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## **Chapter 1: The Weight of Silver**
Three hundred years have passed since the Refugees arrived. The energy of the world is slowly recovering, becoming more abundant than it was in the era before their descent.
Tucked away in the farthest corner of the Blue Plane lies a small, quiet village. Twelve years ago, a child was left at the village entrance, carrying only a five-colored stone pendant of unknown origin. Today, that child has grown into a sturdy young man, the mysterious stone still hanging from his neck. He was raised by the old Village Chief, who now serves as the community's advisor and spiritual leader.
As the sun begins to rise, the young man is already preparing for his journey. He plans to apply as an outer disciple of a Mortal martial arts Sect—not out of a desire for martial arts, but for the silver coin salary he can send back to the old Chief for his medical treatment. Although the Chief repeatedly insisted it wasn't necessary, he eventually agreed, unwilling to discourage the young man's fierce determination.
However, the selection process is brutal. It requires a candidate to be at least sixteen years old to withstand the physical toll, making it a dangerous path for one so young.
"Old Grandpa," the young man said, his voice thick but steady. "I'll be going now. I'll just wait for the others where the carriage is... the one that will bring us to town." He bowed deep to the old Village Chief, his forehead nearly touching his knees in a final act of respect.
The Village Chief sighed, his breath a shallow rattle in the quiet hut. "Okay! Be good, and take care of yourself. If they don't accept you because you're too young, don't force it, okay?" He reached out a frail hand, a final reminder that the silver didn't matter as much as the boy's life.
"I know!" the young man replied, forcing a smile. "You too, Old Grandpa. Take care of yourself. I will not be home for a while... I love you, Old Grandpa. I'll really be going this time."
With those final words, he turned and walked out of the hut. He slung his **straw bag** over his shoulder—containing nothing but his meager rations and his resolve—and headed straight for the village outskirts where the carriage waited.
He didn't have to wait long. Soon, the rhythmic thud of footsteps echoed through the morning mist as the other applicants from the village began to gather. They were all young, all desperate, and all carrying the same humble straw sacks. Without much talk, they climbed into the back of the wooden carriage. With a creak of old wheels and the snap of a whip, the journey toward the distant town began.
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On the carriage, the other village applicants couldn't hide their excitement. They chattered loudly, their eyes bright with eagerness as they imagined their future as martial artists. But the young man sat in silence, his face a mask of gravity. He clutched his fists so hard his knuckles turned white, a look of fierce determination glowing in his eyes. To the others, this was a dream; to him, this journey to the Mortal Sect was a lifeline for his "Old Grandpa."
As the journey continued, the initial excitement gradually subsided. The early morning turned to midday, and the boys began to lean against their straw bags, trying to catch some sleep to pass the time.
The trip was uneventful and smooth, the carriage wheels droning against the dirt path until the late afternoon sun began to dip low. Finally, the massive silhouette of the town appeared on the horizon. By the time they reached the entrance, the sky was painted in shades of bruised purple and gold.
The boys were instantly awestruck. As they lined up, waiting for their turn to enter, their eyes darted everywhere—taking in the high stone walls and the bustling crowds. It was clearly their first time visiting a place of such scale. Their rural wonder didn't go unnoticed; the townspeople looked at them with bothered expressions, annoyed by this group of "country bumps" who had clearly just seen the world for the first time.
Once they passed the gates and began walking toward their lodging, the amazement of the village boys only grew. They couldn't stop talking, pointing at the paved streets and the shops filled with goods they had never imagined.
But among the group, the "little one" remained silent. Although he was momentarily amazed by the sights, the feeling was fleeting. His mind was already miles ahead, focused entirely on the upcoming test. With every step through the crowded streets, his determination only grew stronger. He didn't come here to see the sights—he came here to win.
As the group stopped walking, they arrived at the lodging provided for the village applicants. It was nothing but a repurposed grain warehouse on the edge of the town's industrial district. The air inside was thick with the smell of damp straw, old sweat, and the nervous energy of hundreds of young men.
"Is this it?" whispered one of the villagers from the young man's group, his voice echoing against the high, timber-framed ceiling. He dropped his **straw bag** onto a patch of floor that was barely covered by a thin, moth-eaten mat. "I thought... I thought the sect would have beds."
The young man didn't answer. He squeezed into a narrow space between two other boys from a different village, his straw bag held tightly against his chest. He didn't care about the lack of beds. In his mind, every comfort was just a distraction from the goal; he treated this discomfort as the true start of the test.
Around them, the warehouse was a cacophony of noise:
* **The Boasters:** Boys from larger, wealthier villages were showing off wooden practice swords, bragging about how many stones they could lift.
* **The Weepers:** In the darker corners, younger boys sobbed quietly into their bags, already overwhelmed by the cold indifference of the town.
* **The Predators:** Older, tougher-looking applicants prowled the aisles, their eyes scanning the newcomers for easy targets to bully or steal rations from.
The young man stayed in the shadows, bowing his head low. He reached into his straw bag for a piece of the dry, hard bread the Chief had packed for him.
"Eat," the young man muttered to his companion from the same village, handing him a small chunk. "Tomorrow the bells will ring early. If you don't have strength in your legs, the selection will swallow you whole."
"You're not nervous?" the companion asked, his teeth crunching loudly on the stale crust. "Look at those guys over there... they look like they've been training since they could walk."
The young man looked at the "trained" boys, then closed his eyes. He pictured the old Chief's pale face and the rattling sound of his breath.
"Nervousness is for those who have a choice," the young man said softly. "I don't have one."
He lay down on the hard floor, using his bag as a pillow—a cold anchor in the sea of noise. As the warehouse eventually fell into a fitful, uneasy silence, the young man didn't sleep. He spent the hours counting his heartbeats, waiting for the dawn, his determination hardening into something as sharp as a Sect's blade.
---
The bronze bell of the town square shattered the silence of the warehouse, its deep, vibrating ring pulling every boy from his fitful sleep.
***GONG— GONG— GONG—***
The sound was like a physical blow against the wooden walls. In an instant, the air was filled with the frantic sounds of hundreds of young men scrambling. Mats were kicked aside, **straw bags** were snatched up in the dark, and the "Weepers" began their morning sobs. But before the first Enforcer could even kick the heavy iron-bound doors open, a shadow was already waiting.
The young man was the first to step out.
While the others were still rubbing sleep from their eyes, he moved with a cold, silent efficiency. He had spent the night awake, counting his heartbeats, and now his **clean rags** caught the first grey light of the dawn. He didn't look back at the warehouse or the "Boasters" stumbling over their own feet. He walked straight toward the town plaza, his straw bag slung tight.
A senior disciple, dressed in the grey, sleeveless tunic of the sect, stood at the edge of the plaza. He watched the flood of boys pouring out, his eyes lingering for a second on the "little one" who arrived first—small and ragged, but strangely composed.
"Line up!" the disciple barked. "Registration only! State your village, your name, and your age."
The line formed quickly. Directly in front of the young man stood his companion from South Creek. When they reached the heavy oak table, the scribe looked up at the broader boy first.
"Village?"
"South Creek," the boy answered firmly.
"Name and age?"
"**Caleb**. Seventeen."
The scribe scribbled the name down and waved him through. Caleb stepped aside but didn't leave; he waited just a few feet away, his eyes fixed on his friend.
Now, the young man stepped up. The scribe didn't even look up at first. "Village?"
"South Creek," he said, his voice steady.
"Name?"
He remembered his plan to stay under the radar. "Just a seeker."
The scribe paused, his quill hovering. He looked up, his eyes scanning the boy's small frame with clear irritation. "A seeker? Listen, brat, the ledger needs a proper record for the mountain tolls. I'll ask you one more time. What is your name?"
The young man felt Caleb's gaze on him—a silent support. He took a breath.
"**Isagani Dawn-star**," he replied, his voice ringing clearer this time.
The scribe snorted, scribbling the name down. "Fine, Isagani. Number 402. Age?"
"Sixteen."
The scribe dropped the quill with a clatter. "Sixteen? You're a runt, boy. You look like you haven't seen twelve winters. Don't waste my ink. Get out of the line."
Before Isagani could speak, Caleb and the older villagers from South Creek stepped forward, their weathered faces grim. They crowded the table, a wall of sun-beaten skin.
"He's sixteen, Master Scribe," Caleb said, his voice deep and insistent. "He's just small for his age because the grain was thin these last few years. We've known him since he was a babe. He's sixteen."
"Aye," another added, nodding firmly. "A late bloomer. But he's of age."
The scribe looked from the hardened men back to Isagani. He saw a look in the boy's eyes—a fierce determination that didn't belong to a child.
"Fine," the scribe grunted, scribbling '16' onto the ledger. "The mountain sect isn't here in town. It's a distance away. You'll travel out of town to that distant mountain for the first trial. If you can't even make the walk, don't bother showing up. Next!"
Isagani stepped past the table, meeting Caleb's relieved look. He had his number, and he had his name on the list. Together, they turned toward the town gates, where the long road to the distant mountain began.
---
The sun climbed higher, turning the humid air into a thick, invisible weight. The transition from the town's stone-paved streets to the rugged outskirts was immediate—the smooth road died into a winding, rutted track of sun-baked clay and sharp gravel.
Isagani and Caleb walked within the dense flow of hundreds of applicants, a river of dust-covered bodies stretching far ahead. While they had seen the mountain peaks from the distance of South Creek all their lives, those had always been blue, misty silhouettes on the horizon. Now, for the first time, they were actually heading toward the **"Great Teeth"**—the massive, jagged range that housed the Mortal Sect.
The "Great Teeth" were not just mountains; they were a wall that divided the world of men from the world of those who sought the heavens. Even from miles away, the sheer scale of the stone cliffs made the surrounding hills look like mounds of dirt.
The road was punishing. The elevation began to rise almost imperceptibly, turning every step into a slow drain on their stamina.
"My boots are already splitting!" a boy from a neighboring village complained, limping toward the side of the road. "The scribe said it was a march, not a death trek! How are we supposed to fight if we can't even stand by the time we get there?"
"Quiet down," a tougher-looking 'Predator' snapped, though he was wiping thick streaks of sweat from his forehead. "If you can't handle the road, the mountain will just eat your bones anyway."
Caleb shifted his heavy **straw bag**, his breathing becoming rhythmic and heavy. He looked over at Isagani. The smaller boy was walking with a strange, mechanical steadiness. Isagani's eyes were locked straight ahead, his gaze boring into the dusty heels of the boy in front of him. He didn't look at the scenery, and he didn't join the complaining.
"Isagani," Caleb huffed, his face flushing a deep red from the heat. "You tired yet? You've been staring at the dirt for miles. Look up for once—you can actually see the base of the first peak through the haze now."
Isagani didn't look up immediately. He seemed to be measuring every breath, his **clean rags** now dampened with sweat, but his posture remained upright. He focused solely on the rhythm of his feet hitting the earth.
"I see it, Caleb," Isagani said softly, finally lifting his head.
Through the shimmering heat haze of the lowlands, the mountain was finally becoming "real." It wasn't a blue cloud anymore; it was a grey-black wall of ancient rock, its base shrouded in dark, pine-heavy forests. Although it was still a long way off, you could vaguely see the massive peaks they would eventually need to pass. It looked like a silent giant waiting to crush the weak.
"I'm not tired," Isagani added, his voice devoid of the fatigue that was already cracking the voices of the others. He kept his sight fixed at the front, even as the road grew steeper. "The distance doesn't matter. Only the destination does. If we stop to complain about the road, the road wins."
Caleb wiped his brow and managed a grim smile. "You're a strange one, Isagani. Let's just hope your legs are as tough as your talk when the incline actually starts."
As the afternoon wore on, the complaining behind them grew louder, but Isagani never wavered. The mountain was no longer a distant dream; it was a looming reality.
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### **The First Night's Camp**
By the time the sun began to dip behind the jagged horizon, the senior disciples leading the column finally signaled for a halt. They were still miles from the base of the Great Teeth, settled in a wide, wind-swept flatland where the grass was dry and yellow.
"Make your fires! Eat what you brought!" an Enforcer shouted. "We move at first light. If you can't wake up, we leave you for the wolves."
The camp quickly fractured into three distinct zones:
* **The Town Groups:** These boys came from the wealthier districts within the town walls. They had brought high-quality dried meats and jars of preserved vegetables. They sat in tight, quiet circles, their eyes filled with disdain for the "filthy" villagers around them.
* **The Predators:** These older, tougher-looking applicants didn't bother gathering wood for themselves. They prowled the edges of the camp, watching for whoever looked the weakest. They wanted more than just bread; they wanted blankets and better bags to survive the cold mountain night.
* **The Villagers:** Scattered and exhausted, most were too tired to even speak, huddled over small flickering flames or simply collapsing onto the hard ground.
Isagani caught Caleb's sleeve and pulled him toward the very edge of the clearing, near a cluster of jagged rocks that offered a small amount of cover.
"Not there," Isagani whispered, nodding toward a group of larger boys who were eyeing Caleb's thick straw bag. "Stay in the shadows of the rocks. We don't light a fire."
"No fire?" Caleb shivered as the mountain wind began to pick up. "It's going to be freezing, Isagani."
"A fire makes us a target," Isagani said, his voice cold and practical. "The 'Predators' are looking for light. We eat in the dark, we sleep in shifts. I'll take the first watch."
Isagani sat with his back against the cold stone, his small frame almost invisible in the gloom. He watched as a fight broke out near the center of the camp—a village boy's bread being snatched away by a laughing teenager from a larger town.
Isagani's hand tightened on his bag. He wasn't just small; he was a ghost. And in this food chain, being a ghost was the only way to make it to the mountain alive.
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The second day began before the sun had even cleared the horizon. A sharp, rhythmic clanging—iron striking iron—echoed across the peaks, a cold and unforgiving alarm that shattered the silence of the high-altitude camp.
"Up! If you're still horizontal when the sun hits the grass, you're out!" the Enforcers bellowed, their boots crunching loudly on the frozen morning dew.
Isagani was already standing. He had spent his watch staring at the dark, looming mass of the peaks, and now, as the first grey light touched the jagged stone, the destination felt closer than ever. Beside him, **Caleb** groaned as he pushed himself up, his joints popping from the cold.
### **The Ascent**
As the column of hundreds of applicants moved out, the road finally died. The rutted clay track vanished, replaced by a steep, winding trail of jagged limestone and loose shale. The humid heat of the lowlands was a memory, replaced by a thin, biting wind that whipped down from the heights.
"Look at them now," Caleb whispered, his breath hitching as he hauled his heavy **straw bag** up a particularly steep ledge.
The **town groups**, who had been so arrogant the night before in their fine leather boots, were stumbling. Their soft soles were never meant for sliding shale; the sharp rocks were chewing through the expensive leather, and several boys were already sitting by the trail, clutching their bleeding heels and gasping for the thin air.
"They have the gear, but they don't have the grit," Isagani noted quietly. He moved with a low, steady center of gravity, his small frame proving to be an advantage on the narrow, crumbling ledges.
### **The Arrival**
By midday, they rounded a massive granite shoulder of the mountain. The trail suddenly opened up into a wide, jagged open space—a plateau carved by nature and time. Before them stood a gargantuan mountain wall that reached so high it seemed to pierce the sky. In the very center, a massive split ran clean down the middle, creating a narrow, vertical canyon that led into the heart of the range.
A heavy silence fell over the crowd as a man stepped out from the mouth of that great split.
He wore simple, slate-grey robes that hung loosely on his slim frame. He appeared slight, but his skin had the dull, burnished sheen of old bronze—the mark of a mortal who had pushed his body to the absolute limit of martial perfection. His eyes were like polished flint.
"You have survived the road," the Elder said, his voice quiet yet carrying to every corner of the open space. "Many did not. But the road was merely a filter for the lazy."
He stepped forward, his gaze scanning the weary faces. He didn't offer them rest or water. Instead, he raised a calloused hand and pointed—not toward the split, but high above it, toward the jagged, cloud-shrouded **top of the peak** that loomed over them.
"Welcome to the **Iron Bone Sect**," the Elder declared, his voice hardening like cooling iron. "Here, we do not teach the arts of the soft. We forge the marrow and the muscle until they are harder than the stone you stand upon."
He didn't give them instructions. He didn't explain the rules or tell them where the path was.
"The first test of the Selection begins now," he announced. A cold, predatory smile touched his lips for a fraction of a second. "Prove you belong to the mountain."
Without another word, the Elder turned and vanished back into the shadows of the mountain's split.
The hundreds of young men stood in stunned silence. There were no Enforcers to guide them, no markers on the rock, and no explanation of how to reach a peak that looked completely inaccessible to a human being. The wind howled through the canyon, and for the first time, the "Boasters" and "Predators" looked truly afraid.
Isagani looked at the towering height, then at his own trembling hands.
**END OF CHAPTER 1**
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