The morning mist still clung to the mountain paths when Elder Zhao gathered the new recruits. His voice carried the calm weight of a man who had done this countless times before.
"From this moment, you are outer disciples of the Starveil Sword Sect," he said. "Your lives will be measured by effort, not by origin. Work hard, and the mountain will remember your name. Slack, and you will vanish like mist."
With that, he motioned to a young man in grey robes standing nearby.
"Luo Han, show them around."
The outer disciple bowed lightly before turning to the group. His smile was far less severe than Zhao's tone. "Follow me. I'll give you the tour—and some advice, free of charge."
The group of recruits—nervous, excited, and already sizing one another up—trailed behind Luo Han. He gestured toward courtyards where disciples practiced sword forms in crisp unison, to training fields where groups wrestled with heavy logs, and even to a cluster of simple dormitories built against the mountain wall.
"Each of you will be assigned quarters here on the outer slopes," Luo Han explained. "No servants. No comfort. Just food, training, and stone walls. If you want silk pillows and private gardens, earn your way to the inner peaks."
Lin Feng walked near the front, eyes bright and eager, drinking in every detail. Beside him, Wen kept his usual calm expression, though his sharp gaze noted every building, every formation carved into the paving stones.
Behind them, the other new disciples revealed their colors quickly.
One boy, lean and hawk-eyed, carried himself with haughty arrogance. "So this is it? Hardly worthy of the starveil name," he scoffed.
Another, pudgy and nervous, kept bowing to everyone—even the stone statues. "O-oh, excuse me, pardon me, first day nerves…"
A third yawned, walking with hands tucked behind his head. "Hope the food's better than the rules sound. Otherwise I might just sleep through training."
Feng chuckled, glancing back. "Then you'll have no excuse when you fall flat on your face."
The proud one narrowed his eyes. "Careful, inn boy. We'll see who lasts longer."
"Don't worry," Feng shot back with a grin. "I'll cheer for you when you're sweeping floors."
Several recruits snorted. Even the pudgy one chuckled nervously.
Wen smirked faintly. "Feng makes friends everywhere he goes, even before the first meal."
"And you?" Feng elbowed him. "You'll hide behind me until they all realize you're scarier when you're silent."
A ripple of laughter spread through the group, easing the tension. Even Luo Han allowed himself a small smile.
They reached a wide stone plaza where dozens of disciples trained in pairs. At its center stood a tall slab etched with glowing names—ten of them, shifting faintly like stars in the night sky.
"That," Luo Han said, his voice losing its casualness, "is the leaderboard. To rise above outer disciple, you need to stay in the top ten for at least a month. Fail, and you'll never reach the inner peaks."
As he spoke, one of the glowing names flickered—shimmering brightly for a moment before vanishing, replaced instantly by another. A murmur rippled through the plaza as disciples turned toward a nearby dueling platform.
Two young men stood locked in combat—one fell, coughing blood. Gasps followed, and immediately his name vanished from the board.
"See that?" Luo Han pointed. "Someone just fell off. The board shifts with every defeat. Top ten never stays still for long."
Feng's eyes lingered on the glowing slab. "So strength isn't just about passing the trials."
"Exactly," Luo Han replied. "Here, strength is a constant trial."
Wen's gaze was cooler, but steady. "Then we'll see how long it takes to carve our names there."
Several of the recruits muttered at his confidence, though none challenged it openly. Feng only grinned wider, already imagining their names glowing among the stars.
Meanwhile, Below the Peak
Far below the towering main peak, John leaned lazily against a stone railing, watching clouds drift between mountains. He looked for all the world like a traveler resting after a long hike, an apple in hand.
He tilted his head as laughter and shouts echoed faintly from the plaza above. "Leaderboards, duels, rankings… kids and their games," he muttered. "Back in my day, we just fought until someone passed out."
A patrolling disciple spotted him and frowned. "Hey! Mortals aren't allowed here. If you're visiting family, their quarters are on the lower slopes. This path is restricted."
John took another slow bite of his apple. "I came to see the sect leader."
The disciple blinked, then barked a laugh. "The sect leader? You think you can just walk up the main peak? That's suicide. You see that shimmer?" He pointed to the faint glow encircling the base of the peak. "That's a killing formation. Strong enough to grind intruders into dust. Even elders don't cross it lightly."
John dusted his hands, as though brushing crumbs off his robes. "Sounds troublesome."
The disciple stepped forward to block him. "Move along before you—"
But John was already walking.
The formation shimmered brighter, light swirling like storm clouds—and then, impossibly, it parted. No flash, no thunder. The deadly barrier dissolved around him as though it had never been there.
The disciple froze. His mouth hung open as John strolled past, hands in his pockets, whistling an off-key tune.
Not a ripple of qi leaked from him. He looked like a mortal. And yet, the mountain itself had yielded.
Mist thickened around the path as John's figure grew smaller, climbing step by unhurried step. His whistle floated upward, soft but unshaken, as if mocking the silence left in his wake.
One man, ordinary in every way, walking straight toward the sect leader's manor as though the peak had always belonged to him.