The flying sword descended slowly, its edge cutting through clouds that bent away as if unwilling to touch it. The candidates stood rigid, their bodies pressed into silence by the weight that had not yet lifted. Even when the pressure eased, no one dared speak. The descent itself was a verdict.
Below them, the Desolute Sect Outpost revealed itself. It was not a hall. It was not a fortress. It was a sprawl.
Stone terraces stretched outward, layered upon one another like scars carved into the mountain. Huts dotted the slopes, crude and functional, their roofs patched with tiles and wood. Smoke rose in thin lines from scattered chimneys, carrying the smell of labor rather than incense. Farther ahead, beyond the outer sprawl, a city loomed — walls high, towers sharp, formations glowing faintly in the distance.
This was the inner sect.
The narrator declares: this was not grandeur. This was hierarchy. The outer sect was a village. The inner sect was a city. Between them lay distance measured not in steps but in survival.
The sword settled onto a broad platform carved into the mountain's side. The Senior Brother stepped down first, his weight light, his presence heavy. He did not look at the candidates. He looked at the sect.
"Move," he said.
The word landed like a blade.
Candidates scrambled forward, their feet uncertain on stone that felt heavier than earth should. Kael moved last, his pace even, his breath measured. His axe drew glances, but no one spoke.
Medallions were issued. Not as gifts. As labels.
An attendant moved quickly, pressing cold metal into each candidate's palm. The discs bore faint inscriptions, not glowing, not grand, merely functional. They were not treasures. They were categories.
The narrator explains: medallions did not grant status. They assigned utility. Each disciple was sorted into labor, gardens, missions, patrols. The sect did not care who they were. The sect cared what they could be used for.
"Outer sect," the Senior Brother said. His voice was calm, dismissive. "You will live here. Huts, not caves. Caves are earned. Fought for. Taken."
No one laughed.
He gestured toward the sprawl. "Beyond, the inner sect. Only when you reach seventh layer and above may you attempt promotion. Until then, you remain here."
His sleeve flicked. The medallions glowed faintly, then dimmed.
"This is your category," he said. "Do not mistake it for privilege. It is burden."
The narrator declares: this was not opportunity. This was classification.
Candidates looked at their medallions. Some frowned. Some scoffed. Some whispered.
Kael looked once, then closed his hand. His breath did not change. His weight did not shift. His body remained steady.
Inside, he burned.
The split within him sharpened. On the outside, he was cold, desolate, forged by the city that had tried to erase him. On the inside, he was shamelessly excited, an otaku who had read too many novels, a fan who had memorized tropes, a reader who had studied cruelty. His Earth memories whispered: this is the sect arc. His comics reminded him: hierarchy is inevitable. His novels taught him: labor is the path.
He did not smile. But he did not bend.
The Senior Brother continued. "Outer sect tasks are simple. Menial labor. Resource gathering. External duties. Progression through completion. Points for resources. Points for survival. Points for advancement."
He listed them without pause.
"Sect maintenance. Sweeping halls. Tidying courtyards. Cooking. Errands. Guarding gates."
"Resource gathering. Tending herb gardens. Hunting weak beasts. Mining spirit stones. Foraging materials."
"External duties. Scouting talent. Managing sect businesses. Collecting tributes. Patrolling regions."
His voice did not rise. It did not fall. It was flat. Declarative. Dismissive.
The narrator explains: these were not privileges. They were burdens disguised as paths.
Candidates shifted uneasily. Some whispered complaints.
"This is slave work," one muttered.
"This is beneath us," another scoffed.
The Senior Brother did not react. Institutions did not care about protest. They cared about obedience.
Kael remained silent. His breath was steady. His stance was aligned. His axe pressed against his back, weight familiar, presence constant.
Inside, he remembered every novel he had read. Every comic he had studied. Every trope he had memorized. He knew cruelty was the system. He knew excitement was the trap. He carried both within him, and neither would break.
The narrator declares: this was the outer sect. It was not a home. It was a sieve.
Candidates were led to huts. Crude, small, functional. No formations. No caves. No comfort.
"This is yours," the attendant said. "Do not expect more."
Kael stepped inside. The hut smelled of old wood, damp stone, smoke that had lingered too long. He placed his axe against the wall. He sat cross‑legged on the floor. His breath slowed. His weight settled.
Outside, voices rose. Complaints. Boasts. Arguments.
Inside, Kael remained silent.
Noise before silence. Silence before endurance. Endurance before survival.
The narrator judges: this moment closed a door. The candidates had entered the sect. They had been classified. They had been burdened. The path ahead was not cultivation. It was labor.
Half of them would vanish before the year ended.
Kael did not smile. But he did not bend.