Lin Yuan stepped out of the City Technical Hall and into sunlight that felt… ordinary.
That alone was strange.
He had just finished an examination that most people treated like a turning point in their cultivation life. Some failed and were delayed years. Some passed and strutted for weeks. Some never returned at all.
The city did not care.
A cart rolled past, piled high with sacks of spirit grain. A pair of inner-city guards argued quietly about lunch rotation. Somewhere, a bell rang—not ceremonial, just practical.
Lin Yuan stopped on the steps, looked up at the sky, and realized something.
"I have time," he murmured.
Three hours.
He had not planned for this.
He stood there long enough that a clerk passing by gave him a confused look, as if unsure whether he was lingering out of anxiety or stupidity. Lin Yuan smiled faintly and walked away.
The inner city markets were louder by daylight.
Not chaotic like the outer districts, but busy in a sharper way. Stalls were permanent here—stone foundations, lacquered signs, polished counters. Prices were clearly written and rarely negotiable.
Lin Yuan drifted.
He passed a pill shop where three cultivators argued intensely over whether a certain recovery pill counted as "restorative" or "stimulant." The shop owner watched them with the dead-eyed patience of someone who had heard this argument every week for twenty years.
He passed a weapons stall where a young man swung a saber too enthusiastically and was immediately scolded by both the owner and his own senior brother.
He passed a talisman vendor loudly proclaiming, "Guaranteed activation!" while a small handwritten sign below added, One-time use. No refunds.
Lin Yuan stopped to watch.
A customer activated a talisman on the spot. It worked.
The vendor beamed.
The talisman fizzled out two breaths later.
The vendor's smile became philosophical.
Lin Yuan moved on.
He realized, slowly, that he was hungry.
This realization came not with urgency, but with curiosity.
In the outer city, hunger was a matter of timing and price. Here, it was a matter of choice.
He stopped at a food street branching off the main road.
Steam rose from open kitchens. The air smelled of oil, spice, roasted grain, and something sweet he couldn't immediately identify.
Lin Yuan stood at the entrance like a man who had wandered into a foreign country.
A vendor noticed him hesitating.
"First time?" the man asked cheerfully, wiping his hands on his apron.
Lin Yuan nodded.
The vendor laughed. "Inner city food street. Don't think too hard or you'll starve."
He gestured down the lane. "Spicy to the left. Light flavors to the right. Expensive mistakes straight ahead."
Lin Yuan considered this deeply, then went left.
He ordered noodles.
Then ordered skewers.
Then, after watching someone else eat it with clear regret, ordered something wrapped in thin dough and stuffed with minced spirit-beast meat.
He sat at a low table, watching people.
Cultivators ate differently.
Some consumed food like fuel, barely tasting it. Some discussed cultivation techniques between bites, oil dripping down their fingers unnoticed. Some argued loudly, others whispered conspiratorially.
Lin Yuan ate slowly.
He tasted everything.
The spice made his nose itch. The noodles were chewy in a satisfying way. The skewers were over-seasoned but honest about it.
He realized he was smiling.
This startled him enough that he paused mid-bite, considering his own reaction.
"I am enjoying this," he concluded.
The thought was not emotional. Just factual.
A commotion broke out two tables down.
A young cultivator accused the vendor of shorting him on meat. The vendor accused the cultivator of counting wrong. A third party offered to mediate and immediately made it worse.
Lin Yuan watched, fascinated.
Eventually, the vendor threw an extra skewer at the cultivator's plate.
"Consider it compensation for your loudness," the vendor snapped.
The cultivator looked stunned.
The crowd dispersed, disappointed.
Lin Yuan finished eating and paid.
The vendor glanced at his remaining skewers. "You didn't overeat."
Lin Yuan considered. "I might later."
The vendor nodded approvingly, as if this was wisdom.
He walked again.
Time passed strangely.
He found himself watching a group of children—mortal children—playing with paper birds enchanted to flap weakly. The enchantment failed every few minutes, and the children fixed it by sheer insistence.
He watched an argument between two shop owners escalate into a duel of legal citations, both waving permits aggressively.
He watched a cultivator trip over nothing and immediately pretend it was intentional.
At some point, he bought tea.
Then forgot about it until it cooled.
A bell rang.
Lin Yuan froze.
He counted.
"…three hours," he said quietly.
He turned.
And ran.
He did not sprint. That would draw attention.
He hurried with dignity.
Which meant he walked quickly while apologizing under his breath to people who were not offended.
By the time he reached the City Technical Hall, he was breathing a little faster than usual and very aware that he had nearly forgotten the examination entirely.
"That would have been embarrassing," he thought.
He slowed before entering.
Inside, the atmosphere had changed.
Inside, the front hall was… empty.
Not ceremonially empty. Not ominously empty. Just the kind of empty that suggested everyone who was supposed to be there already was.
At the far end of the hall, behind a long desk, sat a single clerk.
She was bent over a ledger, brush moving steadily, expression so focused that the rest of the world appeared to have been dismissed by administrative authority.
Lin Yuan paused.
He looked around once, as if expecting someone to step out and tell him he had misunderstood the time.
No one did.
He took a few steps forward.
The sound of his footsteps echoed far more loudly than he expected.
The clerk's brush stopped.
She looked up.
Her eyes focused.
Then narrowed.
"You," she said.
Lin Yuan inclined his head politely. "Me."
She set the brush down with care—the kind of care that signaled a coming lecture.
"Do you know what time it is?" she asked.
Lin Yuan considered lying.
He did not.
"A little after the third bell," he said.
Her expression sharpened. "And do you know when the results for Phase One were posted?"
"A little before the third bell," Lin Yuan said.
She leaned back in her chair, folded her arms, and stared at him as if he were a puzzle someone had assembled incorrectly.
"Candidate," she said slowly, "this is an examination hall. Not a tea house. People wait here."
Lin Yuan nodded. "I was eating."
Her eye twitched.
"You were what?"
"Eating," he repeated calmly. "I lost track of time."
She stared at him in open disbelief now.
"Lost track of—" She stopped, exhaled once, then pointed sharply to the side wall.
"List. Now."
Lin Yuan followed her finger.
A large wooden board was mounted against the wall, neat rows of names carved or written with care. Some had red seals beside them. Others did not.
"Those with seals," the clerk said crisply, "proceed to Hall C for Phase Two."
Her finger dropped slightly. "Those without may leave."
She picked up her brush again. "Quietly."
Lin Yuan stepped closer to the list.
The clerk watched him from the corner of her eye, already certain of the outcome.
He had left early.
He had returned late.
He had admitted to eating.
She had seen this type before.
Lin Yuan scanned the names.
Once.
Then again, slower.
Then he stopped.
His name was there.
Not especially high.
Not especially low.
But clearly marked.
With a red seal.
Lin Yuan nodded to himself, turned, and began walking toward the corridor marked Hall C.
He took three steps before the clerk realized something was wrong.
"…Wait."
Lin Yuan stopped and looked back.
She stared at him.
Then at the list.
Then at him again.
"You're going the wrong way," she said automatically.
"This is Hall C," Lin Yuan replied, gesturing to the corridor.
Her mouth opened.
Closed.
She stood up.
Walked around the desk.
Stood beside him.
Read the list herself.
Her finger traced down the names once.
Twice.
"…Huh," she said.
Lin Yuan waited.
She straightened, cleared her throat, and stepped aside with forced dignity.
"Proceed," she said stiffly.
He inclined his head again. "Thank you."
As he walked away, she stared after him, brush forgotten, lips moving soundlessly.
"Did he really…?" she muttered.
Lin Yuan reached the door to Hall C.
Inside, voices echoed faintly.
He opened it.
Wei Changxu's calm, authoritative voice carried clearly through the hall.
"—this phase will not reward excess effort. Only correct judgment."
Every head in the room turned.
Wei Changxu paused mid-sentence.
His gaze settled on Lin Yuan.
For a heartbeat, the hall was silent.
Lin Yuan stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
End of Chapter 67