Beneath the weight of his relentless mantra, striving for the elusive Ninth Level of Qi Condensation, Wang Lin found a semblance of peace in a life of quiet simplicity. Yet, as days bled into weeks, a palpable tension tightened its grip upon the entire Hengyue Sect.

Within the inner sanctums, disciples toiled with feverish intensity, preparing for the year’s end competition. The allure of victory was irresistible: magic weapons, potent elixirs, glittering spirit stones, and mystical jade talismans awaited the top ten. But what truly ignited their envy was the prize deemed worthy of the champion – the Double Moon Rings, a treasure held sacred within the sect’s vaults!

These rings, remnants of a revered elder from three centuries past, were whispers of power, combining both a formidable offense and an impenetrable defense. Treasures so rare inspired a silent, desperate scramble. In secret, fists were clenched, and resolve steeled.

For the newcomers, this year saw few deemed worthy of inner disciple status. Foremost amongst them was Wang Zhuo, whom all deemed the inevitable victor. His prowess cast a long shadow, diminishing all hope for his peers.

Yet, fiercer still was the rivalry amongst the registered disciples, for whom this competition represented nothing less than a turning point in their lives. In the shadows, they prepared, hoarding secrets and honing skills.

But this nervous energy remained distant to Wang Lin. He dedicated his days to mastering the secrets of gravitational techniques. Then, on the eve of the month’s end, he emerged from the choreography office, his footsteps firm as he made his way towards the main courtyard.

He invoked the magics he’d learned, a subtle manipulation of Qi to veil his true strength. By subtly altering his essence, he projected the illusion of barely having reached the first level of Qi Condensation.

The crowded choreography office was unconducive for cultivation, thus he planned a pilgrimage from the mountain in search of solace.

Arriving at the main courtyard, he walked with purpose, soon standing before the gate of Sun Dazhu’s medicine garden. “Disciple Wang Lin seeks an audience, Master,” he announced, his voice resonating with respect.

“What do you want?” came the impatient reply from within, Sun Dazhu’s voice thick with distaste. The gate remained closed, a clear indication of his displeasure.

Wang Lin maintained his facade of humility. “Your disciple, Master, feels he lacks the strength necessary for tomorrow’s competition. I fear bringing shame to your name, and therefore, I wish to abstain.”

“Hmph, you finally show a sliver of sense. That Wang Zhuo, disciple of Master Daoxu, has reached the peak of the first level of Qi Condensation at his young age. He could break through to the second at any moment. Even if you went, you would be crushed beneath his heel. I hear you are relatives; why is there such a chasm between you?” Sun Dazhu’s words dripped with thinly veiled scorn.

Wang Lin remained unruffled. “Wang Zhuo has always been blessed with wit and spiritual roots. It is folly to compare myself to him.”

“Have you found the gourd again in these last six months?” Sun Dazhu’s voice held a hint of reluctant curiosity.

Wang Lin shook his head, feigning disappointment. “Strange it is, Master. I have ventured to the springs many times, but never have I seen another gourd floating upon the water.”

“Is that all? Begone with you, you irritate my very soul!” Sun Dazhu spat, his temper barely restrained. The mere sight of this disciple ignited a desire to smite him with a single blow, lest he become the subject of ridicule amongst his peers.

“Master, I find myself stifled upon the mountain. I long to journey to the world below, returning only after the New Year. What say you?” Wang Lin asked, his head bowed in supplication.

“Venture down the mountain? Nay, I had almost forgotten. In four years’ time, we host the exchange meeting with the Xuandao Sect. Your Headmaster has decreed that our inner disciples must participate in a rigorous training camp commencing after the New Year. Such an embarrassment at the meeting, you can bet that it would tarnish my name.” Sun Dazhu refused.

“Training?” Wang Lin’s brow furrowed in surprise.

“These exchanges, a tradition of centuries, see the Xuandao Sect and our Hengyue Sect feign friendship while secretly vying for dominance. The past century has seen them emerge victorious too often. This training camp is intended to remedy that. Listen well: should you fail to prove your worth, I shall banish you from Hengyue Sect, regardless of the consequences!” Sun Dazhu’s words were clipped, brooking no argument.

Wang Lin sighed inwardly. It was clear that departure was out of the question. Sensing Sun Dazhu’s mounting ire, he nodded meekly and retreated.

Back in the choreography office, Wang Lin pondered his predicament. Since leaving the mountain was forbidden, he would have to use the training camp as a means to foster his growth.

The following day, the internal competition began, filling the air with shouts and displays of power. Wang Lin hesitated, then, with a firm resolve, decided to dedicate his time to consolidating the second level of Qi Condensation.

In the days that followed, whispers gleaned from other disciples revealed that Senior Brother Zhang had emerged victorious amongst the inner disciples, though some claimed it was due to the absence of any of the Purple-Clad disciples.

Wang Zhuo, as expected, had effortlessly claimed the title of newcomer king, his arrogance now unchecked as he scorned his peers.

A week later, the resonant peal of the Hengyue Sect bell shattered the quiet. Five chimes echoed across the mountain, signaling an urgent summons for all inner disciples to gather in the main hall.

Lost in the dreamspace, Wang Lin remained oblivious until Sun Dazhu, consumed by rage, burst through the door of the choreography office, tearing him from his meditative slumber. Wang Lin swiftly concealed his beads, masking his true strength, and emerged from the darkened room. Sun Dazhu, his face contorted in fury, roared, “Wang Lin, are you deaf? Did you not hear the bell? Cursed disciple! Every inner disciple participating in the training camp is already assembled, save for you! You have shamed me before the Sect elders!”

Wang Lin raised an eyebrow but offered no retort.

Sun Dazhu glared at Wang Lin, knowing that this was no time for punishment. With a wordless snarl, he seized the hapless disciple, conjured a swirling cloud of vibrant colors, and soared skyward.

They reached the hall of the main courtyard with blistering speed, where Sun Dazhu unceremoniously dropped Wang Lin upon the hard stone floor. “Wang Lin,” he hissed, his voice a venomous whisper, “follow me inside. Should you bring shame upon me again, I swear upon the name of the Sect, that I will slay you where you stand!” In his final words, Sun Dazhu’s murderous intent was crystal clear.

Wang Lin rubbed his bruised arms. Had he not been bolstered by his mastery of the second level of Qi Condensation, he surely would have broken bones. He lowered his head and quietly muttered, “Your disciple obeys, Master.”

Sun Dazhu grunted, adjusted his robes, and stalked into the hall. Wang Lin inhaled deeply, quelling his anger, and followed, his expression carefully neutral.

The Hengyue Sect Hall, the heart of the sect, was a grand and solemn place. Dozens of towering statues of revered ancestors lined the walls, casting an aura of solemnity upon the assembled.

As Wang Lin followed Sun Dazhu inside, dozens of eyes turned upon him. He felt a pressure constricting his breath, and he lowered his gaze.