The morning of Wu Jian's twelfth birthday dawned with the scent of plum blossoms and damp earth. He woke before the sun, his calloused hands automatically finding the worn handles of the water buckets. The routine was a meditation: walk to the stream, fill the buckets, carry them back without spilling a drop. His father said it built character. Wu Jian knew it built shoulders that ached and a back that creaked like an old cart. But today was different. Today, the ache was secondary to the cold knot in his stomach.
Awakening Day.
In the Nine Provinces Continent, a person's destiny was carved in spiritual stone on the day they turned twelve. The Heaven's Mechanism Pavilion would arrive with their Testing Obelisks, and a beam of light would reveal the grade and nature of one's Spiritual Root. It was a day of celebration for some, of bitter disappointment for most. For Wu Jian, it felt like walking toward a cliff edge, wondering if he'd sprout wings or simply learn how heavy the ground felt.
He set the buckets down by the family's small vegetable plot, his eyes drifting to the gnarled old oak tree on the hill overlooking Stone Creek Village. Beneath it, a small figure in dark linen was waiting, still as a shadow. Mei Lin.
The knot in his stomach loosened, just a fraction. He climbed the hill, the dew soaking his trousers to the knee.
"You're late," she said, not turning. Her voice was a clear bell, softened by the morning mist.
"The buckets were heavy," he replied, settling beside her. They sat in comfortable silence, watching the village slowly wake. Smoke began to curl from chimneys. From this vantage point, their world was a painting of brown rooftops, green fields, and the silver creek cutting through it all.
"Nervous?" she asked finally.
"Aren't you?"
She shook her head, a dark braid swinging. "Whatever it is, it is. We'll deal with it." Her confidence was a rock he'd leaned on since they could walk. She'd shared her rice balls with him when his family's harvest failed. He'd mended her torn dress when she climbed too high. They were two saplings grown in the same poor soil, bent by the same wind.
"They say the grade decides everything," Wu Jian murmured, tracing a pattern in the dirt. "Your worth. Your job. Who you can marry."
"They say a lot of things." Mei plucked a blade of grass, folding it with precise fingers. "They said my mother would never recover from the wasting fever. She tends the south field now."
It was true. But the system was bigger than a village rumor. The Heaven's Mechanism Pavilion's edicts were law. An A-grade Fire Root could join the Imperial Academy. A B-grade Stone-Shaper would be snapped up by a construction guild. A C-grade Herbalist might run an apothecary. D-grade was manual labor. E-grade was barely above mortal.
And F-grade...
F-grade was Farming. Or Latrine Duty. Or other tasks considered so devoid of spiritual utility they were societal non-persons. Wu Jian's father had been a B-grade once, before an injury protecting his wife shattered his meridians. Now he farmed. The system had no room for has-beens.
"I just want something... useful," Wu Jian confessed, the words feeling like a stolen hope. Not glory. Not power. Just the ability to matter in a world that measured worth in colored light.
Mei looked at him then, her dark eyes serious. "You're the smartest person I know, Jian. You fixed Old Man Li's irrigation wheel when three cultivators from town couldn't. You see how things fit together. That's a root, even if the stone doesn't show it."
Her faith was a warm cloak. He almost believed it.
The sun crested the hills, painting the world in gold. It was time.
The village square was packed, buzzing with a nervous energy. Colourful banners flapped in the breeze. Families stood in huddled clusters, children scrubbed raw, wearing their least-patched clothes. In the centre, on a raised wooden platform, stood three Pavilion officials in grey robes adorned with intricate bronze gears—the symbol of the system. Before them, a crystalline obelisk hummed with a soft, internal light.
Wu Jian found his parents. His father, Wu Kang, stood straight-backed, his face a weathered mask of calm. His mother, Wu Lihua, squeezed his shoulder, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. "Remember," she whispered, "you are our son. That is your first and truest grade."
The ceremony began. The village head called names alphabetically. One by one, children approached the obelisk, placed a trembling hand upon it, and held their breath.
"Chen Hui!"
A beam of soft green light. "C-grade! Wood Affinity! Herbalist potential!" The boy's family erupted in cheers.
"Hong Lie!"
A robust boy with a permanent smirk swaggered up. He slapped his hand on the stone. A vibrant orange-red light burst forth. "B-grade! Fire Affinity! Combat cultivator potential!" Hong puffed his chest, shooting a triumphant look around. His eyes found Wu Jian, and for a second, something flickered there—not just mockery, but a fierce, almost desperate need for this validation. Then it was gone, replaced by familiar arrogance.
Wu Jian's mouth went dry. B-grade. Hong would leave this village, gain power, status. The gap between them, once just a matter of family wealth, would become a chasm enforced by cosmic law.
The names continued. Mostly Ds and Es. A smattering of Cs. Each beam of light felt like a hammer blow on the anvil of his future.
"Mei Lin!"
A hush fell. Mei walked forward, her movements fluid and silent. She placed her palm on the obelisk.
For a moment, nothing. Then the world went dark and light at once.
A silvery-black radiance exploded from the stone, so intense the officials shielded their eyes. It didn't beam; it pooled, swirling around Mei like liquid shadow shot through with threads of cold moonlight. From the heart of the darkness, the ghostly image of a lotus flower bloomed, its petals sharp as daggers.
The lead official staggered forward, his voice trembling with awe. "S... S-grade! Shadow and Plant Dual Affinity! Moonlotus Assassin manifestation! A once-in-a-generation root!"
The square was dead silent, then erupted into pandemonium. S-grade. Imperial-level. Stories were told of such roots. Mei stood encased in her own spectacular destiny, her face pale, looking not at the cheering crowd, but directly at Wu Jian. Her eyes were wide with shock, and beneath it, a plea.
In that moment, he understood. Her path would take her away. To a special sect. To a life of shadows and lethal grace. Their oak tree, their shared silence, their future—it was all being rewritten by a cold, shining stone.
"Wu Jian!"
His name cut through the noise. His legs moved numbly. The crowd's eyes were still on Mei, whispers of "S-grade!" buzzing like hornets. He climbed the steps, feeling the splinters through his thin soles. He saw Hong Lie's smirk, now edged with a new, vicious curiosity. He saw his father's stoic hope, his mother's clenched hands. He saw Mei, her silver-black aura still faintly clinging to her, her gaze locked on him, an anchor.
He placed his hand on the obelisk.
It was cool. He waited for the light. For any light.
A sputter. A flicker, weak and sickly, like a dying candle at the bottom of a well. A muddy, brownish-yellow glow struggled to coalesce, then dissolved into nothingness. The obelisk gave a final, pathetic hum and fell silent.
The official frowned, tapping the crystal. "Place your hand again, boy. Firmly."
Wu Jian did. Again, the feeble flicker. The brownish light, so dim it was almost not there.
The official consulted a bronze tablet. His lips thinned. "F-grade. Farming Spiritual Root. No elemental affinity. No combat potential. Spiritual utility: minimal to none." He announced it with the bland finality of a man reading a ledger entry.
The sound that left the crowd wasn't gasps or boos. It was a collective, soft sigh—the sound of confirmed expectations. Of course. The quiet, too-thoughtful farm boy. The one who fixed things. F-grade. It fit.
Hong Lie's laugh was the first clear sound. "Hah! I knew it! The earth itself rejects him! He'll be shoveling spirit-beast manure before the week's out!"
The laughter spread, nervous at first, then cruel. Wu Jian stood on the platform, his hand still on the cold stone. He saw his father's shoulders slump, the mountain finally crumbling. He saw his mother's hands fly to her mouth, her eyes shimmering. He saw Mei take a step forward, her face a storm of defiance, held back by a grey-robed official already at her side, speaking low and urgently.
But Wu Jian saw none of it. Not really.
Because in the moment the official declared "F-grade," something else happened. Behind his eyes, in the private darkness of his own skull, a series of symbols flickered. Glitching, fragmented, digital. Like a reflection in shattered glass.
[Syste... connec... established...]
[Host Spiritual Root assessment: ERROR.]
[Recalibrating...]
[Baseline scan initiating...]
It was there for less than a heartbeat. A phantom pain behind the eyes. A whisper of something vast, mechanical, and utterly alien. Then it was gone, leaving only the hollow ache of humiliation and the roaring laughter of his peers.
He descended the steps, the world moving in slow motion. The villagers parted for Mei, who was being led away by the officials, their attitudes now reverent. They did not part for Wu Jian. He walked through them, their pitying glances and whispered jabs landing like stones.
"Such a shame, after his father..."
"At least he's strong. Good for farm work."
"Poor Lihua. Her beauty, wasted on that lineage."
He reached his parents. His father couldn't meet his eyes. His mother pulled him into a fierce, trembling hug. "It's alright," she murmured into his hair, her voice thick. "It's alright, my son."
But it wasn't. The system had spoken. He was F-grade. Worthless.
As he was led home, his head down, the final image burned into his mind was Mei, looking back over the shoulder of her grey-robed escort. Her mouth formed two silent words, meant only for him.
"Our tree."
Then she was gone, swallowed by her new, glittering destiny. And he was left with the muddy, brownish flicker of his own. And the ghost of a glitch, a whisper of an error, in the silent system of his soul.