Li Yao stepped into the square with no fanfare. No cheer or hush. No gasps at his name.
The crowd's attention had already begun to fray—some chatting under their breath, some fanning themselves against the heat. To most, he was just another candidate at the tail end of a long morning.
But a few watched. A few who remembered.
The cultivator in white at the rear of the disciples also took note—subtly adjusting her posture as if something about the boy's presence had added weight to the air.
Li Yao stopped before the iron pillar, reached behind him and slowly unslung the blade.
It was not something he had forged himself. The weapon had been given—no, traded for—in a strange bargain with a blacksmith whose mind had long since cracked, a hermit of rust and madness that vanished as quickly as he'd appeared. The blade wasn't steel, nor jade, nor any metal the cultivators of Redleaf Town could name. It was simple in appearance, dull grey, rough-edged, and unadorned, looking almost like a ruined relic, something discarded by history.
But it was sharp.
It was heavy.
And sometimes, it stirred in his grip when his emotions surged too strongly.
Li Yao had tested it dozens of times and could not explain it. The weapon responded—not with light or song or sudden transformation, but subtly, as if it were aware. Or watching.
He held it in both hands now, still wrapped in the same cloth that had muffled it since the shrine. The cultivators in their white and blue silks gave it a passing glance, dismissive.
One even whispered, "Stone club?"
Li Yao didn't correct them.
He took his stance, feet braced in the stone-rooted style he had developed through hardship alone. The qi in his body swirled low—not refined, but dense and unyielding, like the packed earth beneath ancient mountains.
Then he struck.
No technique name. No incantation. No embellishment.
Only will, intent—and something in the blade that rose to meet him.
The iron pillar trembled.
The flash of red was unmistakable.
Not the golden flare of prodigies. Not the calm yellow of stability. But red—deep and pulsing. The color of rage. Of resolve. Of blood.
And if he'd been paying attention, he might have noticed how the blade hummed—just faintly—when his thoughts turned toward the price he'd had to pay. Emotions stirring like deep currents of a dark ocean as Li Yao thought of the word kill.
He turned and walked away.
**
The crowd rippled with low conversation.
"He used that?"
"Did you see the light?"
"What was that technique? He didn't even channel qi."
"Was it… just strength?"
A few scoffed.
"He's a fluke. That's all it is."
"Red's not that high."
"Did you see his root? No? Then forget it."
But others watched him as he walked.
They didn't speak.
They just remembered.
**
Back among the disciples, quiet conversations sparked.
"Not refined. But something's there."
"Too raw."
"But the intent…"
"…was pure."
The elder cultivator in white did not speak.
But she made a note in her own hand.
Not in the public ledger.
Something private.
**
Li Yao returned to the outskirts of the square. He did not look for approval. He did not seek praise.
His blade was heavier now.
The mark on his soul—a little deeper.
But he had stepped into a space meant to judge worth and spoken in the only language he knew: effort, sacrifice, and truth.
And the iron had answered.