Sun Dazhu, his face a mask of restrained satisfaction, rasped, “This token grants you passage to and from the medicine garden. Yet, mark well these words, boy: without my express leave, not a single leaf shall be touched. Understand?”

Wang Lin inclined his head, understanding blooming in his heart. He knew Sun Dazhu bore him no great affection. It was likely his ascent to the third level of Qi Condensation that grudgingly earned him a modicum of recognition as a disciple. He bowed low, offering no argument.

Soon after, he found himself before the Jianling Pavilion in the main courtyard. He had stood here once before, long ago, and the ghosts of those past days danced again in his memory.

A disciple in simple white robes sat cross-legged at the Pavilion’s threshold. He was a portly man, nearing his fourth decade, whose soft form betrayed a lack of martial discipline. Clearly, the rigors of the training camps had eluded him.

He cast a surprised glance at Wang Lin. “Junior brother,” he exclaimed, “you barely cling to the third level of Qi Condensation! What brings you here? The Jianling Pavilion is for those of the fourth level and beyond.”

Wang Lin said nothing, merely produced the token bestowed by Sun Dazhu and offered it forth.

The portly disciple took it, and a most peculiar expression warred upon his features. He seemed to choke back a rising tide of mirth. After a struggle, he could contain himself no longer. Laughter erupted from his throat. “Aha! So the tradition endures in Uncle Sun’s lineage! I had forgotten. It is his habit, you see, to adorn his establishment with his… flying sword… whenever the Sect engages in parley with others.”

Wang Lin felt a flush of embarrassment creep up his neck. He recalled Sun Dazhu’s earnest demeanor only moments ago, and a wry smile twisted his lips.

The portly disciple, finally mastering his amusement, waved a hand, quelling his mirth. “Go on in, junior brother. I suggest you consider the third one to the right. A truly remarkable flying sword, that. When first I beheld it, I was convinced I had encountered the most wondrous blade in all the cultivation world of Zhao.”

Wang Lin offered hasty thanks and turned to leave. Five paces from the entrance, a subtle tremor ran through his spiritual sense, emanating from within the Pavilion, as if some unseen force sought to bar his advance.

The portly disciple, realizing he had forgotten to deactivate the Jianling Pavilion’s wards, moved to call Wang Lin back. But the words caught in his throat, like a fishbone lodging fast. His eyes widened, filled with stark, disbelieving astonishment.

Wang Lin felt the resistance, and the memory of his earlier humiliation stung him. He snorted softly and strode forward, each step deliberate and sure. Five paces. Four. Three. Two. One!

No matter how fiercely the resistance surged, it could not impede Wang Lin’s progress. He crossed the threshold with ease. Once inside, he extended his spiritual sense, only to find it strangely limited, unable to extend beyond a radius of three meters!

The portly disciple leaped to his feet, his face a mask of shock. As the designated guardian of the Jianling Pavilion, he knew the power of the formation, specifically designed to isolate spiritual consciousness. He had seen even seasoned masters falter and retreat before its might, let alone mere inner disciples.

Only during the initial disciple recruitment was the formation weakened, its sword energy diffused to test for inherent resonance.

“Can it be… is the formation broken?” The portly disciple could scarcely believe what he had witnessed. After a moment of frantic thought, he convinced himself that the formation must indeed be malfunctioning. He lunged forward, eager to test his theory.

But scarcely five paces in, a crushing pressure descended, as if the very sky had collapsed upon him. His body felt like a fragile skiff tossed upon a raging sea. He was hurled backward, tracing a ragged arc through the air, punctuated by gasping coughs of blood. He landed heavily upon the ground, and it was some moments before his consciousness returned. “N-no… not broken!” he mumbled, dazed.

Inside, Wang Lin surveyed the chamber. Ancient swords of varying lengths adorned the walls, each radiating a palpable aura of sword intent.

His gaze swept across the array of weapons, pausing at none, until at last, he found the “most wondrous” blade the portly disciple had described.

Wang Lin was rendered speechless. It was, undeniably, remarkable. Yet, it was not a sword at all, but rather, a rectangular door panel.

Two palms wide and a meter in length, it gleamed with an absurdly gaudy golden sheen. But this was no celestial light, no evidence of arcane power. The gold was, quite literally, a thin layer of precious metal hammered onto the surface.

And beneath that gold? Nothing more than common pig iron, dull and uninspired.

The hilt was studded with two enormous, vulgar diamonds, and even the sword’s decorative spikes were woven from golden wire.

In short, this blade, when wielded, would undoubtedly project an image of unrivaled, ostentatious power.

Wang Lin stroked his chin thoughtfully. This “sword” held a certain appeal. If he were ever in dire straits, it could be pawned for a king’s ransom.

Attached to the gaudy monstrosity was a small placard: “This sword, called Jufu, was forged five centuries past by a master artisan of this very sect. It is said to possess power beyond mortal reckoning. In truth, the sword has been broken many times. Yet, the master, who served the sect with unwavering loyalty throughout his long life, decreed, in his final breath, that this sword be enshrined in the Jianling Pavilion, awaiting one of destined fate.

“He who chooses this sword must be of kind heart. If it be broken, it must be mended, and never, under any circumstance, be sold, lest the wielder face expulsion from the sect!”

Wang Lin chuckled softly. He reached out and grasped the ostentatious “flying sword.” “I choose you,” he murmured. “And as Wang Lin is a poor man, if you break, don’t expect me to mend you.”

He slid the “sword” into his storage bag and emerged from the Jianling Pavilion. The portly disciple, who had been sneering only moments before, now stared at him with wide-eyed wonder.

Wang Lin, having been shielded from the portly man’s earlier antics, was understandably surprised by this sudden change in demeanor.

He returned to Sun Dazhu’s medicine garden and retrieved the Jufu. Sun Dazhu stared at it, muttering to himself for a long moment. Finally, he fixed Wang Lin with a knowing gaze. “I confess, I lacked the stomach to carry that gaudy trinket in my day. But you, boy, you have the audacity. Very well. In three days, you shall carry it forth for the eyes of the Xuandao Sect and your own masters.”

Three days later, the bells of Hengyue Sect chimed nine times, their resonant peals echoing across the mountains. The Sect Head, along with the elders and their respective disciples, stood gathered outside the main hall.

A black speck appeared in the sky, growing larger with each passing moment. Soon, all could make out a colossal centipede, easily a hundred meters in length. Its segmented body was the color of midnight, and it trod upon swirling black clouds, crackling with bolts of lightning. It charged towards them.

A collective gasp swept through the ranks of the inner disciples. Some of the younger women trembled with fright, their knees threatening to buckle.

“What is all this fuss?” a crimson-faced elder bellowed, his voice carrying easily across the ranks. “This thousand-legged vermin may look fearsome, but if each of you were to strike it but once with your swords, it would surely perish!” He spoke loud enough, intentionally, to ensure his words reached the ears of the Xuandao Sect delegation.