The Gilded Crane Sect’s main gate loomed, a colossal arch of polished obsidian guarded by two statues of raptors with wings outstretched, talons gripping spheres of luminous jade. Disciples, some mounted on floating chimeras, others striding with aloof pride, flowed through the entrance like a river of silk and steel. Tu Mingyu, his clothes still bearing dried gutter mud, shoved through the crowd, the bronze entry token a rough circle in his palm. His fury, a familiar companion, hummed beneath his skin, ready to erupt.
“Look at this street rat,” a voice slithered from the side. “What, did the stray dogs finally finish with you?”
Mingyu stopped. A young man with immaculate robes of sky-blue silk, a haughty sneer plastered across his face, stood blocking his path. This was Pang Tianze, the rumored top seed, his inner energy flaring with an obnoxious golden radiance. Two equally smug companions flanked him, chuckling like hyenas.
“The registration line is for adepts, not beggars,” Tianze continued, his gaze drifting over Mingyu’s tattered attire with theatrical disgust. “Even if you bribed a watchman for a token, your clogged channels wouldn’t let you past the first screening. Run along, before you stain the pure air of the Crane Peak.”
Mingyu gripped the token until bone pressed against leather. The sneer at his blocked channels, an affliction since birth, was an open blister. He took a step forward, chin thrust out. “Watch your tongue, pretty boy. Or I’ll scour this ‘pure air’ with your teeth.”
Tianze scoffed, irritation twitching across his mouth. “A stray dog barks. How quaint. Sentries! Remove this nuisance.”
Before the approaching sentries could reach them, a new voice, clear and sharp as splintered ice, cut through the gathering crowd.
“Stop.”
The sound instantly quieted the surrounding disciples. A figure stepped from the throng, her posture elegant, her robes a striking shade of silver. Her dark hair was meticulously braided, pinned with pale moonstone. Her face, framed by soft curls, was a mask of cold authority. It was Lian Xinyue.
Mingyu halted mid-breath, chest hollowed by the sight of her. Xinyue. Her presence here, among these haughty sect members, was a stark reminder of the chasm between their worlds. He started to speak, a half-formed greeting on his lips.
But her gaze, when it met his, was devoid of warmth, sharper than any blade. “Tu Mingyu,” she articulated, her voice carrying no hint of their shared past. “You are a piece of trash. A disgrace to the outer city, and an even greater insult to this sect. Leave at once. Your presence here defiles the grand arena.”
The words struck Mingyu like physical blows. He felt the blood drain from his face, replaced by a searing heat of humiliation and betrayal. Trash. From her. The girl who had shared his meager meals, whose laughter had once been the only bright thing in his harsh life. He saw the flicker in her eyes, a fleeting shadow of pain, quickly veiled by the stony facade, but his rage was already a roaring wildfire, consuming everything else.
“Did you hear that, street rat?” Pang Tianze crowed, emboldened. “Even your… acquaintance… knows your place.”
Mingyu ignored him, his focus fixed on Xinyue. He saw the subtle tension in her jaw, the way her fingers clenched just slightly at her sides. He knew her. But the betrayal cut too deep for reason. “I am here to register,” he gritted out, his voice a low growl. “And no amount of your cultivated arrogance, or your… friend’s… insults, will stop me.”
He shoved past the stunned Pang Tianze, striding towards the registration hall. The sentries, momentarily stalled by Lian Xinyue’s intervention, hesitated before rushing to bar him. But Mingyu moved with a speed born of pure fury, a blur of motion as he slipped between them, ignoring their shouts.
Inside the hall, an elder scholar with a long, wispy beard and robes embroidered with silver cranes sat at a polished darkwood desk. He watched Mingyu approach, a single eyebrow raised in mild surprise. Beside him, a glowing crystal sphere hovered, humming like an angry hornet to test an initiate's inner resonance and command.
“Halt, boy!” one of the sentries bellowed, finally catching up. “You cannot simply barge in!”
Mingyu ignored them. He tossed the bronze entry badge onto the desk, its metallic clink echoing in the sudden silence. “I’m here to register.”
The examiner, a man named Elder Jian, picked up the token, his gaze appraising. “Your martial foundation is… negligible. And your conduits, boy, are completely plugged. You cannot even ignite a spark. This token must be a jest.” He set the token back down with a dismissive tap.
“I hold a token,” Mingyu stated, his voice flat. “I demand the test.”
Elder Jian sighed, stroking his beard. “Very well. If you insist on wasting everyone’s time. Place your hand on the Resonance Orb.” He gestured to the hovering globe.
“That’s not the real test, is it?” Mingyu challenged, his eyes glinting. “The real test is if I can stand against the sect’s power. If I can prove myself worthy of even touching that orb without being thrown out.” He pulled the snapped rod from his belt, its gnarled wood dark against his knuckles. “Let’s begin.”
Elder Jian’s mild expression vanished, replaced by a flash of annoyance. “Insolent whelp! You dare challenge an examiner? Very well. I shall show you the power you lack!” He drew a translucent jade rapier from a side scabbard. Its blade hummed with primal force, casting an emerald sheen across the tiles. “This is the Viper’s Fang, an heirloom passed down through generations. I will not harm you, but I will demonstrate your utter inadequacy. If you can even deflect a single, simple thrust, I will consider your request.”
Lord Cangyan’s voice roared inside Mingyu’s skull. *“A jade blade! A consecrated relic! And he dares to duel with a mere twig? This is a desecration of swordcraft! Mingyu, do NOT insult such heritage by tapping it with firewood!”*
Mingyu, however, was past caring about ancient legacies or Cangyan’s dramatic pronouncements. All he saw was the condescension in Elder Jian’s eyes, the smirks on the sentries, and the bite of Lian Xinyue’s cold denunciation. He gripped the dead branch, a surge of raw, untamed power coursing through his veins.
Elder Jian lunged, the jade tip an emerald blur, aiming a precise thrust straight toward Mingyu’s chest to disarm him. It was a move Mingyu would have struggled to even perceive days ago.
But the black bead pulsed, time slowing to a crawl. The world around him faded, leaving only the gleaming jade blade, stretching towards him with agonizing slowness. Lord Cangyan’s shade manifested beside him, an ethereal grip closing over Mingyu’s own on the stick. *“Remember the essence! The pivot, the redirect, the strike that finds the weakness!”*
Mingyu’s body moved. The dead branch, clumsy and rough, met the polished jade blade with an impossible precision. There was no clang of metal, no impact of wood. Instead, a muffled pop resounded. The mineral core, packed with decades of refined qi, dissolved into glittering green powder that drifted like pollen onto the floor tiles.
A stunned silence fell over the pavilion. Elder Jian stood frozen, his arm extended around an empty hilt. Mouth agape, he stared at the swirling dust, then at the crude stick in Mingyu’s hand.
Lord Cangyan’s mental roar was deafening. *“YOU FOOL! THE VIPER’S FANG! AN EXQUISITE ARTIFACT! DESTROYED BY A HICKORY STICK! THE DISRESPECT!”*
The sentries surged forward with bare steel. “You dare break an elder’s blade?!” one bellowed. “This is treason! Cut him down!”
Blades boxed him in, but Mingyu stood planted, holding the rough wooden rod as green grit drifted from its tip.
“Hold!” A smooth voice cut across the commotion. Elder Moqiu, sweeping dark robes behind him, stepped into the registration hall. His usually benevolent face was etched with a look of stern disapproval, but a faint, almost imperceptible gleam danced in his eyes as he looked at Mingyu.
“Elder Jian,” Moqiu said, raising an open palm. “While the boy’s actions are regrettable, his latent force is undeniable. To dissolve an enchanted blade with a yard scrap shows immense aptitude. He deserves entry.”
Moqiu turned to Mingyu, his expression softening into a kindly smile. “Boy, what is your name?”
“Tu Mingyu,” he replied, his gaze unwavering.
“Tu Mingyu,” Moqiu repeated thoughtfully. “I will sponsor you for the championship. Furthermore, I sense an unusual stagnation in your pathways. Here.” He produced a small, translucent black pill from his sleeve, its surface swirling with faint, dark motes. “This is a Cleansing Pellet. It will purge those blockages and fortify your dantians for the coming trials.”
He offered the pill to Mingyu. The sentries, cowed by Moqiu’s rank, sheared their weapons back into scabbards while keeping hostile scowls fixed on Mingyu. Mingyu hesitated, looking at the pill, then at the elder’s seemingly benevolent face. He saw no trap, only an unexpected lifeline. Jinxi’s face flashed in his mind.
He snatched the pill and swallowed it without a second thought. As the bitter taste coated his tongue, a sudden, searing heat erupted in his gut. It wasn’t the gentle warmth of healing. It was a ferocious, agonizing blaze, black tendrils of fire erupting within his pathways, twisting and scorching, threatening to tear him apart from the inside out.