The inside of the carriage was stifling.
Over thirty children packed together, shoulder to shoulder, each one jostling for space. They were still small, none older than thirteen, but crammed into the same cramped wagon, the air quickly turned sour with sweat, nerves, and stale breath.
Han Li sat in the far corner, silent and still, watching the others.
Even at his age, he understood one thing clearly, it was better to stay quiet and observe.
From the way they spoke, how they dressed, and where they sat, the children had clearly split into three kinds.
The first group orbited around a boy seated confidently in the center of the wagon.
His name was Wu Nian. Thirteen years old, technically too old for the sect's selection, but exceptions were easy when your cousin happened to be married to one of the sect's elders.
Wu Nian came from a martial hall in the city, the kind that charged silver for lessons and gave wooden swords to children. He wasn't some genius, but even a few months of basic forms made him a giant among farm boys.
Naturally, others clustered around him, laughing at his jokes, praising his posture, treating him like a young noble.
The second group were those flatterers, children of city tradesmen, stable hands, and errand boys. They were sharp-tongued, always quick to call him "Young Master Wu," always nodding at his every word like little shadows.
Even Wu Nian had started believing he deserved it.
Then there were the third kind.
Children like Han Li.
Quiet. Poor. Mostly from the outskirts, distant villages where rice was rationed and shoes were passed down between siblings. They huddled in the corners, too timid to speak, their eyes drifting between awe and anxiety.
Han Li didn't feel ashamed.
But he understood what he looked like to the others.
After five long days on the road, the carriage finally stopped.
The children stumbled out and found themselves staring up at a mountain that seemed to pierce the clouds.
This was Mount Taiha, the heart of the Seven Mysteries Sect.
The peak shimmered beneath the dying light of day, bathed in hues of crimson and gold. For a moment, the mist hanging around its cliffs looked like flowing silk.
Legend claimed that long ago, a five-colored phoenix had died here, and its body became the mountain itself. Locals still called it Fallen Phoenix Mountain, though no outsider dared approach it now.
The mountain belonged to the sect.
No travelers were allowed past its base. No commoners wandered its slopes.
It stood alone.
Mount Taiha was third next to White Python Mountain in the Jing Province. Ten miles wide, dotted with ridges and overlapping peaks, most of it had already been claimed by various divisions within the sect.
But the tallest, and most dangerous, was Falling Sun Peak.
Only one narrow path wound up its cliffs, guarded by thirteen stone checkpoints manned day and night. No one reached the summit without permission.
That summit was where the sect's true heart beat.
Han Li barely had time to take it all in before a voice called out ahead.
An old man with rosy cheeks and a calm bearing stood waiting near the path. His hands were folded behind his back, and he radiated the quiet pressure of someone used to being obeyed.
"Protector Wang," the elder called. "What took so long? You're two days late."
"There were delays on the road, Elder Yue," replied Protector Wang, bowing low. His tone had changed, deferential now. "I accept full responsibility."
Han Li blinked. So this was an elder?
Elder Yue glanced at the group of children without much interest. "Seventeenth batch?"
"Yes, Elder."
"Very well. Take them to the outer guest lodge. Let them rest tonight. Tomorrow morning, the selection begins. Any who fail will be escorted off the mountain. Don't break protocol."
"Yes, Elder."
They were herded up a stone path carved into the side of the mountain.
No one dared speak.
Even Wu Nian, bold and smug just hours ago, now walked in silence.
The disciples they passed wore pale green robes. Some bore swords on their hips. Others walked bare-handed but moved with a quiet confidence that made Han Li uneasy. Their gazes were calm but piercing, like people who saw through lies with a single glance.
These weren't common soldiers. They weren't brawlers from some back-alley martial hall.
They were cultivators.
Han Li felt it.
They reached a smaller peak just before dusk. A simple earthen lodge stood waiting, quiet and bare.
That night, Han Li couldn't sleep.
Not from nerves. Not exactly.
He lay on a straw mat, staring at the wooden beams overhead, and imagined himself in silk robes, standing atop the mountain. In his dream, he carried a golden sword and walked with the calm strength of the disciples he'd seen.
He dreamed of knocking down the blacksmith's son from the village, the one who always called him Dummy, with a single, clean strike.
For once, everyone would look at him with awe.
At dawn, the dream faded.
They were shaken awake before the sun had fully risen.
No food. No questions.
Just a command to follow.
They marched in silence to a grove of dark bamboo near the mountain's edge.
Waiting beneath the trees were Elder Yue and several unfamiliar figures, all older, all dressed in the flowing robes of the Seven Mysteries Sect.
Their eyes were sharp. Their presence cold and quiet.
The air around them felt heavy, as if the mountain itself waited for their approval.
This was it.
The test was about to begin.