Dawn came too soon.
Eric woke to the sound of a bell—not the gentle ringing that had marked time in Greenbrook, but a harsh clang that resonated through the dingy dormitory like a physical force. Around him, he heard groans, curses, and the shuffle of feet as two hundred probationary students scrambled to prepare.
He dressed quickly in his training robes, splashed water from a basin on his face, and joined the stream of nervous students heading toward the Central Testing Grounds.
The grounds were massive—an open plaza of white stone that could have held all of Greenbrook three times over. Formation arrays covered every surface, their patterns glowing faintly in the pre-dawn light. At one end stood a raised platform where sect officials waited, their expressions uniformly stern.
Two hundred students assembled in rough formation, sorted by the villages or regions they'd come from. Eric found himself standing with the Greenbrook contingent—Aria, the twins, Thorren, Finn, and the others who'd made the journey. They were just one small cluster among many.
A man stepped forward on the platform—middle-aged, with iron-gray hair and cultivation presence that pressed down on the assembled students like a physical weight. Foundation Establishment realm, Eric guessed, possibly higher. The man's eyes swept across them with the same dismissive assessment Eric was becoming familiar with.
"I am Elder Hammond, overseer of Outer Court admissions," he announced, his voice carrying effortlessly across the grounds. "You are here because you showed potential in your village trials. That means nothing. Village standards are laughably low. Most of you will fail today's examination and return home."
A murmur ran through the crowd—shock, disbelief, fear.
"Silence." The single word cut through the noise like a blade. "The Eastern Jade Sect does not coddle weaklings. We do not waste resources on those who cannot meet our standards. Today's examination will determine if you are worthy of even the Outer Court. Those who fail will be escorted from the sect grounds immediately. No appeals. No second chances."
He gestured to the formation arrays covering the ground. "The examination consists of three trials, similar in structure to your village tests but calibrated to actual standards. First—combat assessment. You will face an opponent whose strength matches your cultivation level exactly. Victory is not required, but you must demonstrate competent technique, tactical thinking, and the will to continue even when losing. Those who freeze, flee, or give up immediately will fail."
Eric felt his pulse quicken. This was familiar territory—he'd spent months fighting for his life. If the trial was just combat, he had a chance.
"Second—cultivation assessment. You will enter a formation that measures the quality of your foundation, the purity of your qi, and the stability of your meridians. Those with rushed or poorly developed cultivation will fail, regardless of their nominal stage."
That was more concerning. Eric's foundation was solid thanks to the dragon's guidance, but would the examiners recognize that, or would they see only his Eighth Stage Body Refinement and dismiss him?
"Third—endurance trial. You will be subjected to increasing pressure from a formation array designed to test your mental fortitude and pain tolerance. When you can no longer withstand the pressure, you will be ejected. Those who collapse too quickly will fail."
Elder Hammond's expression might have been carved from stone. "These trials are not designed to be fair. They are designed to separate the worthy from the worthless. Approximately forty percent of you will pass. The rest will leave before nightfall. Begin."
The trials started immediately, with no time for the students to prepare mentally.
For the combat assessment, each student was led to a smaller formation circle where a construct appeared—a humanoid figure made of condensed qi that perfectly matched their cultivation level. The constructs were relentless, skilled, and showed no mercy.
Eric watched several students go before him. A boy from a farming village lasted twelve seconds before the construct disarmed him and put a phantom blade to his throat. Fail. A girl with better technique managed nearly two minutes of back-and-forth before being overwhelmed. Pass, barely, judging by the examiner's reluctant nod.
Then it was Eric's turn.
He stepped into the circle, and the formation flared to life. The construct that materialized was his mirror—same height, same build, same Eighth Stage Body Refinement cultivation. But its eyes held no emotion, no hesitation, only perfect mechanical purpose.
It attacked the instant the formation stabilized.
Eric's combat instincts, honed through dozens of beast fights, kicked in immediately. He sidestepped the opening strike, reading the construct's movement pattern. It fought with textbook technique—perfect form, no wasted motion, exactly what one would expect from someone trained properly in a dojo.
But Eric hadn't learned in a dojo. He'd learned in the forest, fighting creatures that wanted him dead.
The construct threw a combination—jab, cross, low kick. Eric blocked the first two and avoided the third, countering with a strike to the construct's exposed ribs. His knuckles met solid qi, and he felt the impact reverberate up his arm, but the construct staggered slightly.
They circled each other. The construct adjusted, adapting to his style. It came at him again, faster this time, more aggressive. Eric gave ground, defending more than attacking, studying its patterns.
**"It's learning,"** the dragon observed. **"But it can only mimic what it's encountered before. Show it something unexpected."**
Eric feinted left, then dropped low and swept the construct's legs—a move he'd learned fighting the Thornback Lynx. The construct tried to adjust mid-fall, but Eric was already moving, driving his elbow into its back as it hit the ground.
The construct dissolved, and the formation deactivated.
"Pass," the examiner said, making a mark on his scroll. "Unconventional technique, but effective adaptation. Next."
Seventy-three students passed the combat trial. One hundred and twenty-seven failed and were immediately escorted to the gates, their brief dreams of sect membership ending before noon.
The cultivation assessment was next, and it proved even more brutal.
Students entered a large formation one at a time. Inside, they had to circulate their qi while the formation analyzed every aspect of their cultivation. The results displayed above each student in glowing characters—ratings for foundation stability, meridian quality, qi purity, and overall potential.
A boy who'd claimed to be Ninth Stage Body Refinement entered the formation confidently. The readings appeared: Foundation Stability—Poor, Meridian Quality—Damaged, Qi Purity—Contaminated, Overall Potential—Low. Fail.
"But I'm Ninth Stage!" the boy protested. "I'm stronger than most here!"
"You rushed your cultivation," the examiner said coldly. "You consumed pills without proper meditation, forced breakthroughs before your foundation was ready, and damaged your meridians in the process. Your cultivation is built on sand. Even if we accepted you, you'd never reach Qi Condensation. Rejected."
The boy was dragged away, still protesting.
When Eric's turn came, he entered the formation with his heart pounding. He began circulating his qi according to the Iron Body Refinement Method, feeling the formation's analytical pressure pressing against his meridians, examining every pathway, every point where energy flowed.
The readings appeared: Foundation Stability—Excellent, Meridian Quality—Superior, Qi Purity—Exceptional, Overall Potential—High.
The examiner looked up from his scroll, actually meeting Eric's eyes for the first time. "You're from a village?"
"Yes, honored examiner."
"Your cultivation quality exceeds some clan heirs. How?"
"I trained carefully," Eric said, offering no more explanation.
The examiner studied him a moment longer, then nodded slowly. "Pass. And a word of advice—keep that quality of cultivation as you advance. It will serve you well."
Only ninety-four students remained when the endurance trial began.
The final formation was the simplest in appearance—just a large circle with runes along its perimeter. Students entered one by one and stood in the center. Then the pressure began.
It started as a gentle weight, like wearing slightly heavier clothes. Then it increased. And increased. And kept increasing until the student could no longer withstand it and was forcibly ejected from the formation.
The first student lasted forty-seven seconds. The second, thirty-two. A particularly sturdy boy from a mining village managed two minutes and fifteen seconds before collapsing, earning grudging approval from the examiners.
Rorick Vaughn entered the formation with visible determination, clearly trying to salvage something from the day after barely passing the combat trial and receiving only "Adequate" ratings in the cultivation assessment. He lasted one minute and nine seconds before the pressure drove him to his knees and the formation spat him out.
The examiner consulted his notes, comparing Rorick's performance to some standard Eric couldn't see. "Insufficient. Fail."
"What?" Rorick's face went white. "No, I passed the other trials! I deserve—"
"You passed one trial barely and received the minimum acceptable rating in the second. This trial was your opportunity to demonstrate exceptional will and push yourself into passing range. You did not. Rejected."
Rorick tried to argue, tried to mention his family, tried everything. Guards appeared and dragged him toward the gates, his protests echoing across the grounds until distance swallowed them.
Eric felt... nothing. No satisfaction, no pity. Just a vague recognition that the boy who'd tormented him for years had finally met a standard he couldn't buy or bully his way past.
When Eric's turn came, he stepped into the formation and centered himself. The pressure began immediately—a weight pressing down on his shoulders, his chest, his very qi. He breathed through it, using the meditation techniques the dragon had taught him.
The pressure increased. His legs trembled. His vision blurred at the edges. The weight was suffocating, crushing, trying to force him down.
**"This is nothing,"** the dragon said calmly. **"You have been impaled through the chest. You have fought beasts that wanted to tear you apart. You have died and been reborn. What is pressure compared to that?"**
Eric gritted his teeth and remained standing. The pressure built further, and he felt his knees begin to buckle. But he thought of his mother's tears, Wei's hopeful face, Master Tobias's letter of recommendation, every brutal morning in the forest.
He would not fall.
Three minutes. Four. His whole body screamed in protest. Blood dripped from his nose—a sign he was approaching his limit. But he stayed upright through sheer stubborn refusal to quit.
At four minutes and thirty-seven seconds, the formation finally forced him out, his legs giving way the moment the pressure released.
"Pass," the examiner said, helping him to his feet. "Exceptional will. That duration would be respectable for someone a full stage higher."
When the trials finally ended, one hundred and twelve students remained from the original two hundred. Eighty-eight had been sent home in failure, including Rorick Vaughn, Marcus Thorne, and Derrick Swift—the boys who'd followed Rorick around like loyal hounds in Greenbrook.
Among those who passed: Aria Blackwood, who'd excelled in all three trials. Lira and Kira Storm, whose synchronized fighting style had impressed the combat examiner. Finn Ashford, who'd surprised everyone by lasting five full minutes in the endurance trial despite his low cultivation stage. Thorren Locke, who'd passed all three trials with adequate but unimpressive scores.
And Eric Chen, who'd performed well enough to draw actual attention from the examiners.
"Probationary period complete," Elder Hammond announced as the sun set over the sect grounds. "You are now Outer Court disciples of the Eastern Jade Sect. You will receive your official robes, sect tokens, and room assignments tomorrow. Welcome to the real work."
---
The real work, Eric discovered over the following weeks, was brutal in ways that had nothing to do with physical training.
Classes started immediately. Combat instruction, cultivation theory, formation basics, beast lore, spiritual herb identification—subjects that would have fascinated Eric in different circumstances. But the instruction was severe, the standards unforgiving, and falling behind meant immediate dismissal.
Master Chen—no relation—taught combat with a bamboo rod that struck anyone whose form was sloppy. Elder Wu's cultivation lectures assumed knowledge Eric had never been taught, and she showed no patience for questions from "village idiots who should have learned this in their cradles."
But the classes themselves weren't the real problem. The real problem was resources.
To progress in cultivation, disciples needed more than just practice. They needed pills to refine their qi, herbs to strengthen their meridians, access to cultivation chambers where ambient energy was enhanced, time in the restricted sections of the library where real techniques were kept.
All of it cost contribution points—the sect's internal currency, earned through missions, competitions, or direct purchase with gold.
The conversion rate was brutal. One contribution point cost ten gold crescents. A single Meridian Cleansing Pill—the most basic cultivation aid—cost five contribution points. One hour in a basic cultivation chamber cost three points. Access to the outer library's restricted section cost twenty points per visit.
And Outer Court disciples were given exactly ten contribution points per month as a basic stipend.
Thorren was the first to run out of money. He'd been spending freely, assuming his family's wealth would carry him as it had in Greenbrook. He'd bought pills, rented cultivation chambers, purchased new equipment. Within three weeks, his savings were gone, and his monthly stipend didn't come close to covering his habits.
"This is absurd!" he complained in the common room one evening, his voice loud with indignation. "How are we supposed to cultivate without resources? They're hoarding everything for the Inner Court and Core disciples! It's not fair!"
Eric, sitting in the corner reviewing his notes from Master Chen's lecture, didn't bother looking up. The irony was lost on Thorren—the boy who'd grown up with every advantage now complaining about unfairness when denied those advantages.
"Life's not fair," Finn said quietly from his spot by the window. "Figure it out or wash out."
Thorren glared at him but had no response.
The inequality became more apparent daily. Inner Court disciples wore better robes, had access to superior facilities, and walked the sect grounds like they owned them. Core disciples were practically nobility, their rooms in the mountain itself, their instructors personal disciples of the sect elders.
And then there were the clan heirs and family disciples—students who didn't need the sect's stipend because their families pumped contribution points into their accounts by the hundreds. They bought private instruction, consumed pills like candy, and advanced at speeds that made hard work seem pointless.
Training grounds were divided by status. Outer Court students got the worst facilities—old equipment, crowded spaces, and limited hours. The good grounds were reserved for Inner Court or those willing to pay premium rates in contribution points.
The library was even worse. The outer section contained only basic texts—things Eric had already learned from Master Tobias or surpassed through practical experience. The real techniques, the advanced methods, were all in the restricted sections that cost contribution points to access.
Even cultivation chambers followed the hierarchy. The basic chambers in the Outer Court were barely better than meditating in the forest. The enhanced chambers were expensive. And the specialized chambers that could accelerate cultivation by factors of three or five? Reserved for Inner Court and above.
Within a month, the disparity was crushing. Students from wealthy families or powerful clans pulled ahead, their cultivation advancing steadily through resources. Students like Eric, Finn, and the twins had to scrape by, making every contribution point count.
The twins started taking on odd jobs—running errands for Inner Court students, copying texts for the library, cleaning equipment in the training halls. Anything to earn a few extra contribution points.
Finn took missions hunting low-rank beasts in the forests around the sect, bringing back materials to sell. It was dangerous, exhausting work that barely broke even after accounting for healing supplies.
Eric made a decision early: minimize spending, maximize efficiency.
He attended every class, absorbing everything the instructors taught despite their dismissive attitudes. What little he learned, he would master completely before moving on. He practiced forms until his muscles knew them by instinct, meditated until his qi circulation was flawless, and pushed his body to its limits in the training grounds during hours when they were empty and free.
He bought almost nothing. No pills unless absolutely necessary. No equipment upgrades. No cultivation chamber rentals. Every contribution point went into his carefully hidden reserve.
And he trained with the dragon's guidance, using techniques and methods the sect couldn't teach, pushing his cultivation forward through discipline rather than resources.
**"This is the cultivation world in its truest form,"** the dragon said during one of Eric's midnight meditation sessions. **"A hierarchy enforced by power and resources. The strong take what they want. The weak scrape by on scraps. And those who cannot accept this reality are crushed by it."**
"It's not right," Eric said, though he kept his voice neutral. Complaining changed nothing.
**"Right and wrong are luxuries for those with power. You are not there yet. So you adapt, you survive, and you grow stronger until you can change your circumstances. This is the path."**
But even adaptation had its limits when the system was designed against you.
The bullying started in the second month.
Inner Court disciples would "accidentally" knock into Outer Court students, spilling their food or damaging their belongings. Training equipment would go missing, only to turn up broken. Contribution points would be "borrowed" by older students with promises of repayment that never came.
Outer Court students learned quickly: don't make eye contact with Inner Court disciples, don't defend yourself when they insult you, don't complain to instructors who wouldn't care anyway.
Thorren Locke learned this lesson the hard way.
He'd been growing increasingly bitter as his funds dwindled and his cultivation stagnated. His earlier boasts about his family's power rang hollow now that he was just another struggling Outer Court disciple. The shame must have been eating at him, because one evening, he made a catastrophic mistake.
An Inner Court disciple—a boy named Drake Ashworth, Qi Condensation realm, from a minor noble family—was walking through the Outer Court common area with his friends. They were laughing about something, and as they passed Thorren, Drake said something that Eric didn't catch but made his companions laugh harder.
Thorren snapped.
"What did you say?" Thorren stood, his face flushed red. "You think you're better than us just because—"
Drake's fist caught Thorren across the jaw before he could finish the sentence. The blow was casual, almost negligent, but backed by Qi Condensation cultivation. Thorren flew backward, crashed into a table, and crumpled to the floor.
"Yes," Drake said mildly, examining his knuckles. "I do think I'm better than you. Because I am. And if you ever address me again without proper deference, I'll do more than bruise your face."
Thorren tried to stand, blood streaming from his nose and split lip. "My family—"
Drake kicked him in the ribs. The sound of bones cracking echoed through the suddenly silent room. "Your family is nothing. You are nothing. Accept it, or I'll keep teaching you until the lesson takes."
He would have continued, but Aria Blackwood stepped forward. "Enough. You've made your point."
Drake turned, his expression shifting to interest rather than anger. "Aria Blackwood. The village leader's daughter. You made it to Inner Court in one month—impressive." His tone said it was anything but. "This doesn't concern you."
"It concerns all of us when you assault someone in our common area," Aria said calmly, but Eric could see the tension in her stance. She'd advanced quickly, but she was still only recently promoted. Drake could crush her if he wanted.
For a long moment, the two stared at each other. Then Drake smiled and stepped back. "As you wish. I've made my point anyway." He glanced down at Thorren, still gasping on the floor. "Remember your place, trash."
The Inner Court disciples left, their laughter resuming as if nothing had happened.
Thorren lay there for several minutes before finally dragging himself upright, his face ashen, one arm clutched to his ribs. Several students moved to help him, but he shook them off and limped to his room without a word.
From that day on, something changed in Thorren Locke. The boastfulness disappeared. The constant complaints stopped. He became quiet, withdrawn, spending most of his time in his room or taking the most menial jobs for contribution points. He'd learned what Eric had known for months: in this world, weakness was a sin, and pride was a luxury only the strong could afford.
Eric watched it happen with a strange mix of emotions. Part of him felt vindicated—Thorren had been insufferable, and seeing him brought low was satisfying. But another part recognized a familiar pattern: a strong person breaking someone weaker, simply because they could.
Just like Rorick had done to Eric in Greenbrook. Just like the cultivation world did to everyone who couldn't measure up.
**"This is why you must grow stronger,"** the dragon said. **"Not for revenge, not for pride, but for freedom. The freedom to choose your own path, to protect what matters, to never again be at someone else's mercy. Remember this moment. Remember what powerlessness feels like. Let it fuel your determination."**
Eric didn't need the reminder. Every day in the Outer Court was a reminder of what it meant to be weak in a world that valued only strength.
But unlike Thorren, unlike the students who complained or gave up or broke under the pressure, Eric had already walked this path before. He'd been the weakest in Greenbrook, dismissed and mocked and beaten. He'd clawed his way up from nothing once already.
He could do it again.
He would do it again.
As the weeks passed and winter settled over the Eastern Jade Sect, Eric Chen trained in the cold hours before dawn, meditated in the drafty corners of the Outer Court, and pushed his cultivation forward one painstaking step at a time.
The other students saw a quiet boy who kept to himself, who never complained, who seemed content to scrape by on the margins of sect life.
They didn't see the dragon coiled in his core, slowly awakening.
They didn't see the determination forged through months of brutal survival training.
They didn't see someone who'd already died once and refused to do so again.
The Outer Court was harsh, unfair, designed to break the weak and eliminate the unworthy.
But Eric Chen had already been broken and rebuilt. He'd already been deemed unworthy and proven them wrong.
This was just another trial.
And like all the others, he would pass it—or die trying.