As the third watch chimed, marking the deepest part of the night, I implore thee, scribe, to preserve this tale within thy scrolls!

—–

The stone steps rose like teeth from the earth, treacherous and uneven. On either side yawned perilous drops, promising a swift and brutal end to any misstep.

Before even half a day had passed, Wang Lin’s legs felt as if they were burdened with leaden weights. Sweat poured from him, a river of exhaustion, and each breath came with a desperate wheeze. From the foot of the mountain, the path had seemed a mere ribbon, but now, as he trudged along it, the trail stretched onward, an endless torment designed to crush the spirit.

Ahead, a dozen youths, their bodies honed and strong, also labored, their breaths ragged and uneven. Yet, none had yielded. Not yet.

Wang Lin clenched his jaw, forcing himself onward. He knew this was his last chance. The hopeful gazes of his parents haunted his mind. Then, from behind, a sudden cry shattered the air. One of the boys had stumbled, lost his footing on the treacherous stone. He plummeted downward, his scream a desperate plea.

“I yield! Save me!”

All movement ceased. Every head turned to look down into the abyss. A dark blur, a flicker of speed, and a disciple of the Heng Yue Sect materialized from seemingly nowhere. He plucked the falling boy from the air and landed gently at the base of the mountain.

Wang Lin’s face was ashen, his lips pressed into a thin, unwavering line. He continued his agonizing climb, heedless of all else. The hours bled into days. After two suns had risen and fallen, the figures ahead had vanished from sight.

Wang Lin could not know how many of his companions had surrendered, broken by the mountain’s unforgiving challenge. He knew only that he must not be among them. His feet were a mass of raw, weeping blisters, each step a jolt of agonizing fire. Still, he crawled, dragging himself onward with his hands.

“A staunch heart in a boy, yet the Great Dao cares naught for such things. Futile, utterly futile…” The words drifted down from the peak, carried on the wind. A man with a complexion like faded parchment, his movements as light as a feather, descended the stone steps, passing the struggling youths with a sorrowful gaze.

As he approached Wang Lin, the man paused. This was the sixth boy he had seen, and by far the most broken. Blood stained him from head to toe, soaking his clothes. His knees and fingers were a ruin of shattered flesh and bone. He was climbing only with his hands, inch by excruciating inch. The man sighed and asked, “Child, what is your name?”

Wang Lin’s mind was fading. Only one thought remained: to reach the summit, or die trying. He did not hear the man’s question. In his world, only the stone path existed.

The man studied Wang Lin’s eyes, his heart stirred by the boy’s unyielding spirit. He placed a hand upon Wang Lin’s head, then shook it sadly. “Such determination, wasted on ordinary talent. Fate is cruel…” He cast one last, lingering look at Wang Lin, then continued his descent.

On the second night, Wang Lin’s hands were nothing more than shredded meat and exposed bone. He clawed across the stone, leaving a trail of crimson in his wake. Yet, he felt nothing. He was driven only by the embers of his will, his life force flickering dangerously low.

As the sun crested the horizon on the third day, he thought he glimpsed the end of the stairs, a blurred promise on the horizon. But then, a voice, cold and final, echoed like thunder, shattering the illusion.

“Time is up! Only three have succeeded. The rest… have failed!”

Wang Lin laughed, a hollow, broken sound. His body gave way, and he collapsed upon the stones, swallowed by oblivion.

The man in black, who had judged their worth three days before, stood at the summit, his eyes devoid of pity as he looked upon Wang Lin, lying less than fifty meters from salvation.

Heng Yue Sect disciples descended swiftly, gathering the remaining youths and administering a restorative draught.

“Senior, of the thirty-nine who began, twenty-five have yielded. Besides the three successful ones, there are eleven remaining,” a female disciple reported, her voice impassive. She had faced a similar trial in her youth and only barely succeeded, earning her the title of nominal disciple. After ten years of relentless effort, she still yearned to be truly accepted.

The man in black nodded curtly, his expression unchanged. “Take the three who succeeded to the Department of Affairs, and assign them their duties. Send the twenty-five who gave up back to their families. As for these eleven who persevered, take them to the Sword Spirit Hall. See if any are favored by the spirits within. If not, they too shall be returned to their families.”

Without another glance, he turned and vanished.

Three days later, within the Sword Spirit Hall, Wang Lin and the other ten youths stood, their faces pale and drawn. Wang Lin’s physical wounds had healed, but the wounds to his spirit were far deeper, tearing at his heart with unrelenting pain.

The test in the Sword Spirit Hall was not overseen by the man in black but by a young man clad in white. His face was a mask of cold indifference, and his gaze swept over them as if they were nothing more than insects.

“This is the final trial. Only those who enter the room will succeed,” the young man announced, his tone clipped and impatient.

Wang Lin saw before him a simple building, its door open wide. Within, a collection of ancient swords, of every length and design, were laid out.

One by one, the youths approached the building. The first boy struggled as soon as he came within five meters, as if struck by an invisible force. He was pushed back.

“Failed. Next!” the young man announced.

Wang Lin was seventh in line. All those who came before him had failed to cross the five-meter threshold. With a bitter smile, he summoned the last vestiges of hope within him and stepped forward.

He passed the five-meter mark with ease. A surge of adrenaline coursed through him, and his heart pounded wildly. He took another step, and still, he felt nothing.

The young man raised an eyebrow, his eyes flickered with interest. “Don’t hesitate! Continue inside. If you can enter the hall and gain the favor of a sword spirit, even though you failed the previous trials, you will be accepted as a true disciple!”

The other ten youths looked at him with envy, but beneath that envy lay the sting of jealousy.

Wang Lin’s mind was flooded with images of his parents’ hopeful faces. He took another step, and then another. He was only three meters from the entrance. Fear gripped him, yet he took another step.

Suddenly, an overwhelming force crashed into Wang Lin, driving him backward with impossible speed. He tumbled back, landing a dozen meters away.

The other youths sneered, convinced that Wang Lin was doomed to fail.

With a broken laugh, Wang Lin felt his heart tear open anew. The hopeful faces of his parents faded from his mind.

The young man’s face returned to its prior impassivity. “Failed. Next.”