The crowd in Redleaf Town was too tightly packed for comfort, yet not a soul dared speak above a whisper. The morning sun glinted off the tiled rooftops like fire on still water, but beneath it all, a thick tension hung low—sharp as a knife, waiting to draw blood.
In the centre of the ancestral square, just past the shrine, stood the iron pillar.
Nearly twice the height of a man, the structure resembled a great tree trunk forged from dark, veined ore. No ornament. No inscriptions. Just solid, unyielding mass. It looked ancient, as if it had been torn from the depths of the world and hammered into place not by blacksmiths, but by time itself.
A disciple from The Chasing Clouds Sect, clad in a robe stitched with drifting cloud patterns, stepped forward.
"This is the first trial," he said, his voice crisp, echoing against the stones. "You may strike the pillar using any method—body, weapon, or spiritual technique. The more damage you cause, the brighter the light it emits. No illusions. No tricks. Only truth."
He rapped his knuckles against the iron.
It remained dark and cold.
"Those who leave no mark are not worth recording. Those who show potential will be considered. Those who impress may advance."
The words had scarcely settled when the first candidate stepped forward.
He was a local boy from Hollow Root Village—scrawny, pale, with nervous eyes and a scar that pulled his mouth sideways when he tried to smile. He wore mismatched boots and a woolen tunic too thin for the season.
The disciple gave him a long look. "Name."
"Hu Baotong."
The boy raised his fist with a shaking breath and drove it into the pillar with a desperate shout.
The metal thudded under his strike, but the pillar gave no response.
No light. No warmth. No acknowledgement.
The disciple gestured silently, and Baotong stepped aside, red-faced and trembling. The crowd barely noticed him.
The next few came quickly—villagers with simple weapons, thin cultivators who had perhaps reached the first stage of Qi Refining and hoped to be noticed. The pillar flickered orange once or twice, always faint. Most failed to make it glow at all.
A broad-shouldered man in his forties—Deng Liu, once a caravan guard in Eastmarsh—came forward with a thick bronze spear. His skin gleamed with oil, and he rolled his shoulders as if preparing for battle.
"I'll give you something to record," he muttered.
He spun the spear in a wide arc and brought it crashing down with all his strength.
The metal rang. A dull sound. A short pulse of red light flared—then vanished.
Deng Liu grinned, showing yellow teeth. "See that?"
The disciples said nothing.
But after he stepped back, one of them leaned toward another and whispered, "He's plateaued. Foundation's shallow. Been refining the same technique twenty years without growth."
Another candidate, a girl no older than thirteen with sharp features and a loose braid, approached with trembling hands. She carried no weapon. Her feet were bare.
She struck the pillar with both palms, qi flaring faintly.
A ripple of soft orange light emerged—gentle but visible. The disciple paused.
"Name?"
"Lin Shu."
He nodded. "Mark her."
The crowd buzzed faintly. Some parents whispered hopefully. Others just watched in silence, eyes filled with decades of disappointment.
**
Then the showboaters came.
First was Fan Zhen—seventeen, clean robes, hair tied with green silk, and a crescent blade strapped to his back. He moved with the casual arrogance of someone who had always been told he was meant for greatness.
"I've trained with real cultivators," he said loudly. "From Southbrook, not these backwater places."
He bowed—deep and exaggerated—to the judges before striding up to the pillar and unsheathing his blade with a flourish.
A few of the younger candidates stepped back to give him room.
Fan Zhen's qi swirled around him, forming a green-edged mist as he raised the blade overhead and struck in a sweeping arc.
The sound that followed was crisp, sharp. The pillar pulsed with deep yellow light.
Gasps rippled through the onlookers.
A disciple raised an eyebrow. "Stage three, maybe four. A proper technique."
Fan Zhen smiled broadly and turned to the crowd. "That's what real training looks like."
He stepped aside like a victorious general.
Then came Mei Rushi, a young woman in flowing pink, her face veiled, with a poise more elegant than proud. She moved with the quiet grace of someone who had spent long hours watching others rush forward and fail.
She didn't speak.
She stepped forward with small, measured steps, extended her hand, and channeled a flicker of pale violet qi into her palm. It shimmered briefly, like moonlight caught on still water.
She placed her hand against the pillar. Not with force, but with control.
The pillar pulsed with a soft, steady yellow. It did not blaze, but it lingered—longer than most.
One of the disciples arched an eyebrow. "A refined technique," he murmured. "Not just strength."
"Clean channels," another added. "Could reach third or fourth stage of Qi Refining with proper guidance."
The elder at the rear opened her eyes, then closed them again.
No one gasped. But several took note.
Mei Rushi bowed slightly and turned away. Her footsteps were as quiet as before.
The murmurs returned.
"She's from Willow Step Hamlet, I think."
"Trained with a wandering alchemist, I heard."
"Not bad. Not bad at all."
The crowd began to stir more now—excitement, apprehension, low envy, loud praise.
A merchant's son tried to mimic a spinning blade technique and lost his grip. A farmer's daughter with a heavy staff left a dull orange flicker and wept in joy. A pale youth from Iron Hollow shattered his knuckles on the first blow and was quietly helped away.
And still the line grew shorter.
Still Li Yao stood near the back, unmoving.
He watched them all.
The arrogant. The broken. The proud. The desperate.
He didn't envy them.
But he didn't underestimate them either.
Because when the time came, the pillar wouldn't care about background or posture or pretty footwork.
It would only answer truth.
And Li Yao's truth had not yet been spoken.