"Wenbo."
"Present." A medium-built student stepped forward, unable to hide the joy on his face, and quickly walked to stand beside the master.
"Wenyuan."
"Your student is here." Another, thinner scholar bowed respectfully before taking his place behind Wenbo.
The master was calling names.
Each student who was called showed clear excitement as they walked forward one by one. Without question, all of them were those who had passed the earlier test—those who had received new memories and been acknowledged by the secret realm as "new people."
"Wenshan."
The moment he heard the name, Liu Shi's body trembled instinctively. Without the slightest hesitation, he rose from his seat and answered in a steady voice:
"Present."
It was the name given to him in those memories he had just received. From now on, he could only call himself Wenshan. Even outside the secret realm, he could never let a single flaw slip.
If anyone realized that he still remembered his true name, at best he would be cast out of the sect. At worst, he would be "removed" entirely.
Compared to the others, though, he was still in a better position. After all, these new "Wenbo," "Wenyuan," and the rest likely didn't even realize that they hadn't always borne those names.
Silent as a shadow, Wenshan stood at the master's side.
He listened as the master announced that thirteen students had passed the test. He also heard him comfort the rest—those with disappointment etched on their faces—encouraging them not to lose heart, to study diligently, and try again next year.
Looking at those clear-eyed students filled with yearning, Wenshan felt an unexpected pang of emotion.
If they knew the price of passing this test… would they still gaze at him with such envy?
But wait—something was wrong. Why did they look more envious now?
Some were even gasping in awe.
What was going on?
Wenshan turned his head and saw that each of the chosen students was being enveloped in a milky-white mist. Within that haze, the fragile aura of mortality was vanishing, replaced by waves of surging spiritual energy.
They were transforming—from ordinary mortals into cultivators!
Wenshan quickly looked at himself, only to find that the same dense mist was coiling around his body. The spiritual power he had once lost was flooding back into his meridians like streams rushing home to the sea.
His strength returned swiftly, his cultivation realm rising like a rocket.
The next instant—
Qi Refining, First Level!
And that was just the beginning. The mist's boundless energy kept pouring into him, driving his cultivation higher and higher.
Qi Refining, Second Level!
Qi Refining, Third Level!
Only when he reached the peak of the third level did the mist slowly begin to dissipate.
Wenshan stood stunned. This speed of improvement—wasn't it faster than even those demonic techniques?
What happened to the claim that orthodox cultivation was slow?
Or… was this surge merely a gift of the secret realm, not the true pace of cultivation outside?
He couldn't figure it out, but with spiritual power once again flowing strongly within him, his confidence was greatly bolstered. Strange and dangerous though this place was, the rewards it offered were undeniably rich.
He already had the Rites and Poetry Scripture – Qi Refining Volume in his possession, and now he'd been granted the cultivation of Qi Refining Third Level at its peak.
But a question lingered: was this generosity something common to all secret realms, or was this place unusually lavish? And once he sought to break past the bottleneck into the mid-Qi Refining stage… how was that supposed to be done?
Wenshan perked his ears, hoping the master would explain.
Yet the old man didn't. Instead, he kept encouraging the disappointed students, even pointing out Wenshan by name. He praised him for having been occupied with family matters in the days before the test, unable to review his lessons, yet still managing to succeed on the strength of his solid foundation and sharp comprehension.
"Let all of you learn from Wenshan," the master concluded.
At that instant, a memory rose unbidden within Wenshan's mind:
An elderly mother, hair snow-white, lay ill in bed while he stayed at her side night and day, caring for her tirelessly, neglecting his studies as a result.
The weight of that memory almost made him feel guilty. After all, he had never once listened to the master's lectures. He had only stumbled into this place by accident and been swept into the examination.
But he had no choice. Now he was Wenshan. What the master said, he had to accept as truth. All he could do was bow his head in silence, pretending to be moved by the praise.
Unfortunately, even as the speech ended, the master never said a word about breaking through to mid-stage Qi Refining.
Just as Wenshan was sighing with disappointment, the bodies of all the failed students vanished into thin air. In the blink of an eye, the grand examination hall was nearly empty.
Wenshan blinked, still processing this, when the master's voice rang out again—more solemn and thunderous than before.
"The next trial begins!"
"Pass this trial, and you shall gain the title of Scholar and formally join our Pavilion of Rites and Poetry."
Wenshan's mind froze.
The Pavilion of Rites and Poetry?
Wasn't that Lin Qingwan's sect?
Why did it appear here in the secret realm as well? And was this sect within the realm connected to the one outside—or were they something different altogether?
But above all else, the word Scholar stirred his heart. If his guess was right, attaining that title would push him into Qi Refining Fourth Level.
So the next trial was the key to breaking through to mid-stage Qi Refining?
He focused intently, waiting for the master to reveal the rules.
But the old man said nothing. Instead, with a sweep of his sleeve, a vast scroll glowing with golden light appeared in midair.
Unfolding, it stretched like a canopy across the sky, covering all thirteen remaining students beneath it.
Wenshan's vision blurred. When he blinked again, he was standing in a simple, ancient room. The four walls were hung with scrolls, each exuding the fragrance of fresh ink and poetry.
Before he could make sense of it, the sounds of battle erupted outside—the clash of blades, the cries of soldiers, the neighing of warhorses, the screams of the dying. It was as though a brutal street-to-street battle was raging just beyond the door.
Then the master's stern, thunderous voice boomed in his mind:
"In the ninth year of Yonghe, on the third day of the third month, the demonic sect besieged the city. The city lord has fallen. The city has already been breached!"
"Each of you may choose one scroll from this hall. With it in hand, enter the city and save the people!"
"Whosoever rescues one hundred lives shall pass the trial!"