## The Eleventh Scroll: Ancient Riddles, First Trial

Half an hourglass later, Wang Lin emerged from the verdant tangle, his face serene, yet his heart held a sigh. The serpent had indeed proven to be one of the Eight Gates, yet it was a false one, an illusion woven to mislead.

“The Five Flowers, Eight Gates… to seek each one individually offers a path, yet even with the Cloud Dao Celestial Art perfected, the reversal of the Third Soul’s memory remains insufficient,” he mused, his brow furrowing. “Such a slow and methodical search is a luxury I cannot afford.”

“I must await the Eastern Shrine Sect’s Grand Tournament, mere months hence. That event left an indelible mark on the Seven-Colored Immortal, scarring his very essence. If I can reverse his memory completely during the tournament, perhaps in the ensuing chaos, I can glimpse the True Gate!” Wang Lin, now a wisp of cloud, streaked towards the Eastern Shrine Sect.

Time, like a swift river, flowed onward. Three months passed in haste.

Or, to be precise, five months since Wang Lin first grasped the Fifth Layer of the Cloud Dao Celestial Art. The Eastern Shrine Sect Grand Tournament was at hand!

The Eastern Shrine Sect, one of the Nine Sects and Thirteen Mansions of this realm, held a Grand Tournament for its lower-ranking disciples every thirty years. From the throng of hopefuls, the most promising would be chosen for special cultivation, granted the coveted right to train for several days within the Eastern Shrine Pool. This prize fueled the intense rivalry that characterized each tournament.

For cultivators, the path of the strong devouring the weak was a cruel reality. Thus, although participants were instructed to show restraint, injuries and even death were not uncommon. Unless the bloodshed became wanton, the Sect rarely intervened.

The Eastern Shrine Sect encompassed three hundred and twenty-one mountain lineages, each sending forth a handful of their most promising disciples. The lineage of the victor would be showered with opulent rewards, further stoking the flames of competition.

The trials, involving over a thousand souls, often stretched for days, yet this was a rare time of vibrancy for the Sect. The disciples, scattered across the vast Eastern Shrine Star, seldom knew each other, and the tournament served as a chance for camaraderie, a chance to forge bonds amidst the striving.

On this very day, Su Dao’s master emerged from seclusion and summoned his disciples, selecting three to compete in the tournament. Wang Lin and Zhou Li were naturally among them, along with a captivating woman named Qin Mei, whose smile seemed woven with sunlight.

Qin Mei held a subtle significance within the Seven-Colored Immortal’s Third Soul’s memories, a faint glimmer of affection. Sadly, after this tournament, Qin Mei and Zhou Li would become Daoist partners, severing Su Dao’s unspoken desires.

Few could fathom that this gentle Su Dao would one day become the ruthless, calculating Seven-Colored Immortal. Yet Wang Lin, remembering his own transformation across the millennia, understood perfectly.

Environment can sculpt destiny, and experience can forge character – such is the capriciousness of creation, be it a blessing or a curse.

“Su-shidi, congratulations on earning the right to cultivate the Cloud Dao Celestial Art! I haven’t seen you around lately; only today do our paths cross,” a voice like the song of birds chirped beside Wang Lin.

It was Qin Mei, her smile radiant as she regarded Wang Lin, her words gentle as a caress of the breeze.

Wang Lin offered a measured smile, his composure unwavering.

Yet that simple smile sparked a flicker of bewilderment in Qin Mei’s heart. In her memory, Su Dao had always been timid, his face flushing at her mere presence.

But the effortless grace he now exuded, the subtle allure that now resonated within him, was something entirely new. Su Dao, already blessed with handsome features, now possessed a unique charisma, born of Wang Lin’s spirit.

Nearby, Zhou Li watched the exchange, his face a mask of shadow. He appeared unchanged from five months prior, but the bloodshot eyes and weary countenance betrayed the torment that had gnawed at his soul.

Qin Mei seemed poised to speak further, but her master, with a flick of his sleeve, summoned a cloud of auspicious hues, enveloping the three and soaring them towards the main grounds of the Eastern Shrine Sect.

The battlefield for the lower-ranking disciples lay upon the Sect’s main plaza, a place forbidden to all but those summoned.

Only during the tournament were disciples permitted entry, and for many, it would be the only time in their lives they would set foot there.

The plaza itself was modest, barely capable of holding thousands. Were the trials to occur here, the space would surely be insufficient. Yet the Eastern Shrine Sect, as one of the Nine Sects and Thirteen Mansions, possessed profound, immeasurable foundations.

Within this plaza, through countless generations, the Sect Lords and Elders had woven layers upon layers of formations and enchantments. At each tournament, a fraction of these would be activated, tearing open the veil between worlds, leading to the Eastern Shrine Spatial Rift, the domain belonging solely to the Sect.

There, in the Spatial Rift, the first trials of the tournament would begin.

At this moment, on the main plaza of the Eastern Shrine Sect, streams of light streaked across the sky, carrying masters and disciples towards the gathering.

As this was a tournament for the lowest ranks, yet also the possible unveiling of future champions, the Eastern Shrine Sect invited no outsiders, keeping the spectacle strictly within its own ranks.

Yet all, from the Sect Lord and Grand Elders to the humblest of overseers, would attend, searching the throngs for those destined to rise like a phoenix from the ashes.

As Wang Lin arrived at the plaza, the majority of participants had already gathered. The multitude was dense, yet the crowd remained disciplined and orderly, with no trace of boisterous clamor.

An unseen weight, an oppressive aura of power, suffused the air, growing stronger with each new arrival. It pressed upon the hearts and minds of the gathered disciples, causing their pulses to race and stifling any stray words.

The hour passed, and all three hundred and twenty-one lineages had arrived, standing silent and tense upon the plaza.

Wang Lin remained calm, but Qin Mei beside him had lost her sunny smile, her small face taut with apprehension. Zhou Li fared somewhat better, but his underlying tension was evident.

Wang Lin’s serenity, observed by Qin Mei, only deepened her perplexity, yet, inexplicably, it soothed her own anxieties, slowly bringing peace to her heart.
The Eastern Progeny Sect, blessed by generations of prodigies, held its place amongst the Nine Sects and Thirteen Houses. This legacy, purchased with the blood of venerable ancestors, had been passed down through the ages, finally arriving at this generation of disciples.

“Today,” a voice of granite and steel echoed across the hallowed grounds, “is the day of the Grand Progeny Trials! I seek to glimpse within each of you the future of our esteemed sect. I yearn to witness the unyielding spirit and decisive action that marks the truest cultivator!”

The plaza shimmered with golden light, revealing hundreds of figures, the esteemed Elders of the Eastern Progeny Sect, seated in meditative lotus, their eyes sweeping over the thousand-odd disciples gathered below. Amongst them, a score of gazes settled upon one figure: Wang Lin.

This very scene, these precise words, this same radiant light, Wang Lin had witnessed within the stolen memories of the Seven-Colored Immortal. Yet, the vital difference lay in the direction of those searching eyes. In that ghostly echo of the past, they had been focused upon Zhou Li.

Su Dao, standing near, had attracted a few tentative glances, but under their weight, he trembled, cowering in shame. Zhou Li, on the other hand, though visibly shaken, stood tall, his chest thrust forward, his jaw set with determination. He had been blessed with innate talent and earned the right to study the Cloud Dao Celestial Arts, promising to shine brilliantly.

But now, all had changed.

A few cursory glances touched Zhou Li, yet their brief scrutiny held no substance. The bulk of attention was focused solely on Wang Lin.

Wang Lin, in return, remained utterly composed, as if the weight of those gazes held no power over him. Indeed, such was the truth.

Zhou Li clenched his fists, his lowered gaze burning with envy and bitter resentment. For five long months, he had wrestled with his incomprehension. How could fate be so cruel? How could the craven Su Dao have undergone such a transformation? This glory, he believed, was rightfully his, yet it had been stolen by Su Dao’s hand.

“Enter the Rift!” the booming voice commanded once more. The plaza erupted in a dazzling spectacle of light and color. A colossal vortex, like a gaping maw into the void, materialized in the sky above. Within its swirling depths, a strange and alien world beckoned.

In that instant, the participating disciples were enveloped in shimmering auras, lifted from the ground, and propelled like streaks of colored light towards the vortex.

A thousand strong, a thousand trails of light, surged into the portal, vanishing in a heartbeat. The plaza was emptied, leaving only the mentors of the various disciplines standing vigil. They bowed respectfully towards the golden figures above, then took their places in silent observation.

The vortex above, its purpose fulfilled, gradually slowed and stilled, transforming into a shimmering mirror, reflecting the very heart of the Eastern Progeny Rift. The great and powerful cultivators of the sect could now immerse their senses within it, seeking the future paragons hidden within.

Before Wang Lin lay a vast, desolate landscape, shrouded in perpetual twilight. The sky was a murky haze, as if choked with the dust of ages. This was the Eastern Progeny Rift, a pocket dimension created by the Sect, meticulously crafted to resemble a specific region of the Immortal Ascendant Continent.

Wang Lin materialized upon a plain overgrown with towering weeds, exactly where Su Dao had stood in the Seven-Colored Immortal’s memories.

In that bygone trial, Su Dao had been robbed of his tokens and ultimately defeated. He could only watch as Zhou Li and other promising disciples from different disciplines basked in the light of victory.

Su Dao was but a speck of dust beneath their radiant glory.

That defeat had cut deep, igniting a fire within Su Dao. Within this Rift, he had suffered a brutal and merciless beating at the hands of Zhou Li. Though not killed, the wounds, both physical and spiritual, had left an indelible scar, marking a pivotal turning point in his character.

“I am here,” Wang Lin murmured, his gaze fixed upon the dim and oppressive sky. “Everything will change…”