Under the moonlight, the silver ship gleamed like fish scales, and even the Eternal Moon seemed to bow at the sight of the symbol—a crescent moon surrounded by ten runic seals—descending into the main square of the City of Mists. But it wasn't just the ship that kept the people quiet; it was the strange sensation that the air had become lighter, like an ancient force arriving.
From the ship, some people emerged in long, mist-like robes. At the front were three figures: a man with a deep voice and glassy eyes—Master Yùan; a woman with a watchful gaze and a steady sword—Master Hán; and a young commander with a serious face and a strong arm, who thought more highly of himself than he should—Disciple Lǐ Ze.
The Eternal Moon Sect was very strict: it only hired people with talent and true vision. In many places, their arrival brought good opportunities; In others, it was a sign of trouble. They were looking for Dao plants and apprentices to carry the sect's name forward.
The old man looked around the square, scanning the crowd. Each person's story was visible in their faces: the third- and fourth-level cultivators were poised, while the younger ones were nervous. They had good sense; it didn't take much to catch something. They had a future in this city—and not just because of Yun Xiang, who had already been mentioned five times before they even arrived.
Han, the old man said quietly, has talent here, but there are also many people looking to show off. Look for those with value, but don't let them fool you.
Han agreed, and the sect devised a discreet scheme: runes drawn on the ground, recognition spheres floating like lanterns. It was a polite way of testing—an open and controlled assessment, for the families to showcase their talents and the cultivators to prove themselves.
The families, following the rules, gathered the kids. Yun Xiang wore a very dark purple dress, and her smile was sharp. When the older man asked someone from the city to introduce themselves, they immediately pointed to her. She went there quietly, all proper.
The measurement was easy to see: Yun Xiang placed her hand on the magic sphere. The light rose like fire finding air. Quickly, it appeared on the spiritual display: 3.6.
The crowd whispered, impressed. Hán bowed formally and gave a cold smile, congratulating. For the sect, Yun Xiang was the kind of person who was considered a good fit.
"Good," Master Yùan said, his tone approving and appreciative. "She's already good at several third-level schemes. A talent worth keeping an eye on."
Then the rest of the kids arrived, each family showing off their heirs, their talents, their faces full of hope. Jun Tian was called more out of obligation: the boss's son, he had to be there. He walked to the bus stop at his usual pace—calm, unhurried, as if the world revolved around him and he didn't need to chase after it.
The crowd was watching. Yun Xiang glanced at the boy—remembering the time he'd snubbed her. Lǐ Ze, the arrogant disciple of the place, noticed too. He, always the center of attention, saw the gesture as an almost automatic sign of contempt: "Those who don't show themselves deserve nothing."
Jun Tian placed his hand on the sphere. The crowd waited. The meter read: 2.5.
There was a murmur; some "okay, right?" looks. Nothing special. For the sect, it doesn't matter—a disciple in the middle, nothing special. But what no one realized, and what Lǐ Zé only felt as a pinprick, was what the boy did: Jun Tian raised his eyes—not to humiliate, nor to act superior—but with a relaxed gaze, like someone admiring the view and not getting caught up in every second.
He didn't want to be recognized. To Lu Ze, who had always been admired and cared what people thought of him, it felt like a slight—unspoken, but felt because he didn't care about his success. His pride grew quite large.
Even though the spiritual meter only showed 2.5, Lu Ze was upset by the indifference. He, who had learned to win people over, felt offended. How dare he look at me like that, as if I were nothing? he thought, filled with rage.
The disciple moved closer, clasping his hands. Normally, the sect didn't cause trouble in public, but pride could be dangerous. Lu Ze wouldn't tolerate anyone hiding something from him, especially without reason.
"Your gaze is too lazy," he said, close to the other. "Do you think you have nothing to learn from us?"
Jun Tian replied calmly:
"It's not lazy to look at the world calmly. I learn when I need to." Today, I don't want to draw attention.
The answer further angered the disciple. His eyes shone with anger. Some people began to chuckle softly, others waited for a fight. Han gave an almost imperceptible signal to the disciple to control himself; politeness was necessary in the provinces. But pride is strong and doesn't always obey.
To escalate the situation, Hán formally ordered a symbolic combat test—a controlled test that would measure reaction and skill, not just the number on the meter. It was a diplomatic way to channel tensions. The Jun clan, aware of the risk, approved. The square transformed—two platforms were formed; the spectators moved away.
Yun Xiang, in a posture of dominating the scene, smiled. "Show us," she thought. Lǐ Ze chose a formal ally—a young man from the south. He would prove he could counter any insolence with technique.
When the time came, Lǐ Ze's opponent came out first. Precise movements, quick blocks, a rope, and a measured pace. Then Jun Tian stood face to face with the young envoy. There was no extra provocation on his face; just the sleep of maturity. He wasn't looking to win spectacularly, just to demonstrate composure.
The fight started lightly. Jun Tian moved economically: a step, a false lunge, a redirection. It was the technique Lotus had taught in its arenas: not shock, but bending; not confrontation, but minimal expenditure of force. At first glance, it seemed mediocre, until the young opponent, accustomed to direct reactions, was surprised by a redirection of energy that threw him off balance. The audience murmured—the move was discreet, efficient, and untheatrical.
Lǐ Zé stood there, chest puffed out, hoping someone would mess up badly, just to make himself feel better. But instead, he saw Jun Tian, a Dao guy, totally cool, even winning. The guy was a must-have, no need to make a fuss.
Lǐ Zé's anger turned into something else. It wasn't just contempt, it was fear that, somehow, the world would give more value to those who do well without needing the spotlight. Lǐ Zé took a step back, a little angry and embarrassed. Deep down, he knew that Jun Tian, even with that low score, had something more, and that irritated him greatly.
Before Lǐ Zé could make a mistake, Master Hán stepped in, her face serious, showing who was in charge:
"Calm down, newbie! Pride gets you nowhere. Cool your heads and pay attention to the lesson."
Her voice eased the mood. Lu Ze still grumbled under his breath, promising himself he'd keep an eye on the useless man, not to tease, but to find some flaw that would help him sleep soundly.
Jun Tian slipped out the same way he'd arrived. His Lotus glowed faintly, pleased with the precision, but aware of the tense atmosphere that had developed there. No one there knew anything about 2.13, the inland sea, or the pseudo-kingdoms; they could see signs, behaviors, moods. The sect noted that Yun Xiang was calm, technically gifted, and sincere. And, at the same time, they were curious about the patriarch's son.
When the moon was high, the Eternal Moon ship shone its white lights. The masters and apprentices went to conduct their secret evaluations, like those chats only sects hold to determine if a person fits, where they came from, and if they're worth recruiting. Lǐ Ze went along, but he harbored a pent-up anger: he thought Jun Tian was too good for this kind of evaluation and deserved to be publicly torn down, at the right time.
The city breathed a sigh of relief. The sect there was a good thing for many, but for others, it was a bad omen. For Jun Tian, it was just another obstacle on the dark path he was following—a distant gaze, unwilling to be noticed, only searching for something no one could measure.