The dueling veil dissolved into morning light, leaving the plateau raw and silent. The remaining candidates—fewer than half who had first walked the path—were ushered forward by Elder Zhao's sweeping gaze.
Before them stood a single sword.
It rested upright upon a stone dais, its blade unblemished though clearly ancient. Faint motes of starlight clung to it, as if the heavens themselves refused to let it fade. The air around it hummed, quiet but firm, and every step closer pressed on their hearts.
"This is the Oathblade," Elder Zhao said. His voice carried not force, but weight. "Each of you will step forward, place your hands upon the hilt, and speak your vow. If your intent is false, the sword will cast you aside. If your heart is true, it will answer. The sect does not require perfection… but it demands sincerity."
One by one, the youths approached. Some spoke with trembling voices, others shouted with nervous bravado. A few were thrown back, coughing blood as the sword rejected them. The rest, chosen, stood straighter, their paths acknowledged.
At last, Lin Feng's name was called.
He walked to the dais, breath steady, eyes bright. His fingers wrapped around the hilt—cool, impossibly solid, like touching the spine of the sky itself.
"I vow," he said, voice clear, "to walk forward no matter how heavy the road. For my mother, for my sister, for the home that raised me—I will carve a name that Sunflower Town can be proud of. And I will not stop until I do."
The sword pulsed. A faint shimmer of starlight ran up the blade, warm against his palm. The mountain air trembled, acknowledging him.
Feng exhaled, smiling faintly, and stepped back.
Then, Qiao Wen.
His movements were slower, but no less certain. When he placed his hands on the sword, the silence stretched, heavy as stone.
"I vow," Wen said, voice low but steady, "to prove that silence is not weakness. That solitude does not mean being left behind. I will bear the Qiao name with strength—and I will stand beside those I call brother, no matter what comes."
The Oathblade thrummed, louder this time. Light rippled outward, scattering faint motes of silver across the plateau. Some candidates gasped. Elder Zhao's eyes narrowed, just slightly.
When Wen stepped back, he and Feng exchanged a glance. Not of relief, but of understanding. They had both been heard.
When the last vow was spoken, Elder Zhao raised a hand. "From this day, you are disciples of the Starveil Sword Sect. Remember your oaths. They will follow you longer than any shadow."
The candidates bowed.
But as Feng and Wen straightened, they felt it—the weight of eyes. Elder Zhao was watching them, his expression unreadable, his gaze lingering longer than on any other youth.
In the far distance, high above the sect, John bit into another apple, a lazy grin tugging at his lips.