The oars groaned as they dipped into the cold morning waters, the boat rocking gently beneath them. Mist clung low over the river, a pale shroud stretching from bank to bank. On the boat's wet planks, Zhan Kai Tian worked wordlessly, sleeves rolled up, hands slick with fish blood and brine.
They'd been out before dawn, dragging nets through the deeper channels. The older men moved with practiced rhythm—grizzled shoulders, tobacco-stained teeth, hands like rope and bone—no one wasted breath except to curse the current or shout a command.
"Watch your end, Kai Tian. Net's snagging!"
"Got it," he called back, bracing his feet and hauling hard.
At eighteen, he was the youngest aboard. Lean and sinewed from labor, with black hair plastered to his forehead, he earned his place not with lineage or strength, but quiet, relentless effort. The fishermen didn't speak kindly of him, but they didn't scorn him either. He was the widow's son. Quiet. Reliable.
The net surfaced heavy with life, flailing silver in the morning light. Fish slapped the planks, and water streamed across the deck. Kai Tian fell into sorting them, hands moving fast, face expressionless. He didn't work for praise. He worked so his mother didn't have to keep her fingers bleeding with needlework.
By noon, the boat returned to the village dock, and Kai Tian helped unload fish crates for trade. He carried two on his back alone, strolling up the dirt path toward the market, where bartering voices rose like smoke over the square.
When he reached home, he found his mother outside the hut, hanging dried roots along the slanted eaves. She turned when he arrived.
"You're late."
"We had a good catch," he said, setting down the crates. "Old Bian said it was the best this month."
She gave a slow nod. "That'll sell well."
He gave a smile. "We can afford oil. Maybe a bit of flour too."
She glanced at him. "Save it. I may need it."
Something in her tone gave him pause.
"especially if you're leaving soon."
"…What happened?"
She turned away, folding her hands slowly before speaking.
"A man came this morning. From a sect, Boundless Sword Sect."
His heartbeat jumped. "What?"
"He met with the village head. Word spread quickly."
He stared at her, the blood in his arms seeming to cool.
She continued, her voice steady. "The sect is recruiting across the region. They're testing the younger generation of every village. All children between five and eighteen."
"…The whole village?"
She nodded. "They're looking for anyone with Spirit Roots."
He looked down at his hands."But… if I leave, how will you live?"
She stepped closer, taking his wrist.
"I've lived through worse. And I will again, if I must," she said softly. "But you-I know you have something worth more than a few copper coins or salted fish."
He didn't answer. His chest felt tight.
"Since you were old enough to understand what it meant to grow up without a father, you never asked why he left, never once asked why me. You only picked up the rod and started fishing. You worked, you stood beside me, and you carried what no boy your age should have to."
She touched his shoulder, looking him square in the eyes.
She turned briefly, then came back with a small cloth bundle. She pressed it into his hands.
Inside: a clean, mended tunic. A cloth roll of dried food. And a thin gold-and-jade bracelet.
Kai Tian looked at it without touching.
"…His."
She nodded. "The only thing he left behind."
His jaw tightened. "Then why give it to me?"
She looked him dead in the eye. "Because it's a reminder."
He stayed quiet, but his eyes were hard.
"You'll wear it," she said, her voice firm. "Not because it's precious. But because it's not. Because your father left only a piece of metal—No farewell. No explanation."
Her hand gripped his arm.
"You wear that bracelet to remember the one thing a man should never do: abandon his family."
Her words struck deeper than any blade.
"You'll go into the world," she said, her voice low now, "and you'll see all kinds of men—powerful, rich, arrogant. But you remember this: Strength without loyalty is filth. Be better than him, Kai Tian. Promise me."
He looked at the bracelet again. Then slowly, silently, he slid it onto his wrist.
It didn't glow. It didn't hum.
It was a weight that didn't belong to him, but one he would carry.
"…What if I don't pass?"
"Then come back. And we keep going." Her smile was sad, but strong. "But I don't think you'll come back."
He didn't speak for a long moment.
"I'll try, though I'm unsure how this works."
She said. "I'm sure you'll pass."
By evening, the entire village buzzed with excitement and anxiety—the square filled with murmurs and shifting gazes. Parents straightened collars and whispered warnings. Children practiced stances they barely understood.
Zhan Kai Tian stood quietly and unnoticed at the edge of it all, while others preened.
There was Jin Yao, the tax keeper's son, dressed in a sky-blue robe stitched with silver clouds, who walked like his feet didn't touch the ground. Lin Mian was already learning sword forms from her uncle, a Mercenary, and had a proud tilt to her chin. And there was Guo Sheng, broad-shouldered, cocky, already boasting that the Boundless Sword Sect would make him a core disciple by year's end.
Most of them barely looked at Kai Tian—just a boy who stank of river fish and wore boots stuffed with straw. But that was fine. He wasn't there to impress them. That night, his mother prepared a meal of hot porridge with a sliver of salted fish and placed a folded bundle on his straw mat.
Inside: a clean tunic she'd mended a dozen times, and a cloth-wrapped roll of dried food.
"You'll wear this," she said. "And walk straight. Even if no one calls your name, you will walk with your head held high."
He nodded.
Dawn broke cold and gray.
The villagers gathered early at the field outside the granary, where a silver-robed figure stood atop a wooden platform. Behind him were two junior disciples of the Boundless Sword Sect—one carrying a tall ceremonial sword, the other holding a jade scroll and a strange crystal disk that shimmered faintly in the morning mist.
"Silence," the steward called, his voice cutting through the murmurs like a blade. "Today, the Boundless Sword Sect opens its gate for the worthy."
A hush fell.
All of the age will step forward when called. You will place your hand on the crystal. The heavens will judge your potential. Talent, strength, clarity—these are the traits we seek."
Zhan Kai Tian looked around. Dozens of village youths, some confident, some nervous. His own heart was quiet. Not still—but calm. Steady.
When they began calling names, children stepped forward one by one.
Some lit the crystal. Some didn't. Some cried. Some grinned.
"Jin Yao."
His name rolled out like a polished stone, smooth and full of entitlement.
Jin Yao stepped forward with an air of supreme confidence. His silk robes shimmered with silver-thread clouds, clearly tailored for this one moment. He walked with the grace of someone who had never lifted anything heavier than a lacquered chopstick, his hands manicured, his posture affected.
The crowd watched—some in awe, some in quiet disdain.
He paused before the platform, bowed exaggeratedly, and placed his hand delicately on the crystal disk, as though it might soil him.
Nothing.
The disk remained dull. Dead. Silent.
Jin Yao blinked, lips twitching.
He pressed harder.
Still nothing.
A few children in the crowd tittered.
"No… no, wait," he said, voice rising. "Give it a moment."
But the steward was already turning.
"No Root. Move on."
Jin Yao's face drained of color.
"What?" he snapped. "No, that's not right. Try again. The sun was in my eyes—I wasn't centered. Do it again!"
"Next."
The steward didn't even look at him.
"I am the tax keeper's son!" Jin Yao blurted, the edges of his voice cracking now. "You think I'm just some-some peasant brat?! This is absurd. My father—my father knows people!"
The crowd was silent, not out of fear, but discomfort.
Jin Yao's voice quivered. His shoulders trembled.
"Please let me redo the test."
He wasn't shouting anymore.
He was begging.
The steward didn't blink. "The heavens will not change your fate."
Jin Yao's face crumpled—first into disbelief, then into shame, then something worse: tears. Ugly, public, silent tears. His shoulders hunched inward. He backed away from the disk like it had struck him.
And when he returned to the crowd, head down, silk sleeves brushing the dirt, no one met his eyes.
Not even the friends who'd laughed with him that morning
"Guo sheng."
The name was barked more than spoken, and the boy answered it with a sharp grin, tossing his thick cloak over one shoulder. Broad-chested, with arms crossed like he already had a sword, he strutted forward, pausing halfway to glance over his shoulder at his little knot of followers.
"Watch closely," he called. "This is how a cultivator walks."
He mounted the platform and slapped his palm onto the crystal disk with the same confidence he used when arm-wrestling in the tavern's shadow. The disk responded almost immediately—a clean, clear silver glow, tinged faintly at its edge with brown.
The crowd murmured.
The steward raised an eyebrow. "Sky Spirit Root. Middle-tier quality. Earth affinity."
There was a pause.
Then Guo Sheng barked a laugh. "Hah! I have a Root! Didn't I say it?"
He spun toward the villagers, arms raised. "I was born for this!"
Behind him, his father—an ex-guard turned grain merchant—clapped loudly, pride swelling his face like a ripe gourd. His mother, wrapped in thick-woven shawls, clasped her hands together and cried joyfully. Even his younger brother danced in place.
"That's my boy!" his father boomed. "Didn't I say? His arms are like ox sinew! Born with power!"
Guo Sheng soaked it in. He stood taller than ever, head high. "Just watch me. I'll become an immortal in no time."
And while the praise flowed and Guo Sheng basked in it, already posing for the villagers, telling them to make a statue of him, he never once looked back at the crystal.
"Chen Lu."
A girl of thirteen stepped forward, face pale, hands trembling. She placed her palm gently onto the crystal.
No light.
She bit her lip, bowed politely, and walked away. No tears. Just the slow slump of crushed hope in her shoulders.
"Wu Han."
A lanky boy with dust-caked feet. He wiped his palm nervously on his tunic before pressing it to the disk.
Nothing.
His grandmother muttered something about bad luck. His father wouldn't meet his eyes.
Lin Mian."
Her name drew immediate attention—not from loud admirers, but from the kind of hush that settles when someone worth watching steps forward. She didn't smile, didn't preen. She walked, sword on her back, shoulders squared like she belonged on a battlefield, not a muddy village edge.
Her boots left clean prints in the frost-bitten dirt.
At the platform, she paused only to bow sharply and precisely before placing her hand on the crystal.
For a heartbeat, nothing.
Then—
Light.
Not fire. Not chaos. A soft radiance, white-gold in hue, unfurling like morning sun through clouds. The crystal pulsed once, deep and full, then held its glow, unwavering and warm.
The color shifted slightly—gold touched with the faintest hint of green, like leaves kissed by divine light.
The steward's eyes sharpened. His voice, for the first time that day, held real weight. He was also smiling.
"Holy Spirit Root. Top-tier quality."
Murmurs stirred, reverent this time. Not envy—awe.
Guo Sheng's grin cracked, one corner of his mouth twitching downward. He shifted slightly, as if something itched beneath his skin. His father's earlier cheers died into an awkward grunt.
Lin Mian bowed again, not to flaunt, but as if it were the proper thing to do. She turned from the platform and walked back with the same calm purpose, her expression unreadable, her eyes forward.
She passed Zhan Kai Tian
He didn't meet her gaze.
Then—
"Zhan Kai Tian."
The air stilled again.
And the boy from the river stepped forward.
The name fell into the cold air like a dropped coin—small, but loud in the silence it left behind.
Heads turned. Some with mild surprise. Others with amusement. And a few, like Guo Sheng, snorted openly.
"The fish boy?"
"He's not even wearing proper shoes."
Zhan Kai Tian ignored the mockery.
He walked.
One step after another, boots stuffed with straw, tunic stiff with salt, dull gold-and-jade bracelet on his wrist, he didn't look at the crowd, didn't glance at the platform, just walked. He stopped in front of the disk.
"Earth Spirit Root."
The disk pulsed again.
The steward's voice sharpened slightly, his fingers brushing a charm at his waist.
"…Middle-tier quality."
Another murmur swept the crowd.
"That makes four."
"Earth root—he can cultivate…"
"But he's just a fisherman—how does he have one?"
But Kai Tian didn't react.
His eyes stayed on the disk. Calm. Measuring. As if he were the one judging it.
The light faded.
He removed his hand and bowed once more.
Behind him, someone scoffed—Guo Sheng, trying to reclaim attention. "Middle-tier Earth? Guess even mud gets lucky sometimes."
But his voice rang, people began laughing, but Kai Tian didn't care; he didn't linger. He slipped away from the square. The sun hung low behind the hills when Zhan Kai Tian returned home, his boots stained with frost and mud, the crowd's whispers still clinging faintly to his shoulders.
He stepped through the crooked gate, past the bundles of drying roots and fish skins, toward the small, smoke-scarred hut.
His mother was squatting by the fire pit, stirring a clay pot with a wooden spoon. Her face was turned away, and her hair was half-tied in a fraying ribbon.
She heard his footsteps and glanced up. Her eyes searched his face—sharp, unreadable, but hungry.
"Well?"
He took a breath.
"I have a spirit root," he said. "Earth. Middle-tier."
She blinked once. Then again.
"…Is that good?"
"It means I can go."
Her eyes widened slowly. And then—she smiled—a raw, crooked thing.
It was the smile of someone who had nothing to give but everything to feel.
"You… you can go? They accepted you?"
He nodded.
She let out a strange laugh—a mix of joy and disbelief—then rose and grabbed his shoulders. Her hands were rough and cracked, knuckles swollen from years of washing and sewing. She didn't embrace him so much as grip him, as if afraid he might vanish like a dream.
"I knew it," she whispered. "I told myself, I told the gods, my boy is meant for more than fish guts and broken nets. You're going."
He looked down a little awkwardly. "I'm not sure if it's good; the tester didn't react like they did with the others. "
But she shook her head fiercely.
"I don't care if it's weak, strong, golden, or made of mud. You passed. That's enough."
She stepped back, her eyes shining in the firelight.
"You'll be better than some fisherman, you'll wear better boots," she said, half to herself. Learn things. Sword things, Cultivator things. You'll be out of this small village, away from this-this life."
Then, quieter: "And maybe one day, I won't wake up wondering if you'll drown in the river."
He didn't know what to say. His throat felt tight again.
She turned away suddenly. "Come in. Sit. It's hot tonight—rice and the good fish. And I even found that dried plum you like."
He followed her into the hut. The scent of sweet yam and smoke filled the air. A clay pot bubbled over the coals, and beside it, two bowls waited.
She ladled his portion first—extra fish, no bones, picked clean the way she always did for him when he was little. The rice was softer than usual. The stew was thick.
It wasn't a feast. But it felt like one.
As they ate, she kept glancing at him, like she was seeing him all over again.
"You'll write to me?" she asked suddenly. "Or… whatever cultivators do. Messages with birds. Swords in the sky. That kind of thing."
He smiled faintly. "I'll find a way."
She poured him a thimble of warmed plum wine. "Just one," she warned. "You're still a little boy to me, even if you are eighteen already."
He drank slowly. She watched every sip.
Then, when their bowls were empty and the fire was low, she rose and tucked the blanket around his straw mat more carefully than usual.
She paused before stepping back.
"…I always told myself you weren't born for this place," she said softly. "Now I know it."
She didn't say she loved him.
She didn't have to.