root yourself—stance is survival.* He stood, knees bent, feet wide, and let the battered iron rest against his forearm. He closed his eyes and blocked imaginary blows, feeling the vibration run from shield to feet. Each time he lost his balance, he forced himself to reset, slow down, and try again.
He worked on deflection next—angling the shield, letting imaginary strikes glance away. He pushed forward, used the edge to hook and shove, practiced moving with the shield instead of against it. He moved through Bo's drills until sweat ran down his back and his arms trembled.
His system whispered, soft and proud in the edges of his mind:
**[Skill: Rooted Stance—Stable. Deflection—Improved. Shield Bash—Basic.]**
**[Progress: Shield Mastery 44%.]**
He grinned, wiped his brow, and glanced at Aylin. She was practicing the simple stances Seraphine had taught her—feet planted, hips square, eyes forward. Then she settled cross-legged under a willow and spread out her herb pouch and scrolls.
She quizzed herself on roots and leaves, eyes darting between the real plants and her notes. Sometimes she whispered, "Patience. Listen first. Heal second." She practiced mixing a nausea powder using only a few dry leaves and a cup of water. She checked her own pulse, then Cael's, and when a stray cat limped by, she offered it a cupped hand and a quiet hum, coaxing it to her lap to check a thorn caught in its paw.
Cael watched her—so young, but already steady, her hands sure even when her voice shook.
"Show me again how you check for fever," he asked.
Aylin smiled, a little shy but proud. "Back of the hand. Gentle, not rough. You listen with your fingers, not just your ears."
Across the city, the energy grew. Banners snapped in the wind, sect disciples sparred in open plazas, and in quiet corners, elders whispered, sizing up the next generation. It was clear to Cael that not everyone came from privilege—some hopefuls wore patched robes, others carried homemade weapons, their faces set with the same mix of determination and fear he felt inside.
Late one afternoon, the siblings watched a public match in the arena square. Two young cultivators—one from the Jade Dagger Sect, the other from Iron Fist Pavilion—faced off. The dagger girl was quick, darting in and out, but the boy's endurance wore her down. When he finally pinned her with a wide sweep of his arm, the crowd roared. But Cael noticed the boy's trembling legs, the effort it took to hide his fatigue. Even the winners had limits.
As dusk fell, Cael and Aylin sat on the steps by the bridge, watching lanterns bob over the river. The city glowed golden and strange.
Aylin nudged him. "Do you think we picked the right path—halberd, shield, all of it?"
Cael was quiet a long time, listening to the water. "I think… there isn't a right path, just the one we walk together."
He remembered every lesson Old Bo had hammered home:
- Root yourself.
- Don't meet force with force—angle, deflect, let the world's blows slide by.
- The shield moves with you; it isn't a wall but a promise.
- Listen for the fight, feel it in your bones.
- Protect others; a shield means nothing if used for yourself alone.
- Sometimes, you rest behind the shield and let the world pass.
- The edge can strike, but only after you've defended.
- When your shield breaks, adapt. Survive. Endure.
He practiced them after every meal, every morning, every time he and Aylin found a safe patch of ground. Even now, he felt a quiet pride in how his stance was less shaky, how his feet seemed to remember the shape of the earth.
Aylin's progress was different, but just as real. She learned to run farther, to carry water without spilling, to kneel for longer and mix medicines without her hands cramping. She listened to the stories of the city's old healers, learning how sometimes a gentle word was as important as any salve.
Evenings found them back in Lady Seraphine's kitchen, bellies full—sometimes with only rice and tea, but always enough. They talked about the day, shared little victories, and admitted small failures. No one scolded. Seraphine only nodded, sometimes adding a gentle correction. "A healer who never tires is a liar. A shieldbearer who never falls has never stood for anyone."
On the eve before registration for the sect trials, the city's pulse seemed to beat faster. At the gates, new faces appeared—boys and girls from distant villages, some in fine robes, others in threadbare tunics, all with that same hungry hope burning in their eyes. The inns were full, and in every street, Cael saw training: sword forms, talisman practice, duels with bared fists under the lanterns.
And everywhere, there was talk of the trials. How this year would be harder, how the sects were watching for something new, how the City Lord himself would attend the opening ceremony.
Aylin lay awake that night, staring at the ceiling. "What if nobody picks us?" she whispered.
Cael reached over, finding her hand in the dark. "Then we'll keep trying. Or make our own place. One way or another."
In the hush that followed, he felt a small glow—a hope more stubborn than fear. The next day would dawn, and the world would try to sweep them aside. But they would not yield. Not now, not ever.