《Forgive Me Not: I Will Ascend [A Cultivation LitRPG]》


 Ch.1 - Golden Ascension Gate

    Many believe that from birth, one''s soul reveals the path destined for their journey, seen clearly through the form of their innate weapon: a chef¡¯s knife promising mastery of culinary arts, a smith''s hammer destined for the forge, a scythe crafted for reaping the bounties of the land, or perhaps a sword destined for the battlefield. Yet, I knew deep within that destiny is but flowing water¡ªchangeable and unfixed, a truth acknowledged in whispers but denied in the hearts of far too many.


    For a weapon is not defined merely by steel and edge, nor by shape alone. Have you not heard tales of hammers capable of obliterating mountains, needles that pierce the unseen weaknesses of the strongest foes, or blades so sharp that even clouds dare not block their path? Indeed, the true strength of any weapon lies not in its outward form, but within the spirit and will of the person who grasps it.


    I truly believe the sword¡¯s true essence is born not from the soul destined by the heavens but by the heart of its wielder. Only those with hearts strong enough to defy the heavens themselves can reshape the destiny their souls once foretold.


    Today marks the first step of my defiance against heaven itself.


    "Mortals who dare to walk the path of cultivation, hear my words!¡±


    A booming voice echoed from atop the majestic Golden Ascension Gate¡ªa towering structure etched with intricate golden patterns, standing as mighty and unyielding as a mountain. It was a curious sight: an enormous gate standing alone and unsupported, planted firmly at the heart of the boundless expanse known as the Plain of Ascension. But what was truly fascinating was that the gate itself took the shape of the edge of a massive, majestic, and divine sword. From where I stood, the speaker appeared only as a distant silhouette, yet his commanding voice reached millions across the vast landscape.


    ¡°Many among you were born with paths clearly set by your soul''s weapon¡ªa quill destined for scholarly writings, an axe intended to fell simple trees, a needle meant merely for stitching garments, or perhaps a spear crafted only for mundane hunting. Yet you dare now to walk the path of cultivation, transcending these ordinary roles preordained by the heavens. That quill may inscribe talismans powerful enough to shackle gods, the axe could cleave mountains in a single strike, the needle may pierce barriers between realms, and the spear could hunt celestial beasts. ¡°


    A wave of enthusiasm surged through the millions gathered on the Plain of Ascension. Faces brightened with hunger and ambition, eyes gleamed with the burning desire for power, wealth, eternal life¡ªanything and everything humans have sought since time immemorial. And I, too, felt this deep yearning, unable to deny the greed and envy swelling within me.


    My life had been one of quiet endurance¡ªmocked, belittled, and stepped upon, always retreating from confrontation, living each day at the mercy of those stronger souls who sought weaker prey. And there had never been one weaker than myself. Yet all this patience, all this silent suffering, had been for precisely this moment. Today marked the chance that appeared only once every decade, the day when the Golden Ascension Gate would finally open its doors, granting passage only to those worthy enough to step onto the exalted path of cultivation.


    "HOWEVER!"


    His voice shattered the mounting excitement, plunging the Plain into immediate silence. Hopeful smiles froze into tense apprehension. "Do not be so quick to dream! Cultivation is no mere path you choose¡ªit is granted by the heavens themselves! Today, the gates will reveal your fate. Whether you ascend as chosen ones or return to your mundane existence, remember this: your desires matter not to the heavens. Accept your fate, mortals, for mere life itself is mercy enough for the likes of you!"


    Upon hearing his words, numerous faces twisted with apprehension, anger simmering visibly beneath their outward restraint, desperately wishing to confront him yet knowing they could not. I, however, felt differently. Though I rejected his claim¡ªthat the heavens dictated our paths¡ªI could not dismiss the overwhelming confidence he exuded. His tone, his mannerisms, and his speech all radiated undeniable power. This man knew we posed no threat; even if every soul among the millions gathered today joined forces against him, none would even scratch him. For all we knew, he might be the weakest cultivator in existence. But in this moment, his true nature mattered little. All that mattered was the terrifying realization that, if he wished it, he could obliterate us all in an instant. Such was the difference between a mortal and a cultivator.


    Then, he stepped forward, his feet leaving the solid platform atop the gate¡¯s edge, and walked calmly into thin air. He fell swiftly toward the ground, plummeting so rapidly that any mortal would surely have been crushed upon impact.


    Yet, defying all logic, his descent slowed gracefully, as though carried gently downward by invisible hands. He touched the ground with an elegance that matched his aura, posture upright and dignified, arms clasped behind his back, his head held high in serene confidence.


    His pure white robe bulged softly around him, pristine and flawless. At his waist was a jade-like sword, beautiful and impeccably matching his appearance¡ªcould this be his soul weapon?


    His long, straight dark hair cascaded down his back, stopping just short of brushing the earth beneath, unblemished like his snow-white skin that bore no scars or signs of aging. He seemed the very embodiment of cultivation itself¡ªperfect, untouchable, infinitely powerful.


    "The Golden Gate shall open shortly," he announced, voice calm yet resonating with authority. "There is but one simple step to enter the world of cultivation. Step forward through the gate¡¯s threshold¡ªthose favored by the heavens will pass through effortlessly, guided by divine grace. Those unworthy, however, shall find their steps halted, unable to pass, clearly receiving the merciful message that they are not qualified to join our esteemed ranks. Accept this judgment graciously and cherish the life you have been granted in the mortal realm."


    Instantly, the earth beneath us trembled violently, sending most sprawling onto the grass, clutching desperately at anything within reach to steady themselves. The massive Golden Ascension Gate began to move, its doors groaning open slowly, deliberately. Though there had been nothing visible behind or in front of the gate moments ago, as it parted, a golden radiance burst forth¡ªbrilliant, yet curiously gentle, drawing our eyes to it without causing discomfort. The mesmerizing light swirled in a captivating, vortex-like motion, like golden threads woven into an intricate dance, revealing a world beyond that awaited only the truly worthy.


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    The cultivator stepped closer to the golden vortex, standing confidently at the very center of the open gate. "The gate will remain open until midnight," he declared firmly. "You have until then to test your fate. The entrance is wide enough for hundreds of thousands at once¡ªample time for each of you to approach and discover your destiny."


    Upon finalizing his words, the roars of countless wishful dreamers surged through the Plain of Ascension, a thunderous chorus filled with eagerness, and wild ambition. Those closest to the gate immediately surged forward in a frenzied sprint, desperately chasing the promise of their unknown fate. I stood in the heart of the tumultuous mass¡ªnot close enough to rush directly through, yet far enough away that I was forced to witness the cruel selection unfold ahead.


    Thousands charged into the dazzling golden vortex; many disappeared instantly upon touching its radiant surface, crossing into the realm beyond. But far more slammed harshly against the brilliant wall of golden light, their dreams brutally halted. Faces filled with disbelief, shock, and horror pressed desperately against the unyielding barrier.


    "Please, no! Let me through! I''ve waited ten years for this!"


    "No... this can''t be it! Heaven, do not forsake me like this!"


    Cries of desperation and denial rose from those who found themselves rejected. Some sank to their knees, pounding fists uselessly against the golden wall as tears streamed down their faces, their voices breaking into frantic sobs.


    "This isn''t fair! I''ve worked so hard¡ªI refuse to accept this fate!"


    "Why?! Heaven, tell me why you chose them and not me!"


    Soul weapons materialized in trembling hands¡ªa myriad of daggers, axes, bows, staves¡ªslashing, pounding, and battering helplessly against the barrier, leaving not the slightest scratch. The golden vortex remained indifferent, an impartial judge silent to their pleas, uncaring of their struggles, merciless in its verdict.


    Yet no cheers of triumph echoed here. Those victorious voices were reserved for the fortunate few, audible only beyond the gate. In this plain, the heavens had left behind nothing but wails of despair, the bitter cries of limits exposed, dreams shattered, and hopes extinguished.


    Age, gender, wealth¡ªnone of these distinctions mattered here. Heaven had decreed clearly: the only thing that mattered was destiny, the path written from the moment our souls first took form.


    As I stood in place, watching countless dreams shatter before me, an icy chill tightened around my heart. Soon, it would be my turn to test this so-called fate ordained by the heavens. Was I deemed worthy in their eyes?


    Of course not¡ªI knew all too well the life destined for me was one of insignificance, humiliation, and unworthiness. It was as if the heavens themselves had taken particular care to ensure my existence would forever remain beneath everyone else¡¯s feet, trampled and forgotten. This wasn¡¯t speculation born from uncertainty; rather, it was a bitter truth I had aknowledge since the first moment I became aware of my being¡ªand of my soul weapon, the cruelest joke of them all.


    Hours passed, and the sea of people slowly dwindled. Many had vanished beyond the golden veil, blessed by fate, while countless others remained, weeping bitter tears and surrendering to their mundane existences. The rejected began quietly drifting away from the Plain of Ascension, their dreams shattered, their lives unchanged.


    Through all of this, the cultivator remained steadfast and unmoving, utterly untouched by boredom or frustration. People crawled toward him, begging pitifully, clutching his robe in despair, pleading desperately for another chance. Yet he neither scorned nor acknowledged them; his eyes never once reflected disgust or pity. Instead, he stood silently, calm and indifferent, as though he saw nothing but ghosts¡ªfleeting shadows not worthy of his attention.


    Did he understand our suffering? Or were we truly beneath his gaze, invisible in his eyes?


    Finally, it was my turn. The vast golden gate now stood directly before me, grand and imposing, yet strangely inviting. The golden vortex swirled hypnotically, the glow gentle yet somehow deeply alluring. My breath quickened, and my heartbeat drummed urgently against my chest. I felt as if the golden light itself had locked onto me, whispering my name, beckoning me closer.


    I took a single step forward, knowing that in mere moments, the answer to my fate would be laid bare.


    The hum of the vortex grew louder as I approached, yet it was rhythmic and strangely soothing¡ªa melody rather than the chaotic, unpredictable roar of wind or energy. At my sides, both left and right, I glimpsed the frantic movements of others; some wore triumphant smiles as they effortlessly passed through. Many others, however, slammed into the unyielding barrier with desperate momentum, the sickening sound of breaking bones and splattering blood echoing sharply around me. Crimson droplets flew toward my feet as broken noses, shattered jaws, and mangled faces painted a gruesome testament to their misguided hope¡ªthat running faster toward their dreams would somehow force the heavens to yield position for them.


    Yet none of their suffering halted my steps. I could neither slow nor hurry my pace, for this moment felt beyond my control. I stepped forward again, heart pounding in a strange symphony with the gate¡¯s melodic hum, wondering if I would soon vanish into the unknown¡ªor collide against the cruel barrier of heaven¡¯s judgment.


    I stretched my hand forward toward the golden light. The closer I drew, the more the air seemed to vibrate around me¡ªresonating deep into my bones and syncing with the rapid, erratic pounding of my heart.


    Inches. That¡¯s all that remained. I moved my arm at a steady, natural pace, but the world around me felt like it had slowed to a crawl. Time stretched as my fingers crept forward¡ªinch by inch¡ªcloser and closer to that swirling, divine light. I could see every detail of the vortex now, every delicate thread of golden energy weaving together.


    My palm trembled, knowing that what came next was the final push.


    In that instant, all sound fell away. The world held its breath.


    And the heavens revealed their answer.


    ¡°¡­¡±


    I had closed my eyes the very moment my hand reached forward. Was it instinct? A shield against the truth I feared? Most likely. I didn¡¯t want to see it. I couldn¡¯t bear to witness my own failure, to confirm the fate I had long suspected was waiting for me.


    So I kept my eyes shut, clinging to the comfort of darkness¡ªbecause facing the brilliance I could not grasp was far more painful than pretending it wasn¡¯t there at all.


    ¡°Heavens! Please¡ªgive me another chance!¡±


    ¡°Master Cultivator, I beg you! I am worthy! Just... let me through!¡±


    But no matter how tightly I shut them, the world around me made its answer known. The thunder of footsteps behind me¡ªthe next wave of hopefuls rushing forward. The wet smacks of bodies colliding with rejection. The quiet sobs of those who knew it was over before they even tried.


    And amid it all¡­ I stood still.


    I slowly opened my eyes.


    There it was, plain and undeniable¡ªmy palm resting against the surface of the golden light. Still. Motionless. Refused.


    The barrier had not yielded. The divine radiance was warm to the touch, gentle even, but utterly unmovable. I couldn¡¯t pass through.


    The heavens had spoken.

 Ch.2 - Cold Rain

    Hours had passed. The sun, once high, had slowly dipped below the horizon, and darkness began to claim the sky. Even as night fell, the golden door shone with a steady, fierce light that broke through the twilight.


    I stood there with my hand pressed against the barrier. I hadn¡¯t moved¡ªnot once. I just couldn¡¯t pull away.


    Fate¡­ Fate¡­ Fate.


    That single word echoed in my mind, repeating over and over¡ªtaunting me, weighing me down like shackles. All my life, it had wrapped itself around me, growing tighter with each passing year.


    As if the heavens sought to answer my turmoil, rain began to fall¡ªsoft at first, gentle droplets tapping against the plain. But soon, it turned heavy, a relentless downpour that soaked through robes, hair, and skin alike. Still, my hand remained pressed against the golden wall, the rain slipping down my face, mixing with the warmth of the light.


    I glanced over at the cultivator. Not a single drop touched him. It was as though an invisible sphere surrounded his form, repelling the rain with effortless grace. Each droplet curved and fell away, unworthy of staining him.


    Was this Qi? I wondered. The legendary force that cultivators could harness¡ªthe otherworldly essence that separated beings like him from the rest of us. The power that made them more than mortal.


    He remained rooted to the same spot as when he first descended¡ªback straight, hands folded behind him, eyes steady, expression unchanged.


    How long has it been since the gate opened?


    An hour? Two?


    How long did I have left? Not long I¡¯m sure.


    Then it happened.


    Once more, the earth beneath me began to tremble, a deep and thunderous rumble that shook through bones. The golden gate... was closing.


    No¡­


    I pressed my hand harder against the barrier, but an invisible force surged outward from the gate, sweeping across the plain like a great unseen tide. It pulled me away, ripped me from my place¡ªpushing me back from my yearning.


    No!


    I had thought I was prepared to face failure. I had convinced myself that if the answer was rejection, I would fight it. But now, in the moment that truth stared me down, I realized how wrong I had been. I wasn¡¯t strong. I wasn¡¯t composed. I was broken.


    I clawed at the earth, fingers digging into the rain-soaked soil, but the pull was too strong. The mud, slick and treacherous, offered no anchor. My nails scraped uselessly through the muck as I was dragged backward, inch by inch, desperation overtaking reason.


    No! No¡ªNo!


    Others were being pulled as well, flailing, crying out, bodies colliding in the chaos. Some slammed into me as I fought to hold my ground, the weight of limbs and panic crashing against my back, shoulders, sides. It hurt. The bruises would fade, but the pain of losing the path I had chosen¡ªthat would stay with me far longer.


    Then, just at the edge of my vision, I saw movement. A shift so effortless, it stood in stark contrast to ours.


    The cultivator.


    He moved forward¡ªnot with steps, but gliding toward the golden vortex like he belonged to it. Like it welcomed him.


    Was he leaving?


    I didn¡¯t want to do it.


    I never wanted to do this. I never wanted to expose that disgraceful part of me, to let the world see the pitiful sword I carried. But desperation is a fierce master, overwhelming every scrap of pride I had left.


    My hands, my fingers¡ªthey weren¡¯t enough. So I did what I had sworn I would never do: I manifested my soul weapon.


    The very thing I had locked away deep inside¡ªburied beneath layers of shame and resentment¡ªwas now all I had left. I despised it. I despised what it revealed about me, what it meant for me. But I needed it now.


    A pale shimmer of light bled from the center of my chest, and with it, the blade emerged¡ªsilent, slow, like it regretted being summoned as much as I regretted calling it forth. My soul weapon. This damned sword.


    It materialized fully in my grip. Longer than my arm, sturdier than my fingers¡ªand right now, that was all that mattered.


    With a cry, I plunged it into the soil, using it as a makeshift anchor. I threw my weight forward, clawing toward the gate. Then I pulled it free, thrust it into the earth again, and pushed.


    Again.


    And again.


    Every inch I advanced, the gate¡¯s force pushed back harder¡ªlike the very heavens resented my defiance.


    "Pathetic."


    Huh?


    The word struck me like lightning, cutting through the storm, the cries, the trembling earth. So close, so sharp, it was as if someone had whispered it directly into my ear.


    Without thinking, I looked up.


    White sandals hovered inches above the wet grass, untouched by mud, clean even beneath the downpour.


    My eyes climbed slowly, hesitantly, up the long, pristine white robe.


    And then¡ªI met his gaze.


    The cultivator stood right in front of me, arms still behind his back, face unchanging¡­ save for one thing.


    Disgust.


    He looked at me like one might look at something rotting in the gutter. Then he opened his mouth¡ªand began speaking, slowly, clearly, as though reciting a list of disappointments.


    ¡°A thin, brittle-looking thing,¡± he said, his voice cold and quiet but sharp enough to cut. ¡°Unadorned. Unremarkable. A blade jagged in places¡ªworn, rusted, beaten down. A hilt wrapped in tattered cloth, frayed and uneven. A soul weapon that inspires neither fear nor admiration.¡±


    His eyes narrowed.


    ¡°Pathetic. Never in all my years have I seen a soul weapon so utterly devoid of potential.¡±


    Each word sank deep, deeper than any blade could cut. He wasn¡¯t just describing my weapon¡ªhe was describing me.


    ¡°And not only have the heavens rejected you¡ªdenied you even the chance to begin the path of cultivation¡ªthey¡¯ve cursed your very existence. That weapon¡­ your weapon¡­ is not a tool for growth; it¡¯s a sentence, a punishment.  Perhaps for the sins of your ancestors. Or perhaps your own, in a life lived before this one. But whatever the reason¡ªyour constitution is weak, your soul is dull, your path is void.¡±


    His voice darkened, taking on a cruel edge.


    ¡°You are the weakest body. The weakest soul. The weakest weapon. The weakest¡ª¡±


    ¡°ENOUGH!¡±


    The word tore out of me with such force I barely recognized my own voice. My throat burned. My hands trembled around the hilt of my soul weapon.


    For the first time, the cultivator paused. His eyes widened slightly in surprise¡ªjust for a moment. But it passed quickly, replaced once again by that same disgusted gaze.


    ¡°I hate people like you,¡± I spat, rising shakily to my feet. ¡°Those who look down on others. Who think a glance is enough to define an entire existence. Who believe they can judge the worth of a life they¡¯ve never lived.¡±


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    I stared directly into his eyes, feeling the weight of the world crash down on me¡ªbut I refused to bend.


    ¡°I may be weak. In body. In soul. In weapon. But I have the strongest will.¡±


    I said it not as a boast, but as a vow.


    ¡°Today, I may have been denied,¡± I said, my voice low but steady, trembling with raw conviction. ¡°But next time¡ªI will be here again. And again. And again! Every decade that passes, I will be here. I will throw myself against the will of the heavens until they have no choice but to acknowledge me. I will defy their authority and write my own story.¡±


    I tightened my grip on my battered sword, teeth clenched through the pain in my limbs and soul.


    ¡°I will never give up. Not until my very last breath.¡±


    The rain poured harder, thunder rumbled somewhere far in the distance, but the cultivator before me didn¡¯t so much as glance at the sky. His gaze stayed fixed on me, no longer laced with disgust¡ªthere was something else now. Something quieter. Intrigue, perhaps. Curiosity.


    ¡°A mortal¡¯s fire,¡± he said calmly, ¡°burns bright¡­ but it burns fast.¡±


    His voice was softer now, still firm, but no longer condescending. ¡°You seem young¡ªfor a mortal. I¡¯ve seen many like you. So many. Eyes filled with purpose, mouths full of fire and brave declarations. And every one of them¡­¡±


    He raised a single hand and slowly closed it into a fist.


    ¡°¡­burned out.¡±


    He let the silence hang before continuing.


    ¡°How many times do you think you can return here? Once every ten years, if you survive that long? If you outlive sickness, war, accident? If you manage to avoid the slow erosion of hope?¡± He stepped to the side, his robes trailing across the grass untouched by water or dirt.


    ¡°Five times? Six? If you¡¯re lucky¡ªeight?¡± He tilted his head slightly. ¡°Eight desperate attempts before your bones begin to break under their own weight. Before your voice trembles with age instead of passion. Before your heart, too tired to keep fighting, simply gives in.¡±


    He walked toward the golden vortex, but just before stepping through, he turned his gaze back to me.


    ¡°Fate is decided at birth,¡± he said. ¡°And yours¡­ was denied. No amount of defiance will ever change that.¡±


    The cultivator stepped into the golden vortex, his figure swallowed whole by the swirling light. As he vanished, the gate fully closed, the hum of its divine energy faded fully and with it, the last hope of this decade.


    I collapsed onto my back, rain poured freely onto my face, mixing with mud, sweat¡­ and perhaps a tear I would never admit to shedding.


    I stared at the sky.


    Grey clouds rolled overhead, shapeless and endless. The cold rain pelted my skin, each drop a quiet echo of disappointment. This scene¡ªit felt familiar.


    The weather... It was just like that day.


    Another rainy day. Another moment full of helplessness.


    <hr>


    Splash. Splash.


    ¡°Give it!¡±


    Thud.


    ¡°Gah!¡±


    Splash.


    ¡°Let go of it, you damn freak!¡±


    I was on the ground again¡ªonly this time, years earlier. Curled in a narrow alley, half-submerged in a growing puddle, my back stung with every blow. My ribs ached. My arms were wrapped tightly around the small cloth bundle in my grasp.


    The rain poured just as hard then as it did now, mixing with the filth of the streets, turning the alley into a river of mud and garbage. Their boots splashed through it with every kick.


    I groaned, curled tighter, shielding the bag with my body as best I could.


    This was routine. Street kids always picked on me¡ªmocked me for my soul weapon, for my lack of worth, for being the easy one to beat down when their day went bad. A walking target, cursed by fate.


    But that day was different. I still had something worth standing up for.


    A small pouch, wrapped tightly in soaked fabric¡ªmedicine I had spent months saving for, coin by coin, job by job, meal by meal. All for my father. For the only person who had ever believed in me, even as the rest of the world turned its back.


    Eventually, they gave up.


    Maybe it was the rain, soaking them to the bone. Maybe it was the exhaustion from kicking someone who refused to break. Or maybe¡­ they realized that to take the medicine from me, they would have to kill me first.


    And that day, even they weren¡¯t willing to cross that line.


    So they left, spitting curses and frustrated laughter as their footsteps sloshed away into the alley¡¯s shadows.


    I lay there for a while, breath shallow, limbs screaming with every twitch. But eventually, I forced myself to move. I had to. Each step home was a battle in itself¡ªhalf-walking, half-stumbling, my body leaning awkwardly with every step. Pain pulsed through every joint, but I held the medicine close, never loosening my grip.


    Home.


    If I could even call it that.


    A battered shack at the edge of the district, barely holding itself together against wind and weather. But still¡­ as long as my father was there, it was home. It would always be home. Until, one day¡­ it no longer could be.


    I pushed open the creaking wooden door.


    The air inside was quiet¡ªstill heavy with dampness, but warm in a way only familiar places could be. A dim candle flickered in the far corner, resting on a crooked wooden table that looked ready to fall apart if you so much as sneezed too close to it. Next to that faint light, lying on a worn straw mattress, was my father.


    Sleeping. Breathing softly. Alive.


    I was thankful he was asleep¡ªI thought, at least he wouldn¡¯t have to see me like this. Not again.


    The shack was small¡ªjust one open room where every part of our lives shared space. There were no walls, no privacy, no separate bedrooms. The kitchen sat just beside my father¡¯s bed, little more than a corner with a rough wooden board for chopping, and a small, blackened stove where I could cook over charcoal or wood.


    As for my room¡­ there wasn¡¯t one. My spot was on the floor beside my father, where I had always slept.


    I moved quietly, careful not to wake him. I wiped the blood, mud, and rain from my face with a rough, half-clean cloth¡ªone of the few we had left. It stung, but I didn¡¯t flinch.


    I set the medicine down, unwrapped it carefully, and went to work.


    Vegetables first¡ªsoft roots and wilted greens. No meat today. No surprise.


    I cut them slowly and steadily. Then, I added the bitter medicinal herbs to the pot, letting their scent mix with the stew.


    A poor man¡¯s meal, but¡­ healing.


    I kneeled down beside my father, my legs folding beneath me, the creaking of old floorboards drowned beneath the soft crackle of the candle¡¯s flame.


    I looked at him. His face, once strong and full of laughter, now bore the marks of time and suffering. Age had stolen what little vitality he had left. His hair, once dark like mine, had turned a washed-out gray, thin and frail as mist. Wrinkles carved deep into his skin¡ªsome from years of hardship, others from too many sleepless nights spent worrying for me.


    But the most heartbreaking part...


    I reached out gently and tapped his chest, my voice no louder than a whisper.


    ¡°Father... wake up.¡±


    For a moment, nothing.


    Then, slowly, his eyelids fluttered open.


    A lump caught in my throat.


    Tears almost welled up at the corners of my eyes¡ªbut I bit them back. Not now. Not while he was looking at me.


    His gaze met mine, weak and unfocused, the gray of his pupils slowly eating away at the black. He was halfway blind now, halfway fading¡ªclinging to this world through sheer will¡­ and through me.


    I could see it in his eyes.


    Even in that fading light, there was a warmth. A flicker of recognition. Of relief.


    He didn¡¯t ask where I¡¯d been. He didn¡¯t comment on the bruises on my face. He just looked at me¡ªlike he always did¡ªwith quiet understanding.


    ¡°Shen... welcome... back.¡±


    His voice was brittle, but it carried that same warmth it always did. That same smile¡ªfaint, weary, yet somehow still full of love.


    No matter how weak he became, no matter how close he edged toward the end, he always greeted me that way. As if my return meant something. As if it still mattered.


    ¡°¡­Thank you, Father,¡± I whispered, my throat tightening as I knelt closer.


    ¡°I made you some stew,¡± I added softly, setting the bowl nearby. ¡°It¡¯s got the medicine in it. Just like the old recipe¡­ with whatever vegetables I could find.¡±


    He didn¡¯t respond, but I saw his gaze flicker toward the bowl. That was enough.


    ¡°Here,¡± I said, placing a hand gently behind his back, ¡°let me help you sit up.¡±


    I slipped my arm around his frail frame, lifting him slowly, carefully¡ªlike I was holding something fragile enough to break beneath its own weight.


    And still¡­ he felt so light.


    So much so that even someone like me, the one they called the weakest, could lift him without effort.


    That¡¯s what hurt the most.


    Not the bruises on my ribs. Not the soreness in my arms. Not the humiliation I endured every day.


    But this.


    How easily I could hold up the man who once carried the world on his shoulders¡ªfor me.


    ¡°There we go,¡± I murmured, adjusting the pillow behind him and pulling the blanket around his legs. ¡°Nice and easy.¡±


    He gave the faintest nod.


    And I sat beside him, the bowl warm in my hands.


    Slowly, carefully, I fed him spoon by spoon, making sure he swallowed every last drop of the medicinal stew. He didn¡¯t complain about the taste, though I knew it was bitter. He never did. He only focused on me, eyes blinking slowly between each bite, as if this moment¡ªjust the two of us¡ªwas all he needed.


    When the bowl was finally empty, I set it aside and gently helped him lie back down. He exhaled softly, as if even resting now took effort. I reached for the bowl to go clean it when I felt the faintest tug on my sleeve.


    His fingers, frail and trembling, barely held onto me.


    I turned to him. His lips moved, but no sound came. His mouth tried to form words¡ªhe wanted to say something. But the strength wasn¡¯t there.


    Still¡­ I understood. I always did.


    ¡°Yes, Father,¡± I whispered, nodding with a small smile. ¡°I understand.¡±


    I placed the bowl on the table and sat back down beside him, just like he wanted.


    I looked at him, at the man who had given me everything, even as he had nothing left. My voice was quiet, almost reverent, as I began to speak.


    ¡°Long ago,¡± I said, ¡°there was a man who defied the heavens.¡±


    His breathing slowed, his eyes fluttering shut as he listened.


    ¡°They called him the Fate-Defying Cultivator¡ªthe first man who refused the path given to him. The one who carved a new destiny with his own hands¡­¡±


    And so, I told him the story he once told me¡ªas a child, like I had countless nights before.

 Ch.3 - A Swing in the Dark

    Ever since I could remember, my father had told me the story of the Fate-Defying Cultivator.


    And not once¡ªnot once¡ªhad I ever grown tired of it.


    It was my favorite story. Whenever I was sick, when I couldn¡¯t fall asleep, when the nights were too quiet or too cruel¡­ I would ask for it. Sometimes more than once in the same night. And he never refused to tell it. He would smile, lean back against the wall, and begin to recite the tale as if it were scripture.


    "No one ever knew his true name," he¡¯d always begin. "To most, he was simply remembered as the one who dared defy the heavens."


    "Born in the lowest corners of the mortal realm¡ªamong farmers and beggars, raised in hardship¡ªhis soul weapon was revealed at birth. It was the most common, uninspiring weapon imaginable: a plain sword. Not gilded, not engraved. No mythical aura, no unique form. Just a soldier¡¯s sword¡ªpredictable and unworthy of attention. Because of that, the world had already written his fate for him."


    "They told him he would amount to nothing¡ªthat his soul weapon doomed him to a life as a low-ranked soldier or, at best, a city guard. ''You''ll never reach beyond the first realm,'' they said. ''Even if you cultivate for a hundred years, your sword will never carry you beyond the soil you were born on.''"


    ¡°But he didn¡¯t accept that. When the Golden Ascension Gate opened, he walked among the hopeful, a face in the crowd like any other. Yet unlike so many others, the gate let him through.¡±


    ¡°The heavens did not reject him. But neither did they favor him.¡±


    ¡°Inside the cultivation realm, he found no masters who would take him in. No sects welcomed him. No scroll or tablet of martial wisdom responded to his touch. His soul weapon was too plain, too simple. His constitution was unremarkable, his meridians average, his spirit veins dull.¡±


    ¡°No one would teach him. So he taught himself.¡±


    ¡°Day by day, wound by wound, he shaped his own path. He meditated under waterfalls until his skin split from the cold. He sparred with his own shadow, burned his hands on spirit flames, and endured heavenly lightning to understand how energy moved through the body, among many other trials. With time, he forged his own cultivation method¡ªThe Path of Severance¡ªa path built not upon divine guidance, but through pain, trial, and relentless will.¡±


    ¡°He created his own sword techniques shaped purely by instinct and observation. He learned to read the flow of battle, the currents of Qi in the air, the slightest twitch in an opponent¡¯s breath. And slowly¡­ he began to grow.¡±


    ¡°He rose through the realms one step at a time, with no backing, no guidance, no blessing from heaven. Word of his progress began to spread. At first, it was mockery. Then disbelief. And eventually¡­ awe.¡±


    ¡°Disciples of great sects began to whisper his name. Cultivators who once looked down on him now watched in silence as he broke past realms that should have been forever out of his reach.¡±


    ¡°But the heavens do not forgive defiance. The more he rose, the more they pushed back.¡±


    ¡°Jealousy brewed in the hearts of those once stronger than him. Fear took root in the powerful. How could someone without a gifted soul weapon or sacred lineage stand shoulder to shoulder with them¡ªor even above them?¡±


    ¡°So they plotted. Betrayal came from where he least expected it¡ªfriends, brothers-in-arms, even a lover he once trusted. When he was on the cusp of entering the highest realm¡ªone step away from immortality¡ªthey struck.¡±


    ¡°He fought back with everything he had. Legends say the battle lasted three days and three nights. That entire valleys were torn asunder by his sword. That he stood alone against sects, clans, and divine spirits. But one man can only stand against the world for so long.¡±


    "At the height of the battle, the heavens themselves intervened. His cultivation core shattered under their deceitful judgment. With a scream that split the heavens, he fell from grace."


    ¡°His enemies thought him dead. But somehow, he lived. Crippled, broken, his cultivation ruined¡­ but alive. He vanished into the mortal realm once more, never to be seen again.¡±


    ¡°Some say he died nameless and alone, buried beneath the same dirt he once rose from. Others claim he became a wandering swordsman, teaching the next generation in secret. And a few whisper that he still lives¡ªthat his soul never stopped cultivating, even after death, and that one day, he will return.To defy fate once more.¡±


    Whenever I heard his tale¡­ or told it, like I just had, I couldn¡¯t help but lose myself within it. I would close my eyes and imagine every detail¡ªthe rain-slicked mountains he trained under, the vast battlefields where he stood alone, the divine light that crashed upon him when the heavens struck him down. I imagined the pain, the triumph, the loneliness¡­ the unshakable will.


    After I finished the tale, I turned to my father. And just like every time before, he was smiling.


    That same quiet, proud smile.


    Even when he could barely speak, even when his body trembled from weakness, he never forgot the words that always followed the end of that story.


    ¡®Shen, Do not let others dictate your path.¡¯


    He had said it so many times.


    Always¡­ without fail.


    Without fail...


    ¡°¡­Father¡­¡±


    My voice trembled, the word barely more than a breath.


    I reached out with a shaking hand, hovering it just above his face. My fingers curled slightly in hesitation, lingering uncertainly above his nose.


    I didn¡¯t want to confirm it. But life¡­ life doesn¡¯t wait for permission.


    Slowly, I lowered my hand, resting it gently over his nose and mouth. There was no breath. No warmth. Just stillness.


    My chest tightened.


    I moved my hand upward, brushing softly over his eyelids, and closed them with as much care as I could muster. Then, I reached for the edge of the worn blanket, lifted it quietly, and pulled it over his head.


    ¡°¡­Thank you,¡± I whispered. ¡°Thank you for everything.¡±


    And just like that, the tears came.Silently at first, trailing down my cheeks like the rain outside. Then more. Heavier. Because at that moment, I knew:  This place was no longer a home. It had become a memory.


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    Death for mortals was inevitable.


    Perhaps that was the greatest reason so many longed to walk the path of cultivation¡ªto escape the sorrow of aging, the cruelty of watching loved ones wither away while time showed no mercy. To defy death, to reach beyond its grasp¡­ it was a dream so many chased. A dream that drove them to kneel beneath the golden gate, to cast aside their given lives in pursuit of something greater.


    But for most of us, death came all the same.


    Only a handful¡ªif they even exist¡ªhave ever truly lived beyond its reach.


    And when death came, so did the final act of severance.


    A soft glow began to bloom over my father¡¯s chest¡ªa gentle pulse, like a heartbeat made of light. From within that light, a sword began to manifest. Not summoned by force, nor called by will¡ªit simply rose on its own, emerging from his chest as if drifting up from his very soul. It hovered just above his still body, silent and steady.


    A simplistic sword.


    Silver steel, plain and straight, a grip wrapped in faded cloth. Not a weapon of legend, not a blade that changed the world.


    But it was his.


    I knew this sword well. I had seen it countless times¡ªwatching him train quietly behind our home, slicing through the air with calm, deliberate motions. He never used it to fight, only to maintain it. It was a quiet ritual of his, a gesture of peace between him and the soul he was born with¡ªa companion that had grown with him from the very beginning to the very end.


    I always knew why he loved the story of the Fate-Defying Cultivator so much. It wasn¡¯t just the tale itself he admired. But also the sword he used to defy fate.


    Father saw himself in that legend.


    After a few quiet moments, the sword above my father''s chest began to shimmer. The light pulsed softly¡ªonce, twice¡ªand then started to dissolve. Thousands of tiny particles of light drifted upward like fireflies scattered by the wind. Each fragment floated gently, silently returning to the Soul Realm, where it would rest until the cycle of rebirth called it forth once more.


    I watched in silence as the last of his presence faded.


    ¡°Goodbye¡­ Father.¡±


    ¡®My son¡­ I believe in you.¡¯


    ¡°Father!?¡±


    I jerked upright, eyes wide, scanning the room.


    But there was no one.


    Only the candle''s flickering flame. Only the sound of rain beyond the roof. Only silence.


    The voice¡­ it had been so clear. As if spoken directly into my mind. As if his spirit had lingered just long enough to whisper one final message before departing. Or maybe it was just my grief playing cruel tricks.


    Either way¡­ I accepted it with a bittersweet smile.


    He always believed in me. Even when the world didn¡¯t. Even when I didn¡¯t. And I knew what he meant by those final words.


    I looked down at my empty hands. For a moment, it was just skin and bone, wet from drying tears. But then¡­ light. A dim glow began to gather in my palm, sluggish, reluctant¡ªnothing like the smooth manifestation of my father¡¯s sword.


    The light condensed, and with a strained flicker, my own soul weapon took form.


    It landed in my hand with weight, not just physical but emotional¡ªthe kind of heaviness that wraps around your heart and reminds you of what you are.


    A sword. But not like my father''s.


    Rusted brown from hilt to tip. Cracks spiderwebbed across the blade as if it had been shattered and poorly mended. The hilt was wrapped in weathered, uneven cloth, barely holding together. It wasn¡¯t just unremarkable¡ªit was pitiful. Dull. Blunt.


    This was my soul weapon¡ªa broken sword.


    <hr>


    Since the passing of my father, years have passed.


    I moved through life without a clear path¡ªbut with a single purpose that kept me moving forward. A thought that never left my mind, a whisper that echoed with every breath I took:


    I will ascend.


    Even the plainest of soul weapons had their place in this world. But mine¡­ had none. A first. An unheard-of existence.


    It could not be categorized in any known path¡ªnot because it was so extraordinary that no single role could contain it, nor because it was so great that it could fit into every life path.


    But because it was the opposite. It was worthless. There was no path for someone like me. No calling. No place. Because no path would accept me.


    Still, I believed¡­ or rather, I wanted to believe¡ªthat fate could be changed. That if one''s will and heart were strong enough, they could carve a new road through the mountains of destiny.


    That¡¯s why I came here today.


    To the Golden Ascension Gate. Like the Fate-Defying Cultivator.


    That story¡­ the reason I loved it so deeply, the reason I clung to it so desperately, was because I wanted¡ªno, I longed¡ªto follow in his footsteps. To rise like he did, from nothing. To forge my own way through the heavens'' decree. To prove that even someone like me could break through.


    But now¡­ I saw the truth. Compared to him¡­ I had nothing.


    His soul weapon, while plain, was whole. Mine was broken.


    He was underestimated, yes¡ªbut accepted. The heavens opened the Gate for him. They had slammed it shut on me.


    He had a place to start from, however small. I had no foothold. No entry. No beginning.


    And maybe¡­I had been lying to myself all this time. Telling myself I believed in the story. That I could walk the same path. But even at the beginning of his journey, the Fate-Defying Cultivator had been granted at least a chance.


    I wasn¡¯t.


    Yet as I lay there, soaked in the rain and surrounded by silence, my thoughts refused to quiet. The image of the cultivator loomed in my mind¡ªhis words echoing with the weight of truth I didn¡¯t want to accept. He had spoken with such calm certainty, as though heaven itself stood beside him, nodding in agreement, while I had screamed back with nothing but emotion. I had no strength to challenge him, no cultivation to my name, no backing or fate that supported my claim. And still, despite everything, I had denied his words¡ªnot because I had the right to, but because I had to.


    But despite that, as the storm continued and the cold bit deeper into my bones, something in me began to shift. Not from pride or hope or some romantic dream¡ªbut from something more far stubborn. Something heavy. Something angry. It was the part of me that refused to stay down, the part that had survived every beating, every rejection, every moment I was told I was worthless. I didn¡¯t know if I would spend the rest of my life standing before a door that would never open, guarding a path I would never be allowed to walk¡ªits contents sealed, locked to someone like me.


    But to hell with that! If that door won¡¯t open for me¡ªthen I¡¯ll break the damn thing down!


    And so, I stood.


    I forced my legs to move, step by step toward the now-closed Golden Ascension Gate. The golden light was gone, the pull of its energy vanished, leaving nothing but a silent gate towering above me. I approached it anyway. I stood before it, rain cascading between us like a curtain, and I called forth my soul weapon. My broken sword¡ªrusted, cracked, barely holding together¡ªappeared in my grasp, and with it, I raised my arm and swung.


    The blade met the gate with a resounding Cling!, sparks scattering across the drenched earth, but the gate did not budge. My sword shook violently in my hands, a fracture deepening along its length. Still, I swung again, and again. With every strike, splinters of steel chipped away, pieces of my soul weapon falling to the mud below.


    "If you¡¯re locking me away from the path I chose for myself," I growled through gritted teeth, each word soaked in rain and fury, "then I¡¯ll shatter the gate with my own hands. If you deny me the key, I¡¯ll carve my own entrance, whether the heavens allow it or not. And if I¡¯m to die here¡ªif this is all I will ever amount to¡ªthen I will die facing the path I was never meant to walk, and I will leave behind a broken blade as proof that I never gave in.¡±


    And still, I swung.


    With every blow, the cracks on my sword widened, but I no longer cared. The gate remained untouched, unmoved¡ªbut so did I. I had nothing left but this: my defiance, my grief, my unshakable refusal to vanish quietly without putting on a fight.


    I would keep striking. Until the blade broke¡­ Or the heavens did.

 Ch.4 - A Fool That Will Be Remembered

    Upon deciding to throw everything I had¡ªbody, mind, and time¡ªinto this single path of dedication, something within me changed.


    The noise that had haunted me¡ªthe doubts, the grief, the aching sorrow¡ªall of it dulled into a distant hum. My mind felt clear for the first time in my life. No longer scattered, no longer torn between hopes and fears, dreams and reality. I knew what I wanted. I knew what I had to do. And even if the path ahead was lined with failure¡­ It was mine.


    I had no more worries beyond ascension. No more distractions. The only fear I still carried was the fear of wasting time¡ªwasting another breath, another heartbeat¡ªnot fighting to break past the chains that fate had wrapped around me since the day I was born.


    There was no calm in my heart anymore¡ªexcept in the moment my hand gripped the hilt of my sword to break down that door. There was no peace¡ªexcept in the rhythm of my swings, echoing in the split-second gap between blade and door. That broken sword, my soul weapon, once and still a mark of shame and weakness, had become the only language left in which I could speak my truth.


    I did not count the days, yet time undeniably passed.


    The sun rose, the sun fell. The seasons changed. That was all.Yet through it all, I remained. I kept to my decision with the same stubbornness that had first brought me to my knees before the Golden Gate.


    Rest was no longer a luxury. It was a necessity granted only when my soul weapon, fractured and splintered from endless impact, could no longer hold itself together. Only then would I stop¡ªto give it time to slowly knit itself back into shape, broken piece by broken piece.


    Rest was only allowed when hunger began to sap the strength from my limbs, when my body screamed for nourishment. And even then, I would not stray far. I hunted in the forests surrounding the Plain of Ascension¡ªsmall game, wild roots, berries that did enough to keep me standing. I never ventured too deep. Never lost sight of the gate.


    Because every breath I took, every moment I survived, was another day to swing.


    I became a figure alone beneath the heavens¡ªa lone soul standing before a gate that would not yield. I was the only one left after that day. No others remained to challenge their fate, to question the will of the heavens.


    All who had been rejected before me had long since turned away. They returned to their lives in the bustling cities¡ªtaking the roles granted to them, raising families within the safety of the known, chasing fleeting comforts. Some became soldiers in meaningless wars, fighting battles that changed nothing. Others became farmers, planting and harvesting crops in a cycle of survival, living one day only to repeat it the next. Their dreams were buried beneath routine, their defiance extinguished beneath responsibility.


    No one else stayed. No one else wasted days, weeks, months¡ªand now years¡ªwaiting for something that would never change¡­ to change.


    Then, one day, the silence I had grown so used to was broken. The isolation I had endured for so long came to a halt.


    One by one, they began to appear¡ªnew figures stepping foot onto the Plain of Ascension. Then in groups. Then in waves. In quick succession, the once-empty field became scattered with life again, marking the approach of the next opening of the Golden Ascension Gate. A decade had passed.


    The second attempt to defy my destiny was nearing.


    They came from all corners of the mortal realm¡ªfresh-faced aspirants, their soul weapons gleaming and their eyes burning with ambition. Some walked confidently, others with nerves hidden beneath forced smiles, all of them dreaming of the same thing: ascension.


    And then they saw me.


    A lone figure, gaunt and weathered, swinging a rusted, broken sword at a gate that had never so much as flinched or scratched.


    Some laughed as soon as they saw me, sneering as if my existence were nothing more than a joke for their amusement. They mocked my weapon¡ªits corroded edge and cracked form deemed useless. Others whispered behind me, their pity and disgust clear in the way they glanced at my torn, faded clothes, my thin frame, and hollow eyes.


    Still, I kept swinging.


    Even as their voices rose around me¡ªteasing, questioning, ridiculing¡ªI kept swinging. And when some step forward, trying to pull me away, mock me to my face, or block my path, I fought.


    I fought with everything I had¡ªnot to strike them down, not to win their approval, but for the right to keep swinging. Because every strike I made, no matter how small, no matter how hopeless, was a refusal¡ªa refusal to let them, or the heavens, decide the end of my story.


    Ten long years spent beneath the sun and storm, clawing at a wall that would not budge. Ten years of broken swings, fractured steel, and bleeding hands. And yet¡­ not even a single scratch had been left on the gate. My efforts¡ªten years of unwavering, relentless effort¡ªhad achieved nothing, not even a scorn or splinter.


    My attempt to break through it by force had failed.


    So be it. This time, I would try the other way.


    Then, just as the winds on the plain began to shift, a booming voice echoed across the field¡ªa voice I hadn¡¯t heard in ten years, but remembered as clearly as if it had just spoken yesterday.


    ¡°Mortals who seek ascension¡ªhear my words!¡±


    I looked up.


    And there he stood.


    Atop the Golden Ascension Gate, in the exact same place, in the exact same pose, stood the very same cultivator. White robe, pristine and flowing in the wind. A jade sword at his side, untarnished and elegant. His skin smooth, unmarred by time, not a wrinkle nor blemish to betray even a single passing day.


    A decade had passed for me¡ªa decade that had thinned my frame, weathered my body, hollowed my cheeks, and carved lines of age and struggle into my face. My beard had grown in raggedly, and the black of my hair now bore a few streaks of silver. Bearing every mark of my years beneath the gate.


    And he¡­ remained untouched.


    I stared up at him, part of me wondering if he would look back. If he remembered me¡ªthe fool who had screamed defiance at him and the heavens.


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    But his gaze passed over me without hesitation.


    No recognition. No pause. Not even a flicker of memory. As if I had never existed.


    And still... at that very moment, I decided to stop listening to him and focus on my goal.


    Every word was a repetition of the same speech he had delivered a decade ago. The same warnings, the same arrogant proclamations about fate and worth and destiny¡ªlike a script recited a thousand times without meaning. It might have awed the crowd behind me, might have stirred fear or inspiration in the hearts of the new hopefuls, but to me¡­ it was nothing but noise.


    So I ignored him.


    Without a glance in his direction, I walked toward the gate.


    And once again, I raised my broken soul weapon.


    Cling.


    The familiar sound of steel meeting divine gold rang out, clear and sharp through the open field.


    Then another strike. And another.


    I could feel the eyes behind me¡ªthousands, maybe millions¡ªfixated on my back. Their whispers stilled. Their chatter quieted. My presence had always been strange, but now, in the middle of the cultivator¡¯s grand declaration, my interruption was unexpected. Not from someone like me.


    Then, without warning, a ripple passed through the air beside me. Not a sound, not a step. Just¡­ a presence.


    The cultivator appeared at my left side, not more than inches from my face. One moment he was at the top of the gate, and the next, he was here.


    He stood unnaturally still, his head tilted slightly as he stared directly at me, his gaze like frost biting into flesh.


    I could feel his eyes watching every movement, feel the weight of his presence so close to mine.


    But I didn¡¯t look at him. I didn¡¯t speak.


    ¡°Pathetic.¡±


    I paused mid-swing.


    My grip on the sword tightened, knuckles pale from the pressure. My breath hitched¡ªnot from fear or shame, but from the weight of d¨¦j¨¤ vu pressing down on my chest.


    ¡°A thin, brittle-looking thing. Unadorned. Unremarkable. A blade jagged in places¡ªworn, rusted, beaten down. A hilt wrapped in tattered cloth, frayed and uneven. A soul weapon that inspires neither fear¡­ nor admiration.¡±


    Those words. I knew them. I knew them so well I could have recited them myself.


    He had said them before¡ªexactly as he had now¡ªten years ago, when I first stood before this gate, when I was younger, more fragile. The memory was burned into me.


    But now, standing beside him again, hearing them spoken once more without a flicker of recognition, I realized something that made me feel lighter than I expected.


    He really didn¡¯t remember.


    He wasn¡¯t reminiscing. He wasn¡¯t mocking me out of familiarity. There was no bitterness, no venom. Just indifference.


    He was simply repeating the words that matched the role he played.


    They were lines spoken not to me, but to anyone¡ªeveryone¡ªwho didn¡¯t meet the standard etched in his eyes. The disdain he cast wasn¡¯t personal. It never had been.


    I was just another nobody to him. I was never worth remembering. And strangely, that truth made me smile.


    Without a word, I raised my sword again, the metal trembling in my grip, and brought it crashing down on the gate once more.


    But just as my blade was about to strike the gate again¡ªjust inches from making contact¡ªhis hand moved.


    In a blur, faster than my eyes could follow, his fingers closed around the edge of my broken sword, stopping it mid-swing with no effort at all. The metal groaned under his grip, the force of my swing collapsing.


    For the first time¡­ his expression shifted.


    A subtle twitch pulled at his brow. His calm, cold mask cracked¡ªjust slightly¡ªand in its place came something far sharper.


    Anger.


    He looked at me¡ªtruly looked at me¡ªhis eyes no longer filled with indifference or disregard, but with a simmering intensity that seemed to press down on me.


    ¡°Are you seeking death?¡± he asked.


    The words weren¡¯t shouted. They didn¡¯t need to be.


    They were spoken with such precise coldness that they cut cleaner than any sword. And for anyone else, that would¡¯ve been the moment to kneel. To lower their head, to beg for forgiveness. To fall to the ground and plead before someone who clearly stood a thousand realms above them.


    But I didn¡¯t move.


    Because over the past ten years, I had realized something that changed everything about this moment.


    Back then, during our first encounter, I had screamed defiance in his face. I had insulted his pride, spat on the so-called sanctity of heaven¡¯s fate. I had broken every unspoken rule a mortal was supposed to follow when standing before someone of his stature.


    And yet¡­ he hadn¡¯t harmed me.


    It had stayed with me all these years, buried beneath the sound of my swings and the silence of my solitude¡ªbut now it returned, clear and sharp. If he could have hurt me, he would have. Whether to silence me, punish me, or prove the point of heaven¡¯s supremacy, he would have done so. And yet, he hadn¡¯t.


    Which could only mean one thing. He couldn¡¯t.


    Maybe it was a law of cultivation, some divine restriction etched into the fabric of existence. Maybe it was a mandate from the heavens themselves, forbidding those of higher realms from interfering with those of lower realms. I didn¡¯t know the truth. But I felt it.


    And so, I said nothing. I didn¡¯t flinch. I didn¡¯t cower. I simply held my position, eyes steady, waiting. Waiting for him to let go.


    I could tell that he understood my intentions.


    His eyes narrowed ever so slightly, and the anger behind them deepened¡ªnot from my defiance, but from the realization that I had seen through him. That I knew. I knew he couldn¡¯t harm me. That I had stood before him, swung my weapon, denied his words, and waited¡ªnot in ignorance, but in blind faith.


    And he hated it.


    He must have known exactly what I was doing. I wasn¡¯t resisting him¡ªI was simply waiting for him to let go of my sword, so I could continue my swing like nothing happened. It was the quiet kind of defiance that didn¡¯t require shouting. It just was.


    So instead, as if to assert dominance in the only way left to him¡­ he squeezed.


    There was a moment of still pressure, then the sound¡ªsharp and sudden. My blade shattered in his grip, exploding into countless shimmering splinters, scattered like dust.


    I remained still, watching as the fragments of my soul weapon vanished into the air. There was no anger in me.This was simply another cycle, no different from the dozens that had come before it.


    I calmly let go of what remained, allowing the hilt to dematerialize from my hand, fading into nothingness. Then, wordlessly, I turned and walked back toward the crowd, weaving past the confused stares and murmured whispers. I sat down where I always did¡ªcross-legged on the ground, hands resting in my lap¡ªand allowed myself to rest.


    My sword had broken. So, as always, I would wait for it to be repaired. This time was no different. Just a little earlier than I was used to.


    The cultivator stayed exactly where I had stood, unmoving, his gaze still fixed on me. Not the crowd, not the gate, not the other eager mortals gathered behind him.


    Just me. As if trying to understand why I hadn¡¯t broken under pressure.


    Then, without a word, he clapped his hands once. The sound echoed sharply across the plain. And the gate began to move.


    The Golden Ascension Gate groaned as it opened for the second time in my life. A radiant light spilled out, warm and brilliant, swirling in vortex patterns just as before.


    The cultivator spoke¡ªnot to me, but to the others. The same announcement, the same instructions: pass through the gate, and if you are accepted, you may begin your path of cultivation.


    But as he spoke to the crowd, his eyes never left me. Not even once.


    Guess you¡¯re going to remember me this time.

 Ch.5 - Unexpected Visit

    Just like before, the door remained open for an entire day¡ªdawn to midnight¡ªgranting ample time for all to test their fate. I made no rush to step forward. I remained seated, letting the hours stretch and pass as I rested.


    There was no point in hurrying. If the heavens had truly changed their mind, they would still be there at the end of the day. And if they hadn¡¯t¡­ well, there was no reason to taste rejection any earlier than I had to.


    As I sat in silence, I felt the shift in the air. Not the wind, but the stares.


    Curious eyes wandered in my direction¡ªeyes that had once laughed at me, dismissed me with sneers and scorn. Now those same eyes held something else entirely. Intrigue. Confusion.


    They didn¡¯t understand.


    To them, my defiance was something bold. To stand before the cultivator, to raise a rusted sword in the face of indifference¡ªit fit neatly into the stories they had been fed since childhood. They wanted to believe there was more to me than met the eye. That perhaps I was some hidden master in disguise, some long-lost genius cultivating in obscurity. Their fantasies demanded explanation, and since I didn¡¯t offer any, they came seeking it themselves.


    Some approached me, eyes wide with misplaced reverence.


    ¡°Senior, may I ask your name?¡±


    ¡°Are you a hidden expert?¡±


    ¡°Which sect were you once part of?¡±


    Foolish questions, asked with earnest hearts.


    But I said nothing.


    I had no desire for friends, no room for acquaintances, and no time for pointless attachments. My life¡ªwhat remained of it¡ªhad been devoted to one path, and I would not let passing interest or temporary relations steer me from it. Their curiosity wasn¡¯t dangerous¡ªbut it was a distraction.


    So, I let myself believe¡ªforcefully¡ªthat these eyes, this attention, was nothing more than the will of the heavens testing me again. That they had cast these curious souls into my path to see if I would stray. That their interest was a trap, a subtle manipulation to soften my resolve.


    And deep down, I knew I was being hypocritical. I, who mocked their romanticism, had spun my own delusion to protect myself from it.


    But I clung to it anyway.


    Eventually, the sun dipped, and the sky surrendered to night. The day was nearly over.


    Only a short window remained before the gate would close again, sealing away the path of cultivation for another decade. I had waited long enough. I rose from the ground, brushing off the dirt from my clothes and began walking toward the gate.


    As I approached, I could feel the attention of others sharpening. Those who still lingered on the plain turned their eyes to me, their earlier curiosity reigniting with silent expectation. Whispers buzzed like flies in the air, as if my every step was confirmation of their beliefs.


    He¡¯s going now. This must be it.


    He must know the gate will accept him.


    They looked at me with anticipation, as if my long silence had finally made sense to them. Even the cultivator, still standing at his post by the gate, turned his gaze toward me.


    Still unaware that I had already failed once. That I had stood in this very spot ten years ago, and been cast out like a weed in a garden of chosen flowers.


    I remembered every detail as I approached the golden vortex once more. My breath slowed, my heartbeat steady. I raised my hand and stretched it forward, fingers reaching into the familiar swirl of divine light.


    And just like before¡­ I was stopped. My hand pressed against it, unmoving, no different than it had been ten years ago.


    And when they saw me fail¡­laughter rang out. Words of mockery came fast, thrown without hesitation.


    ¡°He waited all day just to fail!¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s not some expert¡ªhe¡¯s a fraud!¡±


    ¡°What a joke!¡±


    It was nothing I hadn¡¯t heard before.


    The golden gate began humming once more¡ªa signal of its imminent closure. The cultivator followed suit, walking without urgency toward the entrance. As he passed, he no longer spared a glance, neither slowing his pace nor raising his voice. He simply said, ¡°Know your place.¡± With those three words, he vanished into the gate.


    Failure, once again.


    And so, as I always did, I marched forward. Toward the same sacred wall that had denied me every decade since I first stood before it.


    I raised my broken soul weapon¡ªand swung.


    Cling.


    The routine of a decade continued forward, pushing ever onward into another decade to come. I no longer heard the hums of the crowd behind me. Their laughter, whispers, and murmurs faded into static long ago. All I heard now was the clink of metal meeting the gate¡ªor the void-like silence that followed when my sword was too broken to sound.


    The third decade came and passed.


    Another failure.


    But something had changed. That time, the cultivator¡­ recognized me.


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    He didn¡¯t speak. We exchanged no words, yet his gaze lingered a moment longer than before. In that silence, I became more than a nameless mortal to him¡ªI became a familiar presence, as regular as his routine return to make his presentation.


    Then came the fourth decade.


    Another failure.


    But this time, he was not alone. He brought another with him¡ªanother cultivator, draped in the same silk. They stood at the top of the gate, both looking at me. I didn¡¯t need to hear their conversation to understand it. The tale of the stubborn mortal who refused to stop swinging had finally become something worthy of retelling, even among the cultivators.


    And then came the fifth.


    The sixth.


    The seventh.


    The eighth.


    Failure. After failure. After failure.


    My body aged, hollowed by the years. My once-strong limbs grew thin, my posture hunched. My beard and hair turned long and white, a veil of age that trailed behind me like a worn flag.


    My vision dimmed¡ªone eye fading to darkness.


    My steps became slow, pitiful things, dragging forward only with the help of my sword used now as a crutch more than a weapon. A single step taking minutes.


    But my swing¡­ my swing never wavered.


    If anything, it had only grown sharper¡ªnot in strength, not in speed, but in precision. I had struck the same spot on the gate so many millions of times, I could do it with my eyes closed. At the same angle. With the same force. The same breath before, and the same exhale after.


    It was no longer a strike. It was a devotion. A prayer. An obsession.


    I didn''t dare count how many times I tried¡ªI had long since lost track. And yet, the Golden Gate of Ascension showed no marks at all¡ªno scars, no dents, not even a hint of my countless attempts.


    It stood as it always had¡ªPristine.


    Then came the ninth decade.


    I was one hundred years old.


    My body had withered like dried bark, and my left arm lay paralyzed¡ªa shadow of what it once was. Yet my right hand, my dominant hand, still gripped the blade and lifted it. Every breath became a struggle, each movement sending aching pain through my bones, while my heart beat slowly as if trying to lull me into sleep. But my spirit refused to give in. Because I had only ever promised myself one thing: I would defy fate until my last breath.


    Yet, I knew that this promise would soon happen. This ninth decade¡ªmy hundredth year¡ªwas most likely my last.


    My mortal life, once enduring, now flickered like a dying ember. I felt it¡ªnot through pain, but in the quiet certainty that death was no longer far off. It walked beside me now, its steps calm and patient, as if offering me one final attempt before claiming my soul.


    The Plains of Ascension had once again filled with life¡ªfresh-faced mortals, brimming with ambition and energy. They came with strong bodies, soul weapons glowing bright with potential. They were younger, faster, sharper¡­ full of everything I had long since left behind. And yet, as I passed through them¡ªstep by agonizing step, my sword-turned-cane scraping softly against the grass¡ªthey made way for me.


    They stepped aside without a word, and the crowd parted, bowing one by one. Not every single person, but enough to be noticed. I saw quiet nods of respect and subtle gestures of acknowledgment from those too young to know my name but old enough to have heard the tales. It seemed the stories had spread¡ªabout the old man who never stopped swinging, who appeared every decade, striking the same spot again and again, even when the heavens denied his plea.


    I couldn¡¯t help but think, as I watched their expressions shift while I passed, that this new generation was more respectful than I had once imagined. Maybe time had changed them. Maybe mockery lost its taste when aimed at the pitiful frame of a dying elder. Or maybe¡­ some of them truly understood.


    Then, for some reason, I stopped walking. This time, something unseen gripped me¡ªperhaps the sensitivity born from decades of isolation, with only the gentle breath of the plains as my companion. I couldn¡¯t say exactly what it was, but I felt it. Something was happening¡ªsomething entirely new. And then, it came.


    A sound tore across the sky, echoing through the plains like a song too vast for this world. It wasn¡¯t a cry of horror or a roar of aggression¡ªit was a screech that carried an almost divine harmony. It was far louder than any bird I had ever heard, yet far more beautiful, powerful, and resonant.


    Every head turned skyward, including my own fading gaze.


    High above, a shape emerged in the distance¡ªa mere speck against the clouds that rapidly grew larger, closer, faster. Every presence gasped; some shouted in awe, while others unknowingly fell to their knees.


    As it descended, it became clear: this was no ordinary bird. It was a divine creature¡ªa being from a higher realm¡ªdescending into the mortal plane.


    Then, with one mighty sweep of its wings, it blotted out the heavens, casting a vast shadow over the Plain of Ascension before landing with a force that shook the ground¡ªright before my eyes.


    The gust from its wings tore through the crowd like a hurricane, lifting mortals from their feet and tossing them aside like leaves in a storm. Cries of shock filled the plains as many struggled to steady themselves, falling to their knees or clutching the ground.


    Yet I did not move. Not a hair of my robe stirred, not even a whisper of wind touched my skin¡ªas if the very air bent around me, shielding and protecting me.


    Did it shield me from the wind?


    The beast commanded its presence completely, and for reasons unknown, it chose not to affect me. I looked up at it, towering above me with an impossible majesty.


    Its feathers shone like silk, with silver and emerald spread across its wide wings. Its eyes were piercing, glowing a bright sapphire and brimming with intelligence far beyond mortal comprehension. Its long, smooth beak displayed simple marks, and its talons shone like polished stone¡ªstrong enough to crush almost anything, yet held with careful control.


    Yet no divine beast would descend to the mortal realm on its own. That much, even I knew.


    And as my eyes adjusted, I saw the truth.


    Atop the beast, two figures stood¡ªbalanced effortlessly on its back. One of them was all too familiar. The cultivator. The same man I had seen nine times before. Still draped in those pristine white robes, the same jade sword at his hip, his long black hair undisturbed age. Time had not touched him. Not once.


    But the man beside him¡­ He was different.


    His presence was overwhelming¡ªnot in force, not in violence, but in stature. He looked older¡ªfar older, with long, clean-flowing hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He wore a robe of pure white, even brighter than his companion¡¯s, adorned with golden patterns. And though his features bore the marks of age, his posture betrayed none of it. He stood tall and composed. There was no frailty, no sign of a body nearing the end of its days.


    His very presence seemed to quiet the world. Even the divine beast beneath him bowed its head slightly, as if humbled by its own rider.


    And I¡­


    I was a withered man of a hundred years, skin clinging to bone, hair white and wild with age, leaning on a cracked sword to stay upright. My voice rasped when I breathed. My muscles twitched from strain. My left arm hung uselessly at my side.


    I was the perfect picture of what they believed I was.


    The end of a foolish old man¡¯s road.


    The two cultivators dismounted from the divine beast without so much as a sweat, their feet gliding through the air before touching the ground. The great bird lowered its massive wings, settling behind them with a quiet dignity, as if its role had already been fulfilled.


    The younger cultivator remained by its side, his arms crossed, his eyes never left me.


    The older one started moving forward. As he approached, the crowd instinctively stepped aside and lowered their heads without a word. Soon, he stood in front of me. The difference between us was staggering¡ªdifferent in fate, stature, and soul. He looked at me with a calm, steady gaze.


    ¡°I¡¯ve heard much about you,¡± he said, his voice deep, patient, and laced with a subtle curiosity.

 Ch.6 - Prevailing Fate

    I looked at the master, and in his steady gaze I saw no effort in seeking the fool left behind on this plain. Even a cretin would have known that the figure standing there¡ªa solitary, withered flower amid a field of vibrant blossoms¡ªwas none other than me.


    For decades, I had sealed my lips, choosing action over words to speak my truth. Yet now, as the man approached with a measured step and an acknowledgment that he had heard of me, an unfamiliar yearning stirred within me. I opened the mouth I had kept shut for nearly a century. My voice emerged rough and trembling. My throat burned with the effort, as if dust and age had sealed it shut over the decades. But still, I spoke.


    ¡°You¡­ have heard¡­ of the stubborn fool, I¡­ presume.¡± My voice was barely more than a whisper, coarse and cracking.


    "Yes," he said softly, his voice as calm as still water, yet carrying a depth that stirred the air around us. "The stubborn mortal who refuses to stop knocking at heaven¡¯s gate... demanding ascension, day after day, for nine full decades."


    He took a step closer, his eyes never leaving mine.


    "My disciple has spoken of your persistence many times throughout the years. I¡¯ve been interested¡­ and today, I decided to see for myself."


    There was no mockery, no pity, no disgust in his tone¡ªonly respect. The kind that came not from admiration of power, but of endurance.


    I gripped my sword tighter, using it to hold myself upright as I drew a shaky breath. My voice rasped out in a dry whisper, one syllable at a time.


    "Are¡­ you¡­ here to¡­ stop me?"


    The old master let a quiet breath escape his nose, the faintest exhale of amusement¡ªno arrogance, only honesty.


    "No," he said. "I came here out of curiosity, nothing more. Time is not something I often spare, but... well, I suspected time is something you no longer have much of. So I chose today, of all days, to visit. To meet the man who would not leave willingly."


    He looked at me with the calm of someone who had seen centuries pass and still found wonder in rare things.


    "To see what the so-called fool truly looked like."


    I held his gaze, felt the words crawl from my throat.


    ¡°Disappointed?¡±


    He paused, then shook his head slowly.


    ¡°No,¡± he said, voice low but sure. ¡°Not disappointed¡­ Only humbled.¡±


    The master cultivator stood still for a moment, then spoke¡ªnot with condemnation, but with something more thoughtful. ¡°Why do you persist?¡± he asked, voice gentle, as though speaking not to an adversary, but to someone already weighed down by too much. ¡°Would it not have been wiser to step away? To build a life¡ªraise a family, pass on what you¡¯ve learned, entrust your hopes to the next generation?¡±


    He studied me, his gaze neither judging nor sharp. ¡°There is wisdom in letting go. Sometimes¡­ the nobler path is to lay down the mantle, and allow others to carry forward your will.¡±


    I gave a hoarse, dry chuckle, one that scraped my throat on the way out.


    ¡°Who¡­ would choose to build a future with a broken sword like me?¡± I asked, barely above a whisper. ¡°When there are so many others¡­ still sharp, still whole?¡±


    He nodded slowly, not in agreement, but understanding.


    ¡°Perhaps,¡± he said, ¡°but sometimes, the mind convinces us of truths that were never there. Maybe, had you tried a few times and looked ¡­ really looked¡­ you might have found someone. Perhaps there was a soul out there willing to walk beside you, had you reached beyond your solitude. You locked yourself away beneath this gate in pursuit of something¡­ but you also locked yourself away from everything else.¡±


    ¡°Try a few times, you say?¡± I rasped, leaning heavily on my sword. ¡°Is that not what I¡¯m doing now? Trying.¡±


    The cultivator¡¯s gaze softened, his eyes reflecting more years than any one man should carry.


    ¡°A few times,¡± he murmured, ¡°does not mean the entire length of your existence.¡±


    I couldn¡¯t help but smile. I looked at the man before me, truly looked at him, and in his eyes I saw no malice. Only a quiet concern. A tempered wisdom that had long outgrown pride.


    How long had it been, I wondered, since someone had spoken to me like this¡ªnot as a warning, not as judgment, but with care?


    So long that the last voice I could recall speaking to me with such warmth¡­ was my father¡¯s.


    ¡°¡­Thank you,¡± I whispered, the words soft and real as I lowered my head slightly in respect.


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    Then, slowly, I turned. My limbs protested, joints aching, but I placed one foot ahead of the other. My sword dug into the soil as I leaned against it, guiding my body forward. The old man¡¯s words rang with truth, and for a brief moment, I let myself consider them.


    But this¡­ stubborn path, I had walked it for so long. And if this life was to end soon, I would let it end as it had begun.


    Yet, before I could take another step, he raised his hand¡ªno words, no force, just a simple, silent gesture, and something in the air shifted.


    I stopped. Because I knew¡ªhe wanted to show me something.


    I watched him turn toward the gate. His face remained calm and his presence was undeniably powerful. Then, with the quiet confidence of someone who had done this countless times before, he raised his hand.


    Light began to gather in its purest form¡ªa glow even finer than the golden portal. His soul weapon appeared, not as steel, jade, or any forged metal, but as pure light itself. It was a sword of pure essence, stripped of any details or decoration. No handle, no hilt, no markings¡ªjust a raw, absolute form held in his hand.


    He took one step forward, and with a single, fluid motion, he swung.


    A wave of energy burst forth from the arc of his blade, cleaving through everything in its path. The very ground split open, carving a canyon beneath us. The mountain range behind the gate was sliced clean through, the upper halves crumbling off their bases.


    But the gate¡­The Golden Ascension Gate remained unharmed.


    I stood in stunned silence, my breath caught in my throat.


    The old master lowered his blade, letting the light fade gently from his hand, as if it had never been there. Then, he turned to me once more, his voice calm¡ªnot cruel or boastful, simply... honest.


    ¡°Do you see now?¡± he said softly. ¡°Even a sword such as mine cannot leave a mark on the gate. Your struggle was never a test of strength... because strength has no place here. Your efforts¡­ were never meant to succeed.¡±


    I stood there, the weight of what he had shown me still settling over my shoulders. But even so, I raised my voice again.


    ¡°Have you heard¡­ of the Fate-Defying Cultivator?¡±


    The old master blinked, clearly caught off guard by the sudden question.


    ¡°I¡­ don¡¯t recall hearing of such a figure,¡± he replied, cautiously.


    I gave a small, tired nod, as if I expected that answer.


    ¡°I thought as much,¡± I said, my words coming slowly, every breath a careful pull. ¡°I do not know if he ever truly existed, or if he was just a story my father told me to bring comfort to a child born with a broken sword. Maybe it was something to give me meaning when the world offered none.¡±


    I paused, my gaze drifting upward toward the Gate towering above us.


    ¡°But I believed in it. Of a man who defied the fate imposed on him by the heavens. Who refused to accept that what he was given at birth would define his end. Have you ever done that?¡± I turned my gaze back to the master. ¡°Have you ever tried to defy fate? Or met someone who did?¡±


    He tilted his head slightly, thoughtful, but uncertain. He was a man who had never tasted such rejection, never stood outside the gate with his hand pressed to something that would not move. A man born with light in his hand and acceptance in his path.


    How could he understand the question? How could someone favored by fate begin to grasp what it meant to be born beneath it? To claw upward alone. To believe in a story because reality had given you nothing else. No¡ªhe could not answer me.


    Because he did not know what it meant to fight not for glory, or power, or recognition¡­ but just for the right to take the first step.


    I looked at him with the weight of a century behind my eyes. My voice held a clarity now that needed no force to be heard.


    ¡°I have but a few swings left in me,¡± I said, each word carefully carved from breath and will. ¡°A few more before fate wins.¡±


    The cultivator¡¯s eyes held still, and in them, I saw sorrow.


    ¡°All I ask,¡± I continued, ¡°is that you let me end my story with the best outcome I could have pushed forward.¡±


    The cultivator didn¡¯t interrupt. He didn¡¯t raise a hand, or shake his head, or offer more wisdom.


    He simply stepped aside.


    I turned toward the gate for the last time. The crowd parted without a sound. It was as though the entire plain understood¡ªif only for this moment¡ªthat I was not walking forward in pursuit of success.


    I was walking to finish something.


    Bathed in the golden light of the portal, I stood before that unyielding threshold once more. And then, I swung.


    Cling.


    The sound echoed across the plain, like a bell tolling the final chapter of a life.


    I swung again.


    Cling.


    Each strike was as precise, as unwavering, as every one that came before it. My breath came shallower with each movement, my chest tight, my limbs trembling and weakening. My vision began to fade, black seeping in at the edges. Even the brilliance of the golden gate could not hold back the dark. My hand, though numb and brittle, raised the sword one final time.


    And with a last breath¡ª


    I swung.


    Cling~.


    I collapsed¡ªOn my knees, my sword buried in the soil, its blade holding me upright even as my strength vanished.


    A soft, familiar light enveloped my weapon¡ªjust like the day I had watched my father¡¯s soul weapon rise into the ether. Slowly, gently, it began to dissolve into a thousand points of light.


    It was returning to the Soul Realm.


    And I¡­ I was following it.


    Father¡­ I¡¯m coming to you.


    Don¡¯t worry¡­ I came after doing everything I could. I swung until the very end.


    I defied fate¡­ as best I could.


    My eyes closed. The world around me faded into quiet.


    And then¡ªjust as the last threads of consciousness slipped from me¡ªA sound.


    ¡ªDing¡ª


    [Condition Fulfilled!]


    [You have endured without recognition, without guidance, without a single step forward.(Completed)]


    [You have resisted fate without falter.(Completed)]


    [You have defied the heavens decision until the very end (Completed)]


    [Your Soul Weapon has recognized your will.]


    [Your Soul Weapon reveals It¡¯s true name: ¡¶Fate-Defying Sword¡·]


    [Path Unlocked: Fate-Defying System Granted.]


    And in that final instant¡ª


    Before the breath could leave my lungs completely¡ª


    My eyes opened.

 Ch.7 - Fate-Defying System

    Upon opening my eyes, the first thing I noticed was clarity.


    Not of sudden understanding or insight. No, it was literal.


    I could see vividly, unmarred by the blur of age or the dim haze that had clung to me during my last years. The world in front of me wasn¡¯t a dull shape of colors and movement anymore. Every grass and every grain of soil stood before me in perfect detail. As if my failing vision¡ªlong lost to time¡ªhad never abandoned me in the first place.


    I blinked, half-expecting the clarity before me to be nothing more than the final mirage granted to the dying¡ªa comforting illusion conjured by a fading mind. Perhaps this was a regret I had long buried, surfacing now in my final moments. Or perhaps¡­ it was some quiet truth my soul needed to witness before surrendering itself to finality.


    I looked around, and there I was¡ªstill bound to this plain, the same field where ascension had never been mine to claim¡­ and yet somehow different from my final moment.


    The only other place, aside from that old wooden shack, that remained vivid in my memory. That shack had once been home¡ªthe place where my father waited, where warmth lingered despite the cold. But when he passed, and that chapter of my life closed, I found myself unaware that I was searching for something to take its place.


    And somehow, the Plain of Ascension became that replacement.


    Not by comfort. Not by safety. But by time, by presence¡­ and by persistence.


    Like the shack, it was a place where I had bled, where I had wept, where I had lived¡ªand where I had died in one way to another. A home all the same.


    I took a slow breath, bracing for the sharp, familiar pain that usually came with such a motion¡ªthe stiffness in my chest, the creak of tired ribs. But none came. The breath flowed through me easily, smooth and painless. At first, I was puzzled. Then I reminded myself: of course. This was just the final mirage, the last kindness of a dying mind.


    Naturally, my fading consciousness would conjure an image without pain.


    A final comfort one could say.


    With a faint smirk and a tone almost bordering on amusement, I thought, And next, I suppose¡­ my limbs won¡¯t tremble, my bones won¡¯t ache, my back won¡¯t hunch, and my left arm won¡¯t be paralyzed.


    As if the illusion had taken my cue, I moved¡ªslowly at first. No shaking. No aches. My spine straightened with ease, and my long-dead left arm stirred to life without resistance.


    It was all there.


    I looked down at my hands¡ªyouthful, steady, free of calluses and trembling. My body no longer hunched, no longer fragile. It was the form I had at twenty years of age.


    Strong enough to hope. Naive enough to believe. Determined enough to risk.


    As if I¡¯d been granted the remembrance of youth¡ªone last taste of the abled body I once used to take for granted. I felt whole in a way I had forgotten was possible.


    I looked around, unsure at first what this vision¡ªdream, illusion, or whatever it was¡ªwas trying to convey.


    The longer I stood, the clearer it became. A familiar positioning. A familiar crowd. The sky above, painted in that same deep blue hue, the sun radiating warmth.


    I remembered this moment. Was this¡­ my first attempt to test my fate? Yes. Yes, it was.


    The crowd of mortals stretched far and wide, just above the massive Golden Ascension Gate stood the cultivator¡ªthe one I came to know well.


    The declaration of his began, echoing across the plain, just as it had the first time and the last.


    The crowd surged forward, rushing to seize their destinies or be turned away by them. It was all the same. The same pacing. The same energy. The same fragile hopes suspended in a single breath. The first¡­ of nine.


    And yet, I was being shown the mirage of my first time, in the version of the man who still believed the heavens might look kindly upon him.


    But why was I brought back here?


    Was I being granted leeway to relive something? To walk freely within this echo of the past? Or was I being asked to do something before this vision faded for good?


    I didn¡¯t understand.


    For a moment, I simply stood in place. I watched as the mortals charge ahead, the Gate towering in silent judgment as they were either swallowed whole or denied outright.


    Then the thought struck me.


    Was this a chance to see the world as it might have been¡­ if fate had been on my side?


    Surely not¡ªthat would be too cruel. However, given the nature of the heavens, such an outcome was not entirely out of character. And yet¡­ I was drawn to the idea.


    Compelled, even.


    So I walked.


    I moved past the rushing tide of mortals, slipping between them. I neared the gate, but turned before reaching it. My feet carried me to the base of where he stood¡ªthe cultivator. His white robes flowing, arms behind his back, posture straight.


    And just like the first time¡­ he did not pay attention to me.


    His gaze passed over the crowd with indifference. If this vision had taken place in any attempt after the second, his eyes would be locked on me. But this was our first meeting, and I was still a stranger to him. A roach for all he cared.


    Still, I couldn¡¯t help but stare.


    For all the years I had lived beneath his shadow, I had never truly spoken to him. Something had always lingered in my mind when I looked at him. A strange curiosity. I had never asked it. But now¡­ perhaps this was the time to ask the one question I had never voiced aloud when I knew this moment wasn¡¯t quite real.


    So, I decided I would ask. I took a step closer, and called out in a calm, measured voice:


    "If all your cultivation were stripped away, would you still move forward with purpose?"


    Though he had remained unmoved through it all¡ªfrom the pleading of the rejected, to the cries of pain, to the broken bodies collapsed before him¡ªmy question stirred something.


    His head turned slowly and deliberately. His gaze found mine.


    For a moment, he said nothing. It was as though he were studying me¡ªnot just the face I wore, but the question itself. Measuring its weight. Weighing the meaning that rested beneath it.


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    Perhaps he sensed it wasn¡¯t the kind of question asked in admiration or challenge, but from a place deeper than either.


    He didn¡¯t answer right away. But he didn¡¯t ignore me, either.


    And then, finally, he spoke. A simple word.


    "Of course."


    I had expected that answer.


    The kind of answer spoken by someone too steeped in certainty. A man who had never truly been brought to his knees. Too full of pride to recognize it as such, yet too far removed from struggle to even grasp the question''s weight.


    It wasn¡¯t that he answered wrongly¡ªbut that he didn¡¯t truly understand what I had asked.


    So I pressed further.


    ¡°How would you have proceeded?¡± I asked, my tone still measured.


    He looked at me again, more focused this time, as if trying to discern what I was truly searching for. Then, without hesitation, he spoke:


    ¡°I would have sought enlightenment through self-isolation¡ªcut away all distraction, enter seclusion, and temper the mind and body through meditation and medicinal pills until the Dao revealed itself again.¡±


    I stared at him.


    Then blinked.


    Then I laughed.


    A hollow, worn-out sound of someone who had finally realized the man before him had never once touched the kind of despair I did.


    ¡°That¡­¡± I said between laughs, ¡°that is the most privileged nonsense I¡¯ve heard in a hundred years.¡±


    He frowned slightly, not in offense, but confusion.


    And I understood now. Truly. He didn¡¯t get it. How could he?


    He was born on a mountain so high, he couldn¡¯t even see the dirt below, let alone know what it felt like to be buried in it.


    I''ve simplified my question so that he can actually understand it.


    I looked at him¡ªright in the eyes¡ªand asked,


    ¡°If you were one of these mortals crawling beneath your feet, the ones denied by the heavens before ever taking a single step¡­ how would you continue forward?¡±


    He fell silent for a moment¡ªlong enough to show he was truly considering the question by weighing the scenario and placing himself within it¡ªuntil his expression hardened, and his response came not with cruelty or contempt, but with the same unyielding certainty he had expressed before.


    ¡°If I were denied by the heavens,¡± he said, his voice cool and unwavering, ¡°I would stop.¡±


    He looked me square in the eye, his tone level, factual.


    ¡°I would not waste my years begging for a path that was never mine to open. I would not sacrifice my body, my time, or my pride chasing something the heavens themselves rejected me from.¡±


    ¡°I would find the place that was meant for me¡ªbe it low or high, humble or irrelevant¡ªand I would find satisfaction in it. Because wasting a mortal''s short life on a path that denies you isn''t strength.¡±


    He stepped forward, just enough to let his words settle like cold ash.


    ¡°It¡¯s delusion.¡±


    The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut.


    He simply answered true to his beliefs.


    He was the kind of man who saw the heavens not as an obstacle to be challenged, but as a master to be obeyed. To him, fate was not a chain¡ªbut a structure, a hierarchy of order and purpose. He had aligned himself with it, flourished within it, and in doing so, never once questioned its justice.


    He had answered with honesty¡ªand in that honesty, he had shown me just how far apart we truly stood.


    He was my opposite.


    To him, fate was absolute. If denied, he would bow and find satisfaction elsewhere, accept the terms handed to him, live a life of peace beneath the heavens¡¯ gaze.


    And I¡­ I was not that.


    Where he found purpose in obedience, I had found it in refusal. He would live a full life, perhaps even a fulfilling one. While I choose to do the opposite out of stubbornness.


    Yet, I didn¡¯t fault him for his belief. He was not cruel. He was not wrong. He simply followed the path carved for him¡ªand walked it with conviction.


    Was there truly a right path and a wrong one? Of course there was.


    But only in the eyes of the one walking it.


    Right and wrong, truth and falsehood¡ªthose were judgments for the individual, not the collective. What brought peace to one might bring ruin to another. What felt like truth in his world would have been death in mine.


    Now, I truly understood.


    Back then, I had resented him¡ªresented the way he dismissed my choice, the way he told me to follow the heavens'' will as though it were the only path worth walking. But now¡­ though I still did not agree with him, I no longer scorned what he said.


    A small smirk tugged at the corner of my lips.


    They say age brings wisdom¡ªand they were not wrong.


    But what they don¡¯t say is that it also makes you more stubborn. Not out of pride, but because the truths you¡¯ve chosen to live by¡ªespecially when carried for as long as I have¡ªstart to root themselves deep. They become part of you. Not easily shaken and replaced.


    I looked at him, and for all our differences, I bowed my head in appreciation.


    ¡°Thank you,¡± I said quietly. ¡°For answering me.¡±


    I turned and began walking once more toward the golden portal.


    But then¡ªhis voice stopped me.


    ¡°One moment,¡± he said, tone now laced with a curiosity that hadn¡¯t been there before. ¡°I have a question of my own.¡±


    I paused, glancing back over my shoulder.


    ¡°If someone came to you,¡± he continued, ¡°and asked you the same question¡ªwhat would you tell them?¡±


    A small smirk tugged at the corner of my lips as I met his gaze with quiet certainty¡ªI had lived the answer, felt every bone-deep consequence, and yet I knew it to be true, so I replied, "I¡¯d tell them the same thing you did," because truth isn¡¯t a matter of belief.


    It¡¯s a matter of bearing it.


    Even now, after a lifetime of failure, of swinging until my body gave out, I knew this one thing:


    I would do it again a hundred times over, without hesitation.


    But never¡ªnot once¡ªwould I tell another person to walk the same path.


    Not because I was ashamed of it. But because I knew what it cost. Most wouldn¡¯t survive it. Most shouldn¡¯t have to. I would not rob someone of a full, satisfying life just to prove a point about defiance.


    Not everyone is meant to rebel. And not everyone is meant to kneel. That¡­ was the truth.


    I was glad I had been brought back to this moment. This mirage¡ªthis echo of a time long passed¡ªwas more satisfying than I had expected. But something about it lingered too long. Held too still.


    I hadn¡¯t moved on. Which meant that this illusion was truly about a timeline where fate was on my side. So, with a cautious heart, I stepped toward the Golden Gate¡ªI lifted my hand.Just as I had done so many times before. My fingers reached out and pressed against the gate. And¡ªjust like before¡ªthey stopped.


    My palm met resistance. That same smooth, golden wall.


    Still a denial.


    The same as it had always been.


    What a sick joke.


    The heavens, it seemed, had a sense of humor. Even in a vision. Even in death. They couldn¡¯t resist tormenting me one last time¡ªdangling possibility before my eyes only to shut it again.


    I grit my teeth. And with everything in my lungs, I screamed into the sky:


    ¡°SCREW YOU!¡±


    My voice tore through the air with raw anger. And then¡­ something happened.


    In an instant, I felt it¡ªa spark.


    A strange sensation bloomed in the center of my palm. And where my hand had once stopped at the golden wall, it now¡­ sank. Not much, just a sliver. Like pressing into the weight of freshly fallen snow¡ªresistance, but not rejection. The gate gave just the tiniest bit.


    My breath caught. And then¡ªDING.


    The sound was unlike anything I had ever heard.


    And with it came a voice¡ªnot loud, but clear, impossibly clear, echoing within the space of my mind:


    [Fate-Defying System Activated.]


    [Fate interjection detected. Defiance in motion.]


    [Analyzing user information...]


    [Analysis complete. Revealing character sheet.]


    Before me, the space shimmered¡ªlight warping in front of my eyes, swirling with unseen energy. From nothing, an image appeared.


    It wasn¡¯t like the floating message that had appeared before¡ªbrief flashes of text. No. This was vast in information. As though it were watching me as much as I was reading it.

 Ch.8 - Ascension Without Permission

    I couldn''t comprehend what stood before me.


    No, not stood¡ªhovered¡ªa massive, floating structure of light and inscription. It was like a scroll woven from the threads of light, pulsing with otherworldly resonance, suspended midair and casting no shadow, and yet... I could see it.


    And somehow, it knew me.


    In the corner, etched as if by brushstroke, was my face¡ªmy younger face¡ªrendered in detail so vividly, no painter¡¯s hand could have ever captured it so well. Eyes still full of defiance, skin untouched by time. My appearance, down to the threadbare fabric I wore was drawn as if this thing could see me. All of me.


    Beside it, written clearly in bold characters was my name: Shen Wusheng


    And above it, a title¡ªone that had kept in place for a century, sitting so close to my name.


    Mortal.


    And then¡­ there were other words.


    Stats. Skills.


    Strange terms I had never seen or heard. Each one paired with a number¡ªvalues, as if something I had no knowledge of could be measured.


    Foundational Might. Constitution. Insight. Agility.


    What were these?


    My gaze dropped lower, where a section titled Soul Weapon shimmered with greater intensity than the rest. I felt my breath catch in my throat as I read the single line beneath it:


    Fate-Defying Sword.


    I blinked. Then read it again to make sure of what I was seeing.


    Fate... Defying... Sword?


    My soul weapon¡ªrusted, brittle, misshapen from the day I first summoned it. The sword that had earned me ridicule, rejection, and pity. The same weapon I had called useless and worthless. A curse etched into steel.


    No¡­ surely not.


    It couldn¡¯t truly have a name¡ªnot that kind of name.


    If my soul weapon had borne its own title all this time, it wouldn¡¯t have been that. Not something so grand. So¡­ impossible.


    This had to be part of the mirage. I had read the tale of the Fate-Defying Cultivator too many times, recited it like a prayer, clung to it like a lifeline. Of course my subconscious would weave that name into this vision. Of course it would try to soften the end. To offer me a poetic farewell.


    That¡¯s all this was¡ªwasn¡¯t it? Just one last lie to make the fall easier.


    But even as I tried to deny it, to reason this away as nothing more than an illusion, my hand kept sinking.


    Deeper into the gate.


    The spark in my palm pulsed again¡ªbrighter and sharper. Every inch forward sent small arcs of light flickering across my skin, every movement laced with resistance and yet... permission.


    And those words.


    They wouldn¡¯t leave my mind.


    ¡®Fate interjection detected.¡¯


    ¡®Defiance in motion.¡¯


    What did it mean?


    Was it still part of the illusion? Or was it something else¡ªsomething far greater?


    Then, without warning, the sound came again. Like a bell echoing through a shrine.


    ¡ªDING¡ª


    And then, the words etched themselves across the air before me¡ªclear, solemn, and absolute:


    [Fate-Defying System: Fully Awakened.]


    [Heavenly Mandate Rejected. Initiating Full Force Defiance.]


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    The gate trembled¡ªnot violently, not as if it were collapsing¡ªbut as if something were tearing through its curtain instead of slowly drawing it open.


    The sparks at my palm flared to life, spiraling outward in streams of arcs, twisting around my arm and dancing into the air. Threads of light wove through the space before me, cracking the stillness with each flicker.


    It was extravagant and unnatural. It was like standing in the heart of a storm. And yet¡­ no one reacted.


    The others kept pushing forward. Faces unchanged, movements undisturbed. Some stumbled and fell against the wall of light, others passed through like always.


    As if this wasn¡¯t happening.


    The cultivator remained still, not a glance or furrowed brow. Not even a twitch of his gaze toward this unnatural situation. Even as arcs of energy lashed through the sky, even as the gate pulsed in response to my presence.


    What is happening?! I screamed the words inside my mind.


    Confusion twisted in my chest, I didn¡¯t understand. I wanted to know.


    Who was ringing these bells in my head?


    Who whispered of fate interjection?


    I demanded an answer. And as if the world¡ªor something far beyond it¡ªheard my call, a new image unfolded before me.


    Glowing text etched itself into the air with the finality of question answered.


    <table style="border-collapse: collapse" border="1">


    <tbody>


    <tr>


    <td style="width: 99.2947%">


    [Fate-Defying System]


    [The Fate-Defying System cannot be learned, bought, or cultivated¡ªit is a divine anomaly, bestowed only upon one who refuses to kneel. Activated through a feat thought impossible: enduring against fate for a lifetime without progress, without support, and without surrender. It is a system not granted by the heavens, but ripped away from beneath their gaze.]


    [Upon fulfilling its impossible awakening condition, the user¡¯s Soul Weapon¡ªlong considered worthless¡ªreveals its true name: Fate-Defying Sword. At that moment, the system awakens and reverses time to a pivotal moment in the wielder¡¯s life, granting them one final path forward, the one chance which was stripped from them.]


    [The Fate-Defying System functions as a shield against fate itself, allowing the user to advance purely through their own effort, untouched by the constraints of destiny. The heavens can no longer bind this soul. The laws of fate no longer apply.]


    </td>


    </tr>


    </tbody>


    </table>


    I stared at the glowing words, breath frozen in my lungs, unable to look away as they burned themselves into the air before me, far too clear to be dismissed as mere illusion. Each line struck with the weight of certainty, the kind that doesn''t ask for belief but demands it. And there, nestled among the impossible declarations, was the one that unraveled everything I thought I understood: ¡°Reverses time.¡±


    My heart pounded against my chest, wild and relentless, as if it, too, was trying to fight its way out and understand what all of this meant. This wasn¡¯t mercy. This wasn¡¯t some final kindness from the heavens to let me dream of a life I was never meant to live. It wasn¡¯t a farewell fantasy conjured by my consciousness as I slipped into death. No¡­ this wasn¡¯t a gift.


    This was a revolt.


    The realization sank in¡ªthis sword, this soul weapon I had cursed, buried, hated¡­ it had never been silent. It had waited. It had watched. And in the end, it had chosen me not as a wielder of power, but as a vessel through which it would rise and grow along. Not to fulfill the will of the heavens, but to defy it.


    I¡ªShen Wusheng¡ªwho had been trampled, rejected and unfavored by the heavens, yet chosen by something that existed outside their gaze. Something that had suffered alongside me, rusting beneath the weight of futility, only to reveal itself when it had found one worthy of him. And now, with the gate before me and time itself unraveling behind me, I understood one thing with terrifying clarity:


    This was not the end of my story.


    It was its beginning.


    A wide, unrestrained smile spread across my face¡ªborn of joy, of release, of hard-won triumph, and something fiercer, deeper, than simple victory. Wearing that smile like armor, I pushed.


    I pushed with everything I had, my palm pressing firmly into the gate, my shoulder braced behind it, and on all of that, the full weight of my soul, of my years, of every step I had taken to reach this single moment. The sparks that danced along my skin, now burst into a frenzy¡ªerratic, radiant, alive¡ªswirling around me like a storm that only I could see.


    I pushed with the desperation of a man who had already died, and the determination of one who had just begun to live.


    I pushed with the weight of a century¡¯s worth of failure.


    With the memory of my father¡¯s words.


    I PUSHED!


    Until I no longer felt resistance, until the tension vanished, until my body stumbled forward. Not against a wall, but through it.


    The swirling gold of the gate disappeared behind me¡ªfaded into silence¡ªand before me...


    The world I had longed for, the world beyond the realm of mortals.


    Vast skies stretched above me, painted in radiant hues far more vivid than anything the mortal realm had ever shown. Towering, jagged mountains rose in the distance, their peaks lost in drifting veils of mist and cloud. Trees with thick, gnarled branches clung to sheer cliffs, their roots digging into dense groves across rolling hills, breathing life into the terrain.


    The very air was different¡ªricher, thrumming with unseen force. With every breath I drew, I felt it enter me. Birds soared high overhead, their wings cutting across the heavens, their cries echoing faintly in the vastness.


    This was a world built for cultivation.


    And then, just as I was beginning to take it in, a voice filled the sky¡ªnot booming, but clear, resonant, and impossibly warm. It was not a voice that demanded attention, but one that settled into the soul like it had always been waiting there.


    ¡°Congratulations. You have been chosen by the heavens. Welcome¡­ to the Spiritual Realm.¡±


    And with those words, the portal behind me dissipated¡ªand the path ahead opened wide.

 Ch.9 - The First Step

    All around me stood the others¡ªmortals like myself who had crossed the threshold, who had managed to break through the golden barrier that once separated our limited world from this boundless one. Hundreds of thousands had made it through, and still more continued to arrive, the last few fortunate enough to pass through before the gate closed for another decade. We stood in clusters, some overwhelmed with awe, others kneeling in thanks, many simply staring wide-eyed at the horizon that stretched endlessly before us.


    And yet, amidst all this joy, I could not fully shake the doubt that clung to the edges of my thoughts.


    Had I truly been granted a second chance?


    This system¡ªthis so-called Fate-Defying System¡ªwhat was it truly?


    Why had it chosen me?


    How had I survived, after all this time, only to awaken here¡­ as if none of the last hundred years of my life had taken place? The confusion twisted beneath the surface of my thoughts.


    But for now¡­ I let it go.


    Because standing here, in this new world so vibrant and alive, felt too good to question.


    I basked in the moment, letting the air fill my lungs, letting the light kiss my skin. For the first time in longer than I could remember, I felt light. I felt¡­ free.


    A joy I had never known began to swell quietly in my chest.


    I smiled, tilting my face to the sky.


    Father¡­ I made it. I finally took the first step.


    Time passed more quickly than I expected. The crowd swelled with each passing moment, as more emerged through the golden veil. Not millions like the masses that gathered on the Plain of Ascension, but still an overwhelming number.


    Some spoke among themselves, eager to form early bonds, hoping camaraderie might become strength. Others remained quiet, wary of misplaced trust, choosing privacy in the face of uncertainty. Whether in conversation or silence, we all stood together¡­ waiting.


    Waiting for what came next.


    And then¡ªit came.


    A deep, resonant sound rolled across the land. Not deafening, but vast. A voice carried and shifting by the wind.


    ¡°To all who have stepped beyond mortality¡­ congratulations. You have been chosen¡ªrecognized by the heavens.¡±


    A brief pause, just enough for the weight of those words to settle in people''s hearts.


    ¡°Welcome¡­ to the Spiritual Realm. The realm of beginning¡±


    Silence followed¡ªbut it was not empty. It was full of realization. Full of breath held and released.


    A wave of joyous cheers erupted from the gathered crowd. Laughter blended into a single harmonious roar, the collective exhale of people who had lived to see what lay beyond.


    Before us stood a staircase so vast, so high, it seemed to pierce the heavens themselves. Its steps were wide and pristine, carved from radiant white stone that gleamed without blemish.


    Then, the voice returned¡ªthis time, from ahead of us.


    ¡°Time is precious, and the journey ahead will shape your very path in cultivation. Before you lie the Stairway of Beginning. Ascend it, and with each step, leave behind the weight of your mortal life. At its peak, I shall meet you¡ªand there, your true path will begin.¡±


    Those at the front surged ahead without hesitation, feet pounding against the stone, eyes bright with ambition and hunger. One after another, they began to ascend.


    I looked at the endless steps above, then at my own two feet. I followed.


    At first, I surged ahead with enthusiasm. My feet moved swiftly, my spirit high, carried by the momentum of victory and the thrill of possibility. I ran with the others, ascending the staircase without hesitation, without concern for how far it might stretch. My gaze was fixed on the sky above¡ªendlessly blue, the sun brimming with warmth as if even the heavens welcomed us.


    But it didn¡¯t take long before that warmth grew distant.


    The stairs continued¡ªstep after step, higher and higher, without end in sight. The path, once exhilarating, became punishing. My breath grew ragged, my heart pounded furiously in my chest, and my legs, so light at first, now trembled with each motion. The air thinned, and the climb became heavier.


    I began to notice those around me slowing.


    Some collapsed onto the steps, gasping for breath. Others stumbled, tripping over their own weary feet, tumbling backward down the steps. And some¡­ didn¡¯t get back up.


    I saw bones snap, bodies twist unnaturally, cries cut short by their fall. Broken legs. Shattered spines. Even stillness that could only mean death.


    The joyous rush from earlier had long faded.


    The sun, which once shone so proudly above us, now dipped slowly toward the horizon, its light turning orange, then violet, then finally dimming into twilight. The sky darkened, but the stairs remained as tall and infinite as it previously did.


    And I knew.


    I knew then¡ªknew it with every ragged breath and every trembling limb¡ªas I dragged my body forward, no longer walking upright but crawling, knees scraping against the pristine white stone. The heavens may have opened their gates to us, but they never promised to guide us beyond them. Even those deemed worthy to pass through, would still have to earn every step forward with blood, breath, and will.


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    This was no warm welcome.


    It was a trial clothed in hope.


    And by the time we realized it, death had already begun to collect its toll.


    As the truth began to settle into the bones of every climber, desperation took hold.


    The begging started¡ªcries for help, hands reaching out in trembling desperation, voices cracking as they pleaded for someone to carry them a little further. But no one answered. No one stopped. The path was merciless, and no one was willing to risk their own life for another¡¯s burden.


    And yet, humanity at its most desperate is rarely content to suffer alone.


    Those too weak to climb further began to grab¡ªclawing at the ankles, robes, arms of those ahead of them or besides them. Some latched on like drowning men, dragging others down with them in their fall. Bodies tumbled in lawless descent, rolling over one another, crushing limbs and snapping bones as they collided with the unforgiving stone.


    As I watched one such fall unfold¡ªa young man flailing wildly before slamming into another climber below¡ªI turned my eyes forward, jaw clenched.


    I couldn¡¯t allow this scenario to happen to me.


    This was the only way forward. The only path. And I would not¡ªwould not¡ªlet someone else¡¯s failure become the end of me.


    But heaven, as always, tested conviction. My foot slipped.


    There was no warning¡ªjust a sudden absence of traction beneath me. My balance vanished, and I pitched forward, sliding violently down the steps. The stone rushed past me in blurs of white and red, my hands scrambling for anchorage as pain lashed across my arms.


    And then, my hand caught something.


    A jagged edge, dry and rough. I gripped it with everything I had, fingers burning. My body jerked to a halt, teetering on the edge of being lost entirely. I hung there, panting, barely able to process what had just happened.


    Until I saw what really happened.


    The steps around me were soaked. With sweat and streaks of blood. Trails smeared across the white stone, marking the places where bodies had fallen and lives had ended.


    Every step forward was more dangerous than the last¡ªnot only because of the climb, but because of those who had climbed before me.


    The climb continued.


    Hours passed¡ªlong and slow, each one more punishing than the last. The once blue sky had long since dimmed. Now, the night pressed down with a chilling stillness, lit only by pale starlight. There were no torches, no flames, no guiding light save for the distant, unreachable summit far above. The wind bit at my skin, drying the sweat and blood that clung to me like a second layer of clothing.


    And still, I climbed.


    With every passing hour, fewer voices echoed in the night. The crowd that once surged ahead had faded into silence. Some had reached the top far past what I could see, vanishing into the unknown beyond the summit. Others¡­ had not.


    Many had fallen. Too many.


    There were no voices now. Just the soft rustle of wind, the beat of my slowing heart, and the grinding of my knees against the stairs.


    Eventually, I realized¡ªThere was no one left around me.


    No one ahead. No one behind.


    Just the dead¡­ and me.


    The only movement was my own. The only sound, my labored breathing and the quiet, scrape of my hands and knees dragging me further upward. I couldn¡¯t tell how many steps I¡¯d taken¡ªhundreds, thousands¡ªit no longer mattered.


    Sleep called to me, sweet and treacherous. My vision blurred, darkness closing at the edges. Every part of my body begged for rest. But deep down, I knew¡ªrest here was death.The heavens had opened their doors, but they offered no kindness beyond the threshold. Mercy was not part of their design.


    Knowing them, If I stopped now¡­ I might never rise again. And so I refused.


    The skin on my palms, knees, and feet was long gone¡ªscraped raw by the endless grind of stone against flesh. What remained was torn meat and exposed nerve, each motion a fresh agony. The blood that trailed behind me was my own, mingling with that of countless others who had fallen on the same path. I could feel the stone biting deeper with every crawl, as if determined to carve its way to my bones.


    And still¡ªI moved.


    I no longer looked up. I didn¡¯t have the strength. My head hung low, chin brushing my chest, eyes fixed only on the step in front of me. There could¡¯ve been a body tumbling down toward me, or even death itself, and I wouldn''t have seen it coming. All of what little energy I had left was spent keeping my limbs in motion¡ªand my mind from slipping into unconsciousness.


    I had no sense of time. Whether minutes or hours passed, I could not tell. There was only motion, and silence.


    Until¡ªsuddenly¡ªthe incline vanished.


    My hand reached forward and felt not another step, but a flat, level surface.


    I had reached¡­ the top?


    With a shaky breath, I lifted my head.


    There, stretched before me, was a wide plateau bathed in pale moonlight. All around were figures collapsed in varying states of exhaustion¡ªsome sprawled, others sitting with heads in their hands. A few stood upright, silent and watchful, as if they had been waiting for the last person to arrive.


    Then, from the far end of the platform, a voice rang out¡ªclear, authoritative, and dripping with condescension.


    "The final climber has reached the summit. Well done, everyone."


    A beat of silence followed. Then the voice continued.


    "Let this be a lesson to you. Fate may have granted you entry into this realm, but only talent will allow you to walk it further."


    I clenched my teeth, too tired to respond, too angry to ignore it.


    "This climb," the voice went on, "should¡¯ve made your place clear. Think of it as a reflection of your potential to rise in the world of cultivation. Those who failed to reach this point may have been granted fate¡¯s blessing, but lacked the talent to wield it¡ªand were shown mercy by being spared the suffering ahead. And as for those who arrived late¡­"


    There was a pause, subtle but deliberate, letting the weight of his tone sink in before he finished, "I''m sure you understand what your standing in this world truly is. Best to accept your place, sooner than later."


    He said no more on the matter, dismissing us like a teacher scolding the slowest students.


    "Now¡ªlet us proceed. Your real journey begins here. The true path of cultivation awaits."


    Wait? Proceed? Now?


    I wanted to cry out, Just let me rest¡­ just for a moment.


    But I didn¡¯t. I knew better.


    Voicing weakness now would only draw unwanted attention. So I swallowed the plea and buried it deep, forcing myself to move. With great effort, I pushed against the ground, my body protesting with every twitch of muscle. My legs wobbled beneath me, each step a silent battle.


    I staggered forward, slow¡ªtoo slow.


    One by one, the others passed me, their paces steady, some even swift. They looked ahead, eyes locked on what was to come, while I remained far behind, dragging myself forward.And then¡ªmy foot landed awkwardly on a small pebble, just enough to throw off what little balance I had left. My weight shifted, my vision tilted, and I felt myself begin to fall forward, helpless to stop it.


    But before I could collapse¡ª


    A hand caught me, gently wrapping around my shoulder and slid down to support my arm.


    Startled, I turned my head.


    Beside me stood a figure bathed in soft moonlight. Her skin looked almost like porcelain, so pale it seemed to glow under the stars. Her long silver hair spilled down her back, catching the light and shimmering like it was made of moonbeams. And her eyes¡ªcalm, deep, and beautiful¡ªheld this quiet sparkle, like they were holding a bit of the night sky tinted with violet. I couldn¡¯t look away.


    And then she smiled.


    A warm, radiant smile that held no pity¡ªonly kindness.


    ¡°Need help?¡± she asked softly.

 Ch. 10 - The Bottom Stone

    Looking at her¡ªthis stranger who offered me her hand without hesitation¡ªI found myself speechless for a moment. There was no pity in her eyes, no obligation in her gesture. Her smile wasn¡¯t strained, and her expression held no sign of superiority. It was simply a genuine act of kindness.


    I dipped my head slightly, mustering what little strength I had left. My throat was dry, and my voice came out rough. ¡°Thank you¡­ but I don¡¯t want to hold you back. If you help me, you¡¯ll arrive later because of me.¡±


    She shook her head gently, her silver hair shifting with her movement. ¡°It¡¯s fine,¡± she said. ¡°I like helping others.¡±


    I blinked at her, uncertain how to respond. Her words were so casually kind, that they felt like they didn¡¯t belong in a place as unforgiving as this.


    ¡°Are you sure?¡± I asked, glancing toward the others already marching ahead. ¡°You heard what that man said¡­ it didn¡¯t sound like they have much patience for those who fall behind.¡±


    Again, she shook her head. Then, with a soft smile that carried both warmth and something deeper, she said something that caught me completely off guard.


    ¡°Don¡¯t take his words to heart. My grandfather used to tell me, ¡®The slowest stream still reaches the sea¡­ as long as it never stops flowing.¡¯¡±


    I stared at her for a moment, the weight of her words settling into me. I found myself nodding without thinking. What her grandfather said¡ªit was a quiet truth I had always believed in myself, but I had never heard someone else actually say it out loud.


    ¡°He sounds like a wise man,¡± I said quietly, offering her a faint smile of my own. ¡°You¡¯re lucky to have someone like that in your life.¡±


    She returned the smile, but said nothing¡ªjust kept her hand steady beneath my arm.


    I realized then, I hadn¡¯t shared my name with anyone in¡­ decades. And for the first time, I strangely found myself wanting to.


    ¡°My name is Shen Wusheng,¡± I said, voice still raspy, but steady.


    She looked at me and smiled again, this time with a glimmer of amusement behind her eyes. ¡°Lan Rou,¡± she said gently. ¡°It¡¯s nice to meet you, Shen Wusheng.¡±


    Lan Rou¡­ gentle orchid¡­The name settled into my memory with unusual clarity, as if it were something I didn¡¯t want to forget.


    As we walked together, her pace adjusted to match my dragging steps, I couldn¡¯t help but glance at her again, puzzled. She was smaller than me by more than a head, her frame delicate and slender. And yet, she supported me with such ease that it defied what I knew of physical differences. Her face showed no fatigue. Her skin bore no bruises or scrapes. Her breathing was calm and steady¡ªnothing like the wheezing gasp that accompanied my every movement.


    I frowned a little, eyes narrowing in quiet thought before curiosity finally got the better of me.


    ¡°Miss Rou¡­ forgive me if I¡¯m being rude,¡± I began, struggling to form the words without sounding ungrateful, ¡°but¡­ how are you able to hold me up so easily? You¡¯re¡­ well, no offense, but you¡¯re small. You don¡¯t even look tired¡ªand we all climbed the same stairs, didn¡¯t we?¡±


    She glanced at me sideways, then laughed¡ªnot mockingly, but softly, like someone who¡¯d been asking herself the same question.


    ¡°No offense taken,¡± she said, her tone easy. ¡°Honestly¡­ I¡¯ve been wondering the same thing.¡±


    That surprised me. ¡°You have?¡±


    She nodded. ¡°Yes. I¡¯ve never been this strong before. Honestly, it was the opposite back home¡ªI could barely lift a bag of rice. But here¡­ ever since I arrived in this realm, I¡¯ve felt different.¡±


    ¡°Different?¡± I echoed.


    She nodded again, slower this time. ¡°At first, it was just a little change. But the longer I stayed here, the more I breathed it in, the lighter I felt. And stronger, too. I didn¡¯t get tired as easily. Even walking started to feel easier.¡±


    ¡°And you don¡¯t know why?¡± I asked.


    She shook her head. ¡°No idea.¡± Her voice softened then, thoughtful. ¡°It¡¯s like this realm is waking something up inside me, and I don¡¯t know what it is.¡±


    I stayed quiet for a moment, letting her words sink in. The Spiritual Realm¡ªthis place full of opportunity and cultivation¡ªwas already starting to change some of us. But how? Still, I didn¡¯t dwell on it too much. Sooner or later, the answers would come. And honestly, even though it caught me off guard, I was grateful it happened to someone like her.


    With her help, I managed to find a rhythm¡ªslow at first, but steady. Step by step, breath by breath, I caught up with the rest of the group as we pressed forward. The burn in my muscles hadn¡¯t faded, nor had the pain in my joints, but her presence beside me made each step more bearable.


    As we walked, the path opened up into a stunning new scenery¡ªnothing like the stone staircase we just left behind. Huge statues stood orderly all around us, shaped like powerful beasts. Serpent coiled around a pillar, tiger frozen mid-pounce, bird with its wings spread wide , horned bear baring its teeth and many others. Each one gave off this strong, silent energy¡ªlike they were watching over the place. They were massive, just as huge and impressive as that winged beast the master cultivator rode when he came to see me back in what should¡¯ve been my final days.


    Around the statues were wide gardens filled with trees¡ªmostly cherry blossoms, their petals drifting gently in the breeze. The trees stood tall and full, covered in flowers that shimmered in colors I didn¡¯t think could even exist together. Some petals gave off a soft glow. The air was sweet and fresh, with a scent that made you feel more alive, like every breath came easier.


    We followed the path as it curved gently ahead, and then widened.


    And before we knew it, the road opened into a massive ceremonial hall.


    Gasps rippled through the group as we stepped inside.


    It was vast¡ªbigger than anything I had ever seen. The place was shaped like a giant circle, sloping downward, and we were standing right in the middle of it. All around us were rows of platforms stacked one above the other, rising up toward the curved ceiling high above. On every level, people sat in silence, dressed in long robes, watching us with this calm but focused look.


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    They spoke in hushed murmurs, voices just audible above the stillness. All eyes were locked on us.


    Their robes bore a unifying pattern¡ªwhite as a base, but each one adorned with colored stripes that varied in hue and number. Red, green, blue, purple and many others. Each color meant something¡ªI didn¡¯t know what, but the roles were clear.


    Yet what drew my eyes most was the uppermost tier right in front of us¡ªset far above the rest, as if it belonged to another hierarchy entirely.


    There, seated on fancy designed seats, were a small handful of figures who radiated pressure. They didn¡¯t speak. They didn¡¯t shift. They simply watched.


    Eventually, the murmurs died down as movement stirred from the elevated platform.


    The man who had spoken to us earlier, the one whose voice had echoed across the winds when we first arrived, stepped forward. Now that I stood much closer, with the crowd no longer thick between us, I could finally see him clearly. He was young, with sharp features, His long black robe swayed slightly with each movement, a green stripe running down its center from collar to hem.


    My eyes lingered on that robe.


    Now that I had a clearer view of the grand chamber, I noticed others who wore similar robes among the crowd¡ªblack-robed cultivators like him, seated sparsely amidst the white-robed masses. They were few in number, but spaced out evenly across the tiers.


    A quiet thought crept into my mind: Were they of higher status?


    I didn¡¯t know for certain, but something about the way they were treated, how the others gave them space and the air around them seemed heavier¡ªhinted at it.


    I didn¡¯t have time to dwell on it further.


    The speaker raised his hand, and at once, the hall fell completely silent.


    ¡°Today marks not only your entrance into the Spiritual Realm, but the threshold of your next step¡ªthe true beginning of your cultivation journey.¡± He paused, letting his words sink in.


    ¡°You are not alone here. Many are watching¡ªelders, disciples, representatives of great sects. They are here not simply to welcome you¡­ but to observe you.¡±


    He stepped forward, looking across us all.


    ¡°Within you lies dormant potential. Talent that even you may not yet recognize. That is what today is about¡ªto find out where you lie, and for those among you who show promise, to receive the invitation of a lifetime. Should your potential catch the eye of one of the sects present today, you may be offered a place among them.¡±


    The moment those words left his mouth, a wave of murmurs passed through our group. Excitement. Anxiety. Hope. I saw a few heads rise with determination, and others lower with quiet dread.


    ¡°This is your chance,¡± he continued, his voice unwavering, ¡°to join a sect that will guide your cultivation, provide you with resources, and help you walk the path toward true ascension. But only the worthy will be chosen. And worth is not measured by where you began¡ªonly by what you can become.¡±


    The speaker lifted his hand once again, his robe trailing like shadowed silk as his voice rang out through the vast chamber.


    ¡°Behold¡ªthe Heavenly Archive!¡±


    The moment the words left his lips, a windless surge of energy rippled across the hall. Then, as if summoned by invisible threads, thousands¡ªhundreds of thousands¡ªof books appeared in a burst of light.


    They floated above us, around us¡ªeven drifted in slow circles near the ceiling. Tomes of different sizes, each bound in different materials¡ªpaper, leather, metal, jade, and others I couldn¡¯t even name¡ªfilled the air in every direction. Some glowed with runes, others gave off a faint hiss of spiritual energy. Not all of them looked powerful, but each one had something different about it, like it held its own kind of potential.


    Only one space in the entire arena remained untouched¡ªa circular clearing at the very center, a hollow in the sky of books, as if the entire archive had agreed to part and make room for it.


    The speaker pointed toward it.


    ¡°These,¡± he continued, ¡°are cultivation methods. Every cultivation method you see above you has been encoded with a unique spiritual frequency¡ªone that responds to the nature of your soul weapon. Upon stepping into the open space, your presence will draw forth any cultivation method aligned with your innate potential.¡±


    Gasps echoed from a few in the crowd, but he went on, calm and clear.


    ¡°The more methods drawn to you, the more paths the heavens have allowed you to walk. But understand this¡ªquantity does not mean superiority. It is the size of the book, the depth of its contents, that reflects your true potential. The pages within hold meaning. Ten shallow books may pale before one profound tome.¡±


    He began to pace slowly, his eyes sweeping over us once more.


    ¡°Should only a single book come to you, do not despair. Look instead at its weight and at its density. A single tome may carry greater promise than a hundred lesser ones.¡±


    Without waiting for further questions, the man brought his hands together in a single, echoing clap.


    A soft ripple of light burst outward from him, spreading like a wave across the vast chamber. In its wake, shimmering glyphs appeared above each of our heads¡ªdelicate numbers carved from pure light, floating gently in the air.


    I turned to Lan Rou.


    Above her shone a soft, golden number: 3


    Curious¡ªand slightly apprehensive¡ªI looked up at my own number: 82,091


    A strange stillness settled in my chest. For a second, I didn¡¯t quite know how to react¡­ until the announcer spoke again, cutting through the silence and offering clarity.


    ¡°The number above your head,¡± he began, voice calm, ¡°represents your rank¡ªyour order of arrival at the summit of the Stairway of Beginning.¡±


    He walked slowly along the edge of the platform, letting the numbers glimmer above our heads like silent judgments.


    ¡°This number will determine the order in which you step forward and receive the method of your cultivation path. It also serves another purpose¡­¡±


    He paused, his gaze sweeping toward the seated cultivators on the elevated tiers¡ªthe silent audience of sect representatives.


    ¡°¡­to inform the honored sects of your performance. Your ranking is more than a number¡ªit is a reflection of your physical fortitude, your endurance and once again¡­ potential. Those with higher ranks have, by nature or talent, proven themselves more capable of withstanding the first threshold of cultivation.¡±


    He gestured toward the books above us.


    ¡°Let it guide your expectations¡ªand theirs.¡±


    Murmurs rippled through the crowd again, but I stood still, the number above my head unmoving, immutable.


    Almost at the bottom?


    No¡­ it was the bottom.


    Above my head hovered the number 82,091, the lowest among all present. A mark for all to see. I lifted my gaze slowly, scanning the tiered crowd¡ªthose who had watched us enter, who now looked down from their elevated platforms. My breath caught for a moment as I saw their eyes, their shifting expressions.


    Were they judging me already? Dismissing me before the trial even began?


    But then¡­ I noticed something strange.


    They weren¡¯t looking at me.


    Their gazes weren¡¯t fixed on the number above my head at all.


    I turned my head slightly¡ªjust enough to catch the glow of gold beside me.


    Their attention wasn¡¯t drawn by my failure, but by her brilliance.


    Lan Rou.


    I wasn¡¯t scorned.


    I was simply... invisible.

 Ch. 11 - Rank Three, Unveiled.

    Looking at Miss Rou,I couldn¡¯t help but wonder who she truly was. To be ranked third out of hundreds of thousands¡­ It was no small feat.


    Just as the awe in the air began to settle, the announcer¡¯s voice rang out again, this time sharper, more formal than before.


    ¡°We shall begin with the most exceptional among this generation¡¯s arrivals¡ªthose whose potential has already shaken the hearts of our honored guests.¡±


    His gaze swept over us, pausing with visible pride on the glowing numbers at the front.


    ¡°Ranks One through Three¡ªstep forward into the open space. Let the heavens speak, and your path be revealed.¡±


    A hush fell across the chamber,and the eyes of every person in attendance turned to witness their first glimpse of this generation prodigy to be.


    And so, alongside Lan Rou, who stepped forward with shy, hesitant strides and a faint flush upon her cheeks¡ªtwo others advanced toward the open space.


    The second figure, bathed in the same golden light of ranking, drew my attention immediately.


    Rank Two.


    He was tall¡ªvery tall¡ªand easily the most muscular among us. His physique was carved like stone beneath the fitted orange robes he wore, each movement revealing strength honed through more than brute force. Yet, despite his imposing form, he gave off no sense of menace or aggression.


    In fact¡­ he felt welcoming.


    There was something in his presence, a quiet, grounded strength that made him seem less like a warrior and more like a guardian. Someone you could lean on without fear of being pushed away. His eyes were narrow, as if always on the edge of being closed, lending him a look of constant calm. His head was bald, smooth and unmarred, and he moved with an elegance that defied the weight of his frame. His steps were steady and purposeful.


    There was no doubt about it¡ªthis man was someone to watch.


    And now, with two of the top three standing before the gathered cultivators, all that remained was the one who stood highest of all.


    Number One.


    The last to step forward was a man who, at first glance, might not have drawn much attention¡ªshorter than Rank two, taller than Miss Rou, standing roughly at my own height, perhaps just under six feet. His clothing was simple, even worn: a dark green shirt faded at the seams, and black pants that had clearly seen better days. There was no extravagance in his looks.


    And yet¡­ the moment I laid eyes on him, I felt it.


    There was something different about him.


    It was his eyes that captured me first.


    One was pitch black, deeper than night itself, like staring into the void between stars. The other¡­ pure white. Not dull or cloudy, but bright¡ªlike the light of a star shining in the middle of that void.


    It was as if the Dao itself stirred within his gaze.


    And his hair, tied neatly in a high bun¡ªreflected that same duality. Strands of white and black coiled together, not dyed or artificial, but natural, as if the very balance of yin and yang had woven itself into his appearance.


    He walked with neither hesitation nor arrogance¡ªhis steps casual, but every motion rippling with suppressed intent. A person in total harmony with himself, and completely unbothered by the eyes around him.


    I glanced up to the highest tier¡ªthe cultivators seated on their throne-like chairs, those far above even the black-robed elites. I saw it in their expressions.


    Their stillness cracked.


    Subtle gasps. Narrowed eyes. The faintest shifts of posture from beings who hadn¡¯t moved an inch until now.


    They saw something we couldn¡¯t. Something behind that mismatched gaze of his.


    Not one word had been spoken by him.


    But every eye in the chamber was now on Rank One.


    The air remained thick with tension as the last of the three took his place. Even the announcer, who had carried himself with composure until now, cleared his throat¡ªsubtle, but telling. It was as if even he had been momentarily drawn in by the silent gravity of the trio standing before us.


    ¡°You three stand at the peak of this generation¡¯s ascendants. The finest among your peers.¡±


    He gestured to the gathered audience all now watching with focused eyes.


    ¡°To honor your achievement, you will be granted the privilege of priority¡ªfirst selection within the Heavenly Archive. Let all present witness the distinction that talent and fate can bring. ¡±


    Then, he turned to the first of the three¡ªthe one standing with hesitant grace.


    ¡°Rank Three, step forward.¡±


    Lan Rou flinched almost imperceptibly, but drew in a breath and obeyed. Her footsteps were soft, but steady.


    The announcer nodded. ¡°Manifest your Soul Weapon.¡±


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    The room stilled.


    ¡°The archive will read the essence of your soul weapon and your body foundation, and from its depths, the methods most aligned with your spirit will come forth. From them, you will choose.¡±


    He raised his hand toward the floating void of tomes above.


    ¡°Now¡­ proceed.¡±


    Lan Rou stood at the edge of the open space, her gaze low, shoulders slightly drawn inward beneath the weight of countless eyes. But even in her quiet demeanor, there was resolve. With a slow, steady breath, she raised her hand¡ªfingers trembling for only a moment before light gathered in her palm.


    The air shimmered around her as threads of light coiled together, weaving into shape. It was graceful¡ªalmost delicate at first¡ªbut the more it took form, the more our awe deepened.


    And then it appeared.


    Her Soul Weapon.


    A sword, yes¡ªbut like no sword I had ever seen or thought possible to wield.


    The blade, impossibly slim, no wider than my pinky¡ªstretched taller than her entire body. It wasn¡¯t just long, it was monumental. Over six feet of gleaming steel, taller even than Rank Two who stood like a monolith before her. And yet, it stood there beside her.


    It gleamed with the luster of the finest metal I had ever seen¡ªso polished and refined, it reflected the whole room. But the blade itself was only half the wonder.


    The hilt was a masterpiece. The guard curled in elegant, vine-like filigree, each tendril glinting with shifting hues of gold and violet. At its center sat a gemstone¡ªa smooth, teardrop-shaped crystal of soft lavender.


    The grip, wrapped in silver-threaded silk, was as slender as the rest of the weapon. Tailored for a hand that prized precision and grace, not brute strength. It was a blade meant to weave through weakness, not crush through power.


    And at its base, the pommel bloomed into a lotus¡ªsmall, half-open, forged in silver, with a single droplet of amethyst nestled within its petals, like morning dew captured at the height of stillness.


    It was beautiful. Too beautiful.


    No ordinary soul could summon it. Yet she stood shy and silent, holding something that made even the high-seated cultivators lean forward, eyes sharpened, no longer casual in their observation.


    I could hear the hushed voices of those closest to me, their disbelief barely contained as they struggled to process what they were seeing.


    ¡°Is that really her Soul Weapon¡­?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s taller than her! How is she supposed to wield something like that?¡±


    ¡°No way she can actually swing that thing.¡±


    Their voices carried a mixture of awe, confusion, and admiration¡ªnone of it mocking. No one dared to question her worth. That sword¡­ it silenced even the most arrogant tongues.


    Then¡­ It happened.


    From the highest, most distant corner of the Archive¡ªa single book began to shine with a deep, mesmerizing amethyst glow.


    And then it started to descend. No¡ªrather¡­ it was flying.


    Around it coalesced a shimmering aura, shaping itself into the form of a bird¡ªsmall, elegant, and stunningly vivid. Its feathers were glittering, shifting hues of violet, pale rose, and silver with every beat of its wings. Though no larger than a dove, its presence stole the breath from the chamber. Breathtaking in its beauty.


    It glided down through the sky of suspended tomes, weaving past the books, as if the Archive itself made way for its arrival.


    Every eye followed it in silence.


    The bird reached Lan Rou, who stood motionless in the center of the open circle, her blade still beside her. Her lips parted in soft astonishment, her eyes wide with wander.


    The spirit bird fluttered in front of her, wings slowing. Its talons clutched the amethyst-glowing tome gently, almost lovingly, and with a single graceful motion, it set the book down in her waiting hands.


    The moment the book met her palms, the bird gave a single, clear chirp¡ªsoft and melodic¡ªthen began to dissolve into shimmering trails of misty light until it vanished completely, as though it had never existed.


    As Lan Rou stood there, clutching the amethyst-bound tome, the hall remained breathless for only a moment longer¡ªbefore it erupted.


    On the highest tier, where the most powerful cultivators sat like monarchs, every single one of them stood.


    Their composed expressions cracked with hunger¡ªand they spoke not in whispers, but in commands.


    ¡°Begin the selection process¡ªnow!¡±


    ¡°We won¡¯t wait¡ªhave her choose her sect immediately!¡±


    ¡°She must not be delayed¡ªnot even a breath longer!¡±


    The announcer flinched beneath the cascade of authoritative voices, his eyes wide with disbelief. Never before had such esteemed elders spoken out of turn, let alone all at once.


    He quickly bowed toward them, hands cupped respectfully. ¡°Esteemed Seniors, I¡­ I was instructed that the selection for the top three must only begin after all three have revealed their potential¡ª¡±


    A sharp voice cut him off.


    ¡°If protocol must be bent, we will bear the burden of it!¡± thundered one of the older cultivators. ¡°We will take full responsibility for this deviation.¡±


    The announcer, still bent in half, hesitated. ¡°With all due respect¡­ may I ask why?¡±


    It was then that the only woman among the high seats stepped forward. She did not shout. She did not raise her hand. She simply looked down toward the girl still standing with the tome in hand, her sword gleaming silently beside her.


    And with a calm, almost reverent voice, she answered.


    ¡°Because she possesses the Celestial Orchid Physique.¡±


    A hushed wave rippled through the audience. Those among the white-robed cultivators gasped aloud. A few black-robed disciples exchanged stunned glances. And I¡­ I had never heard the name, but judging by the reactions around me, I didn¡¯t need to.


    The announcer blinked rapidly, breath caught in his chest.


    ¡°T-The Celestial Orchid¡­ that¡¯s¡­¡±


    The elder woman spoke again, gently, but with finality.


    ¡°A sacred body constitution so rare it blooms once in a thousand years. A vessel of balance and harmony. The only known constitution capable of attuning with the Nine-Petal Amethyst Sutra¡ªthe cultivation method she now holds in her hands.¡±


    We all looked at Lan Rou as if seeing her for the first time.


    The announcer swallowed hard. Caught between the decree he had been given and the undeniable pressure of the powerful cultivators bearing down on him. But he was no fool. He knew what kind of power stood above him.


    And he valued his life.


    With a deep bow toward the high platform, he spoke with restrained deference.


    ¡°Very well. I acknowledge your authority in this matter. May it be recorded that this deviation from standard procedure was enacted under your direct request and responsibility.¡±


    All of them gave curt nods.


    Straightening, the announcer stepped back toward the center of the stage and raised his voice to the entire hall.


    "By the will of the sects, we will now begin the immediate selection for Rank Three. Participant, step forward and state your name for all to hear."

 Ch.12 - Offers from the Highest Seat (Part 1)

    Lan stood silently at the center of the open circle. The immense hall, once filled with whispers, was now utterly still, waiting for her to speak.


    At last, with visible hesitation, she took a small step forward and bowed.


    She offered a deep, respectful gesture toward the masters on their raised platform.She then turned her body slightly, bowing again toward the white and black robed cultivators seated in their respective rings, acknowledging them as senior pathwalkers on the road she had only just stepped upon.


    Her voice, when it came, was soft but somewhat shaken.


    "My name is Lan Rou. I greet the honored and respected cultivators.¡±


    The announcer gave a respectful nod to Lan Rou as she retreated to her place among the three.


    Then, turning back toward the sect representative seated above, he raised his voice once more with crisp clarity.


    ¡°Honorable Great Sects, as custom dictates, please rise in order from right to left. State your name, your position within your sect, the name of your sect, the path your sect is most known for, and what you offer to Lan Rou should she accept your invitation.¡±


    He stepped back, folding his arms respectfully behind him.


    A heavy silence followed¡­ until the one seated furthest to the right stood.


    He wore a robe of deep, forest green with jade accents, and on his chest was a silver emblem of a serpent coiling around a blossoming branch.


    When he spoke, his voice was smooth¡­ yet somehow every syllable cut through the chamber with the weight of someone accustomed to being obeyed.


    "I am Elder Qing Yanluo of Qingcheng Sect."


    He placed a single hand over his chest and gave a shallow, refined bow. His eyes never left her.


    "The Qingcheng Sect has long followed the Way of the Hidden Flow. We cultivate agility, clarity of mind, and mastery over inner balance. While others proclaim their presence for all to see, we strike like mist¡ªunseen, swift, and precise."


    ¡°Our sect walks a path shaped by short blades and hidden weapons. Our disciples train in light-footwork, misdirection, and the art of striking not once, but precisely when it matters most.¡±


    He gestured faintly, and from his sleeve slipped a silver pin no longer than a finger¡ªsharp, narrow, and almost invisible until it caught the light. With a flick of his wrist, it vanished again.


    ¡°Your soul weapon, I must admit, does not align with our martial lineage. It is long, elegant¡­ too pronounced for the close-quarter precision our methods are built upon.¡±


    A pause followed, as murmurs stirred lightly among the crowd¡ªbut his expression did not falter.


    Then he continued, voice now lower, smoother, almost entrancing:


    ¡°But cultivation is not always about the blade. It is about what grows beneath the blade. The balance within. The harmony between movement, Qi, and soul. In that, you and Qingcheng may not be opposed, but complementary.¡±


    He raised a hand, this time forming a soft spiral of green and black mist, from which a single spectral orchid bloomed¡ªits petals dark and gleaming with threads of silver.


    "We offer techniques that refine agility, cleanse the body of all poison, and grant unparalleled control over movement and breath. Should you walk with us, hidden gardens filled with rare medicinal herbs will be made available to you in abundance to aid your cultivation."


    He let the orchid dissolve silently into the air, its fragrance faint but haunting.


    With a final graceful bow, he returned to his seat, leaving behind the lingering scent of temptation.


    The hall was still once more, until the next elder shifted to rise.


    His presence was the opposite of the one before.


    Wearing an orange-yellow robe with dark brown trim, the elder stood tall with a straight posture that didn¡¯t feel arrogant. He was broad-shouldered but not bulky, and even though his head was clean-shaven, there was a weight to his expression that hinted at centuries of deep meditation.


    When he bowed, it was deep and deliberate.


    ¡°Amitabha.¡±


    His voice rang low and steady, reverberating like the striking of a temple bell.


    ¡°I am Elder Bao Rujing of the Shaolin Sect.¡±


    ¡°The Shaolin Sect has endured since ancient times. Our path is one of stillness, then movement. Of purity in Qi and discipline in mind. We seek not after power¡­ but harmony with all living things. While others chase the heavens, we work on perfecting the temple within.¡±


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    He folded his hands together with a soft clap, and a staff appeared between them, humming with a faint vibration.


    ¡°Our techniques are rooted in the body¡ªstaff and fist. We teach not flash nor fury, but foundation. The strength to stand still when others break. The clarity to act only when it is righteous.¡±


    He looked directly at Lan Rou now, and his voice softened¡ªnot in weakness, but in compassion.


    ¡°Your soul weapon is like a river: graceful in flow, deadly in force. But even rivers require banks¡ªdiscipline and direction. With us, you will forge not just power, but purpose.¡±


    He stepped forward with a single motion and extended his palm. A golden light bloomed softly in his hand, then formed into the image of a golden lotus, spinning slowly in perfect stillness.


    ¡°We offer techniques that fortify the spirit¡ªresisting fear, illusion, charms, and all forms of mental disruption. Alongside them, methods to temper the body, enhancing endurance and resilience, which will prove invaluable when wielding a weapon of such length and weight with a frame as delicate as yours. And lastly, the Purity Pill¡ªa rare medicinal treasure refined but once every thirty years, capable of cleansing even the deepest-rooted impurities within the meridians, paving a smoother path forward in cultivation.¡±


    With one final look¡ªless a recruitment, more a benediction¡ªhe bowed again.


    ¡°Should your path be righteous¡­ the temple is open to you.¡±


    And then, in calm grace, he returned to his seat.


    The golden lotus lingered a moment longer in the air before fading into soft motes of light.


    As their words faded into the silence once more, I found myself holding my breath without realizing it.


    Immunity to poisons? Protection from mental disruption? Full access to rare herb gardens, techniques to refine the body, a pill to cleanse the meridians? These weren¡¯t mere invitations¡ªthey were gifts. Life-altering advantages offered as casually as one might offer tea to a guest.


    They spoke as though such treasures were common within their sects, as if every disciple would be bathed in divine elixirs and trained under the sect leader himself.


    But I wasn¡¯t foolish.


    No sect offered these to just anyone. These weren¡¯t generous promises, they were bids. Weapons in a silent war to win the favor of a person the heavens had already crowned.


    Had I been the one standing in that circle instead of Lan Rou¡­ I could only dream of what might have been offered, if anything at all.


    And that was only two of the five.


    I glanced at the remaining sect elders still seated.


    What could they offer her that could eclipse this?


    My fingers clenched instinctively.


    This world¡­ was made for people like her.


    I couldn¡¯t help but wonder¡ªhow much further would the heavens tilt in her favor?


    The air stirred once more as the next elder rose.


    Clad in a flowing robe of deep blue trimmed with pristine white, the man moved with a quiet grace. He bowed with a gesture both elegant and effortless, hands folding together in silent respect.


    Then he spoke.


    ¡°I am Elder Fang Heyi of the Wudang Sect.¡±


    ¡°Wudang¡¯s path is one of harmony between body and mind. We walk with the Dao, not against it. We do not force, but flow. Like water shaping stone.¡±


    He stepped forward just slightly, his hands still folded, eyes half-lidded in tranquil poise.


    ¡°Our techniques emphasize redirection over resistance, balance over brute strength. Where the honorable Shaolin Sect teaches the strength to endure and stand unmoved, we teach the art of yielding, of flowing around the force instead of standing before it. Our focus lies in swordsmanship, whether it be long sword, greatsword, or your own sword, Miss Rou. Our sword techniques are rooted in stillness and expressed through motion, forming one of the most revered long sword disciplines in the cultivation world."


    He raised his hand, and a long, slender sword slid gracefully off the edge of the blade, as if the weapon itself refused to be confined by any fixed form.


    "Yours is a blade of elegance," he said, meeting Lan Rou¡¯s gaze. "It wasn¡¯t forged to cleave mountains, but to pierce the veil of illusion. Among us, such a weapon wouldn¡¯t be an oddity¡ªit would be a centerpiece. Your sword was meant to walk our path."


    With a single, seamless motion, he performed a sword form. The blade moved like a ribbon of water, impossible to follow with the eyes. As he finished, the sword dissolved into mist.


    ¡°We offer you techniques rooted in the long sword, along with methods suited to your more delicate frame¡ªtechniques that turn overwhelming strength back against the brute foolish enough to threaten such grace. ¡±


    From his sleeve, he produced a small porcelain vial, engraved with the shape of flowing clouds.


    ¡°We also present the Clear Mind Elixir¡ªa tonic that sharpens thought, steadies turbulent Qi, and purifies the spirit. With it, one may see the world more clearly¡­ Literally.¡±


    He bowed a final time, before returning to his seat, silence folding around.


    I didn¡¯t entirely understand what that Clear Mind Elixir was supposed to do. His explanation had been wrapped in flowery words, but from what I could gather, it seemed to sharpen the senses, settle the Qi, and¡­ clear the mind. A tool to help a cultivator stay calm and focused perhaps? Useful, no doubt, but far less extravagant than the pill or the herb garden.


    Still¡­ I could see why his offer stood shoulder to shoulder with the ones before him.


    It wasn¡¯t just about what was given.


    It was about where it led.


    Wudang specialized in the long sword. Their entire cultivation path seemed perfectly suited for someone like Lan Rou, whose Soul Weapon was nearly as tall as she was and thinner than a finger.


    They didn¡¯t promise force. They promised finesse.


    And more importantly, their techniques were built around deflection, misdirection, and flowing around the enemy¡ªideal for someone with a delicate build and subtle strength. Not everyone could take a hit. But some could ensure they never had to.


    Even with the simplest offer on paper, Wudang¡¯s alignment with her body and soul weapon made their bid every bit as tempting as the ones that came before.


    Just as the quiet began to settle once more, movement drew every eye back to the platform.


    Another figure rose.


    His robe was white as untouched silk, with flowing patterns of pale pink embroidered into the sleeves and hem. The colors were soft, but his presence was anything but.


    He stepped forward, the soft brush of his garments barely making a sound.


    The fourth sect was about to reveal itself.


    And from the silence that fell over the room¡­ we all knew.


    These final two would be different.

 Ch.13 - Offers from the Highest Seat (Part 2)

    The elder in white and pink stepped forward with a poise that immediately set him apart. His movements were fluid, as if every gesture had been rehearsed a thousand times until nothing but perfection remained. His long dark hair was bound in silver thread, and his expression bore the cool confidence of someone who had never known failure.


    Not arrogance born of ego. But the quiet arrogance of excellence.


    ¡°I am Elder Hua Lianjian of the Mount Hua Sect.¡±


    He allowed the name to settle, as if it needed no elaboration.


    ¡°Mount Hua,¡± he continued, ¡°has stood as a pillar of sword cultivation. Our teachings do not confine themselves to any single form of the blade. Whether short or long, curved or straight, elegant or brutal¡ªa sword is but an extension of the heart.¡±


    ¡°Our focus is not the shape of the weapon, but the philosophy behind its swing.We teach our disciples to embody the sword¡ªnot wield it. To breathe with it. To move with it. To become it.¡±


    He stepped lightly forward and extended his hand. With no fanfare, a sword of glass-like steel appeared at his side¡ªneither glowing nor humming, but so perfectly polished it reflected the faces in the crowd like a mirror.


    He raised it slowly, and with one calm motion, traced a line through the air. Where his sword passed, the light bent.


    He returned his sword to his side, allowing it to vanish into thin air. Then, he raised his hand once more.


    But this time¡­ he did not summon a sword.


    Instead, two distinct objects appeared before him¡ªfloating in perfect balance.


    A hushed stir moved through the cultivators present.


    Every sect so far had offered a single gift.


    But Elder Hua offered two.


    He gestured toward the first item¡ªa robe of soft, radiant fabric, its texture light and flowing, with floral patterns that shimmered faintly. A subtle calming fragrance drifted from it.


    ¡°This is the Petalshade Blossom Robe,¡± he said. ¡°Woven from the rare spirit-infused petals of the Eternal Spring Bloom¡ªflowers that blossom only once every hundred years atop Mount Hua¡¯s highest cliffs. It offers spiritual resonance with the body¡¯s Qi, softens incoming spiritual force, and moves with the wearer like a breeze through blossoms. It is made for the art of cultivation through grace and flow.¡±


    Then, to the second item¡ªa small lacquered box appeared in the air, which opened to reveal a porcelain gourd marked with Mount Hua¡¯s crest.


    ¡°And this¡­ is our Sword Soul Harmonization Tea. Brewed only for those we believe may one day embody their sword completely. Drinking it will allow you to commune with your Soul Weapon¡ªsharpening your bond, deepening your understanding, and guiding your steps toward perfect sword resonance, allowing you to earn your sword¡¯s true name much faster.¡±


    As his words washed over the hall, something inside me stirred.


    ¡°To earn your sword¡¯s true name¡­¡±


    Those exact words.


    My breath caught¡ªjust for a moment. A prickle ran down my spine, like a string being pulled taut within me.


    I had heard them once before.


    Not from the mouth of a cultivator¡­ but from the system that had rewritten my fate.


    Fate-Defying Sword.


    That was the name it had whispered to me. The moment I fell. The moment the gate opened. The moment my second life began.


    I had believed it was unique¡ªsomething beyond comprehension. A secret held between me and whatever power granted me this system.


    But now, I learned it was not a secret.


    It was a concept.


    A sword¡¯s true name¡­ was a real thing.


    What did it mean, then? What was a true name? Was it a measure of compatibility? Of cultivation? Of the bond between soul weapon and its wielder? I didn¡¯t know. And in truth, I wanted to ask¡ªdesperately.


    The question sat on my tongue like a weight.


    But I was no fool.


    Interrupting them would draw irritation I couldn¡¯t afford. So I said nothing.


    I held the question in silence, burying it deep into the folds of my thoughts.


    Later, I will look into this whenever I can.


    Elder Hua lowered his hand as the two items gently faded from view.


    ¡°Mount Hua does not shape blades to conquer others,¡± he said at last, ¡°but to master the self. If that is the path you seek¡­ our mountain awaits you.¡±


    And then¡­ he returned to his seat.


    The final figure stood.


    Where the other elders had risen with calm pride, this woman rose like a blade being drawn¡ªready to cut through her competition.


    Her robes were pristine white, embroidered with faint violet patterns. A long veil hung in front of her face, attached to hair so pale it was nearly silver, flowing down to her waist.


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    When she bowed, it was effortless.


    ¡°I am Elder Bai Ruyin of the Emei Sect.¡±


    Her voice carried no aggression. Smooth and melodious, yet with an unmistakable edge beneath it.


    ¡°Our sect is unlike the others here. We are women¡ªonly women. Our techniques are not forged for strength, but for grace and lethality.¡±


    She stepped forward, and with a flick of her fingers, summoned a sword¡ªthin and elegant, its thinness far exceeding Lan Rou¡¯s own soul weapon.


    ¡°You wield a blade most would call impractical. Too long. Too light. Too fragile. But to us, it is perfect. We have cultivated with such weapons for generations. You would not need to adapt to us. We already walk your path.¡±


    But then¡­ Elder Bai¡¯s aura sharpened. Her head turned to where the other sect leaders sat, and her words shifted in tone.


    ¡°And yet¡­ not a single one of them mentioned your physique. The Celestial Orchid Physique¡ªa body constitution so rare, it appears only once every ten thousand years.¡±


    She raised a single finger, her voice dipping lower¡ªnot to whisper, but to strike.


    ¡°Do you know why they did not mention it? Why not one of them dared to speak of it?¡±


    Lan Rou didn¡¯t respond. Her hands trembled faintly at her sides.


    ¡°Because they can¡¯t. Because this physique¡­ only appears in women.¡±


    ¡°The Celestial Orchid Physique harmonizes with Qi like no other, allowing for profound spiritual growth, rapid cultivation gains, and unmatched purity of inner flow. But more than that¡­It is one of the most sought-after dual cultivation bodies in the world.¡±


    Gasps and murmurs swelled again, louder now. Even among the high platform, a few sect leaders shifted uncomfortably.


    Lan Rou looked stunned, uncertain what to say¡ªher lips parted, but no words came.


    ¡°Tell me, child. If you were to join their sects¡­ do you know what that would mean?¡±


    Lan Rou didn¡¯t answer. She couldn¡¯t.


    So Elder Bai answered for her.


    ¡°It means becoming the focus of every man¡¯s gaze. Gaze not of respect¡ªbut of hunger.¡±


    ¡°A beautiful young woman with a frail frame and a once-in-ten-thousand-years dual cultivation physique? Do you truly believe their male disciples would resist the temptation? That they would not try to win your favor¡ªor force it? Do you think the women in their sects would praise you? Or hate you, watching their lovers, their brothers, their masters give you all their attention?¡±


    Her voice turned cold.


    ¡°The lust of men is dangerous. But the envy of women? That is deadly.¡±


    And then she looked at Lan Rou again, voice softening just slightly¡ªnot in pity, but in promise.


    ¡°In our sect, you would not be watched. You would be understood. You would be trained by women who walked the same path. You would never need to fear whether your cultivation came with a price hidden behind someone¡¯s smile.¡±


    She let the tension linger for only a breath longer before continuing.


    ¡°The Celestial Orchid Physique is not unknown to us.¡±


    She raised her head slightly, chin lifted with pride.


    ¡°Throughout our sect¡¯s long history, whenever this physique has appeared, it has always chosen the Emei Sect. And not once has one of those chosen failed to ascend to the higher realms under the sect¡¯s guidance.¡±


    ¡°We know this constitution intimately. We have preserved records, techniques, and personalized guidance that align with your cultivation. The method that has chosen you¡ªthe Nine-Petal Amethyst Sutra¡ªis a profound and rare scripture that harmonizes perfectly with the Celestial Orchid Physique.¡±


    She looked directly at Lan Rou now, her voice softening in tone but not in power.


    ¡°You were not given that technique by chance. You were born for it. And we are the only sect that knows how to help you realize its true potential. Others may offer treasures, pills, or robes. But we offer understanding. We offer a lineage that has cared for your path across history.¡±


    From her sleeve, she slowly raised a small velvet box, letting it open with a delicate flick of her fingers.


    Floating above her palm was a bracelet unlike any other.


    A fine circlet of silver filaments, thin as thread and impossibly intricate. Embedded into its delicate weave were nine small orchid-shaped gems, each one carved from soft-pink jade and radiating a gentle inner glow.


    The very air around it seemed lighter and more vibrant.


    ¡°This is the Orchid Vein Seal.¡±


    Gasps echoed quietly across the room.


    ¡°A spiritual treasure refined for one purpose: to aid those who carry the Celestial Orchid Physique. When worn, it passively absorbs ambient Qi from your surroundings¡ªwhether in meditation, cultivation, or even sleep. Every breath you take will bring you strength. Every still moment will push your cultivation further.¡±


    She closed the box with a soft click and lowered her hand with poise.


    ¡°It has waited generations for a rightful owner. And now¡­ it waits for you.¡±


    ¡°We are not the largest sect. Nor the richest. But we are yours. The choice is yours too. But choose with clear eyes and a logical mind.¡±


    She bowed deeply¡ªlower than any of the other sects had before her.


    And then, in one fluid motion, returned to her seat.


    Silence followed, because everyone in the hall understood¡­


    A storm of decisions was now in Lan Rou¡¯s hands.


    The announcer stepped forward once more, his expression composed, though a faint sheen of sweat clung to his brow, a sign of the pressure even he felt.


    He bowed respectfully to the five seated elders.


    ¡°My sincerest thanks to each of the esteemed sects for your generous presentations.¡±


    Then, his gaze shifted to the center of the open circle where Lan Rou stood, still as glass, her long hair brushing the folds of her clothes.


    ¡°Lan Rou,¡± he called gently, ¡°you have heard their words, witnessed their sincerity, and received their offers. Now, the decision lies with you. Which sect¡­ do you choose to follow?¡±


    The chamber was silent.


    Lan Rou remained where she was, her head lowered slightly, shoulders tense¡ªnot from fear, but from deep contemplation.


    And I understood.


    She wasn¡¯t hesitating because she didn¡¯t value what had been offered.


    She was hesitating because every path held merit.


    The Wudang Sect¡¯s deflective swordplay matched her weapon¡¯s length and delicacy. Mount Hua¡¯s philosophy and harmonization techniques spoke volume. Even Qingcheng and Shaolin had offered her tools of significant value.


    But Elder Bai of Emei¡­ she had spoken the truth.


    I had only known Lan Rou for a fleeting moment, yet even in that time, it was clear¡ªshe was kind, soft-spoken, and far more delicate than she would ever admit. Brave, yes¡ªbut not confrontational. She would never thrive under the scrutiny of jealous peers or the gaze of lustful cultivators who saw her as a prize to be earned or claimed.


    She needed safety. She needed quiet. And above all, she needed a place where she wouldn¡¯t have to defend herself simply for existing.


    Only one sect had offered her that.


    At last, Lan Rou lifted her head.


    She took a small breath and stepped forward. Then she bowed deeply and gracefully


    ¡°I thank the honored elders of every sect for their kindness and their generous offerings.¡±


    Her voice was quiet¡­ but steady.


    ¡°But I have made my decision¡­ I wish to walk the path of cultivation under the Emei Sect guidance.¡±