The path leading to the Saint Spirit Branch coiled like a silver ribbon through the mountain’s upper reaches, veiled in a thick, shimmering mist that clung to the rocks like memory. Ren walked in silence, his boots brushing against pale, dew-laced grass. He didn’t rush. Something in the air felt... wrong.

  It wasn’t fear exactly. Not yet. It was that quiet itch just beneath the skin, a whisper at the base of his neck—the instincts he had come to trust more than anything. He slowed, narrowing his eyes as he scanned the trees lining the path.

  The mist danced too unnaturally, shifting in and out of focus like a painting half-done. Every few steps, he caught himself staring at the same white-barked tree again and again, the same jagged stone. The slope should’ve changed more than this by now. Ren frowned.

  He stopped moving altogether and closed his eyes.

  Nothing. The same fog-laced silence.

  Then, he opened his eyes and took three steps back.

  The scenery blurred. A ripple shimmered through the air—barely visible—and the mountain path ahead reformed into something else. A new incline. A fork he hadn’t seen before. The real one.

  Ren exhaled slowly. "A formation..."

  He circled wide around the illusionary boundary, making sure not to touch the mist again. His body moved on practiced reflex, a careful, sideways approach until the pressure that had been knotting in his gut finally eased.

  Moments later, the mist cleared completely, revealing a carved stone gate flanked by glowing spirit lanterns. There, seated on a weather-worn bench beside the archway, was a young man dressed in the light robes of an outer disciple—white with a faint blue trim and two embroidered bands along the left sleeve.

  Second-class.

  The man looked up, an amused spark in his dark eyes. "Well, that didn’t take long."

  Ren raised an eyebrow, still alert. "Was I expected to take longer?"

  The older disciple chuckled and stood, stretching his back. He was lean, maybe eighteen, with a crescent scar above his jawline and a an eccentric flair that danced between charm and mystery, like someone who knew more than he let on.

  "You’re the new one, right? From the menial section? The one who came with the group that caused all that noise yesterday."

  Ren didn’t confirm, but the silence seemed answer enough.

  The disciple smirked. "Didn’t think you’d find your way out of the confusion formation so soon. It usually takes people an hour, sometimes three."

  "You mean... that mist?" Ren asked, his brow furrowing. "That was part of the test?"

  The disciple nodded. "You think the Saint Spirit Branch welcomes just anyone? The mountain doesn’t guide the blind."

  Ren looked back toward the path. The mist had already crept forward again, hiding the route behind him.

  "What would’ve happened if I didn’t step out?"

  "You’d have wandered into the grove."

  "And...?"

  The older disciple’s tone turned casual—too casual. "The pale white trees feed on weak souls. They’re drawn to unformed minds. You wouldn’t have made it far."

  Ren’s chest tightened, but he kept his expression still. "That’s part of the recruitment process?"

  The man shrugged. "Those who die to that test wouldn’t have survived what comes next. Better to die early than fail the branch and embarrass it. That's what the elders would say anyway."

  Ren said nothing.

  After a pause, the disciple turned and gestured. "Come on. The testing ground’s ahead."

  They walked together beneath hanging vines and strange blue fungi pulsing with faint light. The further they climbed, the more the forest gave way to jagged rock and polished stone. Eventually, they reached a large plateau cut into the mountain itself.

  Array circles had been carved directly into the floor—half a dozen of them—each etched with different layouts and glowing faintly with stored essence.

  "I’m Sima Ke," the disciple finally said. "Second-class disciple of the Saint Spirit Branch. I’ll be overseeing your test."

  Ren nodded. "Ren."

  Sima grinned. "Let’s see if you’re worth the name. Token, please."

  Ren retrieved his sect token and handed it over. The edges shimmered as the test fee was automatically deducted.

  Sima tossed it back. "You’ll be tested on three things: recognition, disruption, and escape."

  He gestured toward the first circle.

  "Step in."

  Ren walked into the formation. At once, he felt the shift—subtle, like his weight had doubled. The lines around him pulsed with light.

  "First, tell me what type of formation this is."

  Ren’s eyes narrowed. He stepped slowly, checking the layout—the number of lines, the connection of plates, the element marks at the edges.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  "Heavy Pressure Suppression Array. Earth-type core. Meant to wear down targets over time and test endurance."

  Sima Ke smiled. "Not bad. Next."

  The second formation activated. The air warped slightly, and a mild dizziness washed over Ren.

  "Escape."

  Ren staggered, biting the inside of his cheek to stay focused. He tried to trace the source of the array’s center, using his foot to shift a stone plate two inches to the left. The air shimmered—and cracked.

  He dropped to one knee, exhaling sharply as the dizziness vanished.

  Sima nodded. "You might survive this after all."

  By the fourth formation, Ren’s robes were soaked with sweat, his arms shaking slightly from constant adjustment and feedback. His final task was to disrupt a highly intricate illusion array—one built on eight layered plates, half of which rotated automatically.

  His fingers moved with careful calculation, shifting one plate at a time, guided not only by precise knowledge—but also by the raw instinct that had carried him this far. He didn’t yet fully understand the deep mechanisms of the array, but something in him knew where to touch, where to twist, when to hesitate. It wasn’t logic—it was survival.

  The light flickered. The world twisted—then snapped back into focus.

  The array collapsed.

  Ren exhaled. He swayed slightly but caught himself.

  Sima gave a low whistle. "Good. Very good. Not perfect—but you’re sharper than most we see."

  Ren looked up. His voice was hoarse but steady. "That’s it?"

  "That’s it. You pass."

  Ren didn’t smile. He simply nodded, stepping out of the circle, legs aching, head still swimming.

  Sima handed him a white outer disciple robe, its edges trimmed in spirit-thread blue.

  "Welcome to the Saint Spirit Branch, outer disciple Ren."

  Ren took the robe, his fingers curling around the fabric. It was smoother than anything he had worn before, soft and cool like flowing water, with a subtle weight that hinted at protective enchantments woven into every thread. Compared to the coarse, often scratchy robes of the menial disciples, it felt like stepping into another world. This wasn’t just a uniform—it was a mark of elevation. A promise of recognition. And a burden to carry forward.

  He’d made it.

  But his thoughts lingered behind him—on a grave beneath a tree, on three others walking their own paths, on a promise whispered in the blood-soaked noon.

  You better stay alive!

  Yue’s breath came in controlled bursts, her heart pounding as she crouched low in the shadow of a jagged stone monolith. The Saint Body Branch’s testing ground was unlike anything she had expected. It was vast—an open plateau surrounded by towering cliffs, ringed by trees with fire-red leaves and crags carved by ancient hands. The heat rising from the stone felt primal, natural, like the breath of a beast waiting to be challenged.

  Across from her stood a life-sized puppet, fashioned of blackwood and iron sinew, its blank face expressionless. It exuded an oppressive presence—an opponent engineered to replicate the strength, defense, and speed of a high-level Meridian Opening cultivator. Each of its limbs moved with unsettling precision, powered by tightly woven cores of refined essence. Then it moved.

  Yue sprang forward.

  Her claws extended in a flash, retractable blades of bone-hardened keratin sliding from beneath her fingertips with a slick hiss. She moved low and to the side, feeling the puppet’s swing cut the air where her head had been a breath ago. Her claws slashed across its side, sparks flaring as she tore through its outer armor.

  One down.

  But she wasn’t given time to rest. Two more puppets emerged from the cliffs, each heavier, their joints creaking like old wood and steel. Yue gritted her teeth and steadied her stance.

  She launched herself again.

  The first puppet swung low—she leapt over it, twisting mid-air, landing on its shoulder and vaulting to kick off the second one’s chest. She darted between them, her tail flicking as her balance adjusted instinctively. Her claws scraped against one puppet’s arm, tearing through the weak point at the elbow joint. Another pivot, another cut.

  Her body moved like water—fast, unpredictable, honed through countless hours of training under the sun and harsh discipline. But more than that—it moved with grief.

  Hui...

  The third wave came without warning. Four puppets. Coordinated, tighter formations. Yue’s eyes narrowed.

  She dodged a sweeping leg, dropped into a roll, slashed upward into a puppet’s torso. One of them managed to clip her shoulder, sending her skidding across the dirt. Her breath hitched, pain flaring—but she was already moving, spinning under the next strike. Her claws dug into stone as she flipped over another puppet’s back, landing hard, her muscles straining.

  Still she stood.

  They kept coming.

  The final test began without a signal. Eight puppets stepped into the arena, then another eight behind them. Sixteen in total.

  Yue felt it immediately—her body was already tired, her stamina stretched thin. Her arms trembled slightly with the effort of holding her stance. Her breath came heavier.

  Still, she did not step back.

  I made a promise.

  I will not fall here.

  The battle became a blur. The world shrank to motion and instinct. Yue ducked, twisted, leapt, clawed, bled. Her muscles screamed. Her body screamed. She refused to listen.

  She could hear Hui’s laughter in the back of her mind—Don’t push yourself too hard or I won’t make your favorite dessert.

  A puppet’s strike tore through the sleeve of her robe. Blood spattered the ground.

  She roared.

  With a burst of strength she didn’t know she had, Yue drove her claws into the nearest puppet’s core and ripped it out. The others closed in—but she weaved through them like a shadow, one motion into the next, her mind empty save for the single thought: keep moving.

  She no longer counted how many were left. Her body had entered that place beyond exhaustion, where thought fell away and only survival remained.

  Two hours.

  She didn’t know how long it had been until the last puppet fell with a shuddering thud, its limbs locking and body cracking as its core gave out.

  Yue dropped to one knee, her chest heaving.

  A horn sounded in the distance—low and echoing.

  The test was over.

  A pair of disciples emerged from a concealed platform above, watching from behind a lattice of woven stone. One of them descended, a towering woman nearly three meters tall, clad in white robes stretched across her muscular frame. Her shoulders were broad, her presence imposing, and her chest expansive, making her look less like a cultivator and more like a war deity stepped out of myth. She wore the emblem of the Saint Body Branch etched onto her shoulder, with two yellow threads on her sleeves—marks of her rank.

  She grinned, a fierce, toothy smile that could’ve been mistaken for a challenge. Her eyes glinted with approval. "Yue, right? You look like you've been through a storm and bit it back."

  Yue raised her head, panting. "Yes."

  The woman let out a low chuckle, arms crossed over her chest. "Good. You passed. That fire in you? You better keep it ablaze, you'll need it in here."

  Yue said nothing. She didn’t smile. Didn’t cry. She simply stood, blood dripping from one arm, her claws sliding back beneath her skin.

  She had made it.

  But she hadn’t won.

  Not yet.