The courtyard outside the main examination hall was packed with so many nervous candidates that Ryker could barely breathe without inhaling someone else's anxiety. Nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine people stood waiting for their fates to be announced, and approximately nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-eight of them looked like they were having varying degrees of emotional crisis.
The nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-ninth person was currently clinging to the nine thous- Ryker's back like a distressed koala.
"I failed," Lian whispered into Ryker's shoulder for approximately the seventieth time in the last hour. "I definitely failed. I couldn't answer question forty-three. Or question sixty-seven. Or the entire third section about theoretical qi deviation scenarios—"
"You didn't fail," Ryker said, which was what he'd been saying for the last hour while physically dragging Lian from his inn to the Academy grounds because the alchemist had barricaded himself in his room claiming he was too mortified to face public humiliation.
"You don't know that! What if I misread the questions? What if I accidentally wrote my answers in the wrong section? What if the proctor thought my handwriting was so bad they just failed me on principle?"
"Your handwriting is fine, Lian."
"What if they think I'm stupid?" Lian's grip tightened around Ryker's neck, and Ryker made a mental note that for someone so delicate-looking, the alchemist had surprisingly strong arms. "What if my family hears I failed and I bring shame to the clan? What if—"
"Lian." Ryker stopped walking and carefully pried his friend's arms loose enough that he could actually turn around to face him. Lian's green eyes were wide with panic, his silver hair slightly disheveled from where he'd been pulling at it nervously, and Ryker felt something in his chest twist uncomfortably at the sight. "You're not going to fail. You're smart, you know your material, and you've been studying since you were old enough to read. The test was hard, but you're harder."
That came out wrong. Ryker's face heated slightly, but Lian didn't seem to notice the awkward phrasing, just stared at him with those wide, trusting eyes.
"You really think so?"
"I know so." Ryker tried to project confidence he absolutely did not feel about his own results. "You're going to pass. We both are. And then we're going to survive the next trial together, remember?"
Lian's expression shifted into something softer, warmer, and he smiled—tentative but genuine. "You're really confident, aren't you? I wish I had your certainty. You probably aced the entire test."
Ryker wanted to laugh. Confidence? He'd spent the entire examination bullshiting while Zyx fed him answers from his ten-thousand-year-old knowledge base like the world's most illegal cheat code. He wasn't confident—he was cheating with divine intervention.
"I had... good resources," Ryker said carefully, which was technically true if "good resources" meant "ancient perverted beetle with encyclopedic knowledge of every all all things."
"You're being modest." Lian's smile widened slightly, and some of the panic had drained from his face, replaced by admiration that made Ryker feel vaguely guilty. "You always are. But I've seen how much you've changed these past weeks—how hard you've worked, how much you've grown. If anyone deserves to pass, it's you."
The guilt intensified. Ryker was about to say something—what, he wasn't sure, maybe a confession that he was absolutely winging this entire cultivation journey on borrowed knowledge and dumb luck—when the massive gong sounded across the courtyard, and the crowd immediately fell into tense silence.
"Five minutes," someone nearby whispered.
"Five minutes until we know if our lives are over," someone else added helpfully.
"I'm going to vomit," a third voice contributed.
Ryker felt Lian grab his hand and squeeze hard enough that the bones grounded together, but he didn't pull away. If holding hands with his anxious friend helped Lian feel better, Ryker could handle some temporary joint damage.
"We've got this," Ryker muttered, more to himself than to Lian.
"We've got this," Lian echoed, but his voice shook.
The five minutes stretched like taffy. Around them, conversations rose and fell in nervous waves—speculation about the passing threshold, arguments about which questions were hardest, at least three separate people crying quietly while their friends tried to comfort them.
Ryker spotted Wei Jian near the front of the crowd, surrounded as always by his entourage, looking perfectly calm and composed, though it was visible he was nervous, it was the sweat. Their eyes met for half a second, and Wei Jian's expression flickered before he looked away.
Zyx observed from Ryker's collar. "He's waiting to watch you get humiliated."
"Joke's on him," Ryker thought back. "I had you. I couldn't have failed if I tried."
"Technically you could have failed by writing completely nonsensical answers, but yes, the probability of your failure was approximately zero point zero three percent. I'm very good at what I do."
"So humble."
"Humility is for people who have things to be humble about."
The gong sounded again, sharper this time, and every conversation in the courtyard died instantly. The main gates swung open, and the same elderly instructor from yesterday emerged onto the raised platform, flanked by four other Academy officials. In his hands, he held what appeared to be a simple wooden board, but the energy radiating from it suggested significant enchantment.
"Candidates," the instructor's voice carried across the silent courtyard without effort. "The Trial of Knowledge has been evaluated. Thousand's entered. One thousand will advance."
He paused, letting the weight of that settle.
"The rankings will now be displayed. Those whose names appear in gold have qualified for the next stage. Those in silver have performed admirably but will not advance. Those whose names do not appear... you are dismissed."
He raised the wooden board, and suddenly the air above the platform shimmered. A massive projection materialized—golden script floating in the air, easily visible from anywhere in the courtyard. Numbers appeared first, counting down from one thousand.
The crowd surged forward as people desperately searched for their names.
Ryker didn't move, partially because Lian was still gripping his hand hard enough to cut off circulation, partially because his stomach had tied itself into knots complex enough to impress a sailor. Beside him, Lian had gone very still, his eyes fixed on the projection with such an intensity that he'd stopped breathing.
The names filled in rapidly—starting from rank one thousand and climbing. Each golden name that appeared was met with either celebration or devastated silence depending on whether you were the person whose name appeared or someone who'd just watched their name in silver
"There!" Lian suddenly shouted, pointing with his free hand. "Rank 487! That's me! I passed!" His voice cracked on the last word, and Ryker had approximately two seconds of warning before Lian threw himself at him in a hug that nearly knocked them both over. "I passed! I actually passed! I didn't fail! I'm not a disgrace to my family!"
"Told you," Ryker managed, patting Lian's back awkwardly while trying to maintain balance. Relief flooded through him—not for his own results, which he was still too nervous to check—but for Lian. His friend had passed. They'd both make it to the next trial. His meridians hummed.
Assuming Ryker had passed. Which he probably had. Probably.
"Check yours!" Lian pulled back, grinning wide enough to show all his teeth, practically vibrating with relief and excitement. "Come on, you have to be in there somewhere! Probably top hundred at least!"
Ryker's eyes went to the projection, scanning upward from where they stood. The ranks climbed—400, 350, 300. Notable names started appearing as the numbers got smaller—prominent clan heirs, known prodigies, candidates with established reputations.
Rank 50: Wei Jian.
Ryker felt a small spike of satisfaction at that. Wei Jian had passed, but not spectacularly. Fiftieth place out of ten thousand was still impressive, but it wasn't the dominating performance he'd probably expected.
His eyes kept climbing. Rank 40. Rank 30. Rank 20.
Rank 10: Raviel Fors.
There she was—Lady Fors, placing in the top ten. Somehow that didn't surprise him. Someone that intense probably knew cultivation theory backwards and forwards.
Rank 9. Rank 8. Rank 7.
His name wasn't appearing. Ryker's heart started doing uncomfortable things in his chest. Had he somehow missed it? Had Zyx made a mistake? Was the ancient beetle's knowledge outdated?
"Where are you?" Lian muttered, scanning the projection with increasing confusion. "You should be up there by now—"
Rank 6. Rank 5. Rank 4.
The crowd around them had gone strange—whispers spreading like wildfire, people pointing at the projection with expressions ranging from confused to shocked to outright disbelieving.
Rank 3.
Rank 2.
And then, at the very top, in letters that seemed to shine brighter than all the others:
Rank 1: Ryker Ashford
The courtyard exploded.
"WHAT—"
"THE ASHFORD HEIR—"
"FIRST PLACE?!"
"OUT OF TEN THOUSAND—"
"THE SECRET TECHNIQUE USER IS ALSO A SCHOLAR?!"
Ryker stood frozen, staring at his name at the top of the projection, and his brain simply refused to process the information. Fuck!!! First place. He'd gotten first place. Out of ten thousand candidates. Him. The guy who'd been considered trash three weeks ago.
"Ryker." Lian's voice had gone very quiet. "Ryker, you're rank one."
"I see that."
"You got first place."
"I'm aware."
"Out of ten thousand people."
"Yes, Lian, I can count."
"You're a GENIUS!" Lian threw himself at Ryker again, this time nearly taking them both to the ground. "First place! I'm friends with the first-place candidate! This is amazing! You're amazing! I knew you could do it!"
Ryker's arms came up automatically to steady them both, but his eyes stayed fixed on that golden script floating above the platform. Rank 1. His name. This was real.
"I'm going to be sick," he muttered.
"That's the adrenaline," Zyx said, sounding incredibly smug. "Also, congratulations. We did it."
"You did it. I just wrote down what you told me."
"Semantics. We're a team. This is a team victory. Now smile and accept the glory "
Ryker carefully arranged his face into something he hoped looked like calm satisfaction and tried to ignore the fact that what felt like eighteen thousand eyes had just turned to stare at him.
Wei Jian stood near the front of the crowd, his expression cycling through shock, disbelief, fury, and finally settling on a cold mask that didn't quite hide the rage burning underneath. Their eyes met across the distance, and Ryker watched Wei Jian's hands clench into fists before the young master turned sharply and stalked away, his entourage scrambling to follow.
That was going to be a problem later. Future Ryker's problem.
Present Ryker needed to survive the next five minutes without fainting or saying something that would expose him as a fraud.
"Candidate Ashford."
The voice cut through the chaos, and Ryker's head snapped toward the platform where the elderly instructor was looking directly at him with an expression that showed significant interest. "Please approach the platform."
Oh no.
"Go," Zyx hissed. "This is normal. They probably want to acknowledge the top scorer. Just stay calm and mysterious."
Ryker extracted himself from Lian's grip, gave his friend what he hoped was a reassuring look, and walked toward the platform while the crowd parted automatically. Every step felt like walking through water, his legs heavy, his heart hammering, but he kept his face neutral and his shoulders straight.
He reached the base of the platform and looked up at the instructor, who studied him with eyes that seemed to see entirely too much.
"Ryker Ashford," the instructor said, his voice carrying to the entire courtyard. "Rank One. Your examination results were... extraordinary."
"Thank you, Instructor," Ryker managed, keeping his voice level.
"Your theoretical knowledge is exceptional, your responses demonstrated tactical brilliance, and your answers to the situational judgment questions..." The instructor paused, and something that might have been amusement flickered across his weathered face. "...contained wisdom that several of my colleagues found deeply profound."
Ryker had no idea how to respond to that, so he just nodded. What wisdom had he accidentally imparted…. No way.
"We look forward to seeing how you perform in the next trial," the instructor continued. "Congratulations, Candidate Ashford. You've set a new standard for this year's examination."
Ryker bowed—the formal bow that his body remembered even if his transmigrated brain thought it felt weird—and retreated back into the crowd before anyone could ask him to elaborate on his "profound wisdom."
Lian grabbed him the moment he was within reach, babbling something about pride ,friendship and genius, but Ryker's attention was pulled to a conversation happening nearby between two candidates who were still staring at the projection.
"—want to know what he wrote that got him first place—"
"—heard from someone who knows an assistant instructor that his situational responses were unlike anything they'd seen—"
"—some kind of deep philosophy? Ancient wisdom?"
Ryker wanted to sink into the ground. Ancient wisdom. He'd just quoted Fang Yuan and Xiao Yan, of course with some twists made by Zyx. He'd written down edgy protagonist lines from webnovels because Zyx had told him they'd sound impressive.
And apparently it had worked.
"This is going to be a long day," he muttered.
"This is going to be a GREAT day," Lian corrected, still grinning like sunshine incarnate. "Come on, let's go celebrate! You're rank one! We have to do something!"
Ryker let himself be dragged away by his enthusiastic friend, trying very hard not to think about the whispers following him.
How the hell had he gotten away with such plagiarism, pathetic, truly pathetic, the teachers here mu-
His life was officially insane.
—----------------------------------------------------
Later That Day - Academy Instructor's Meeting Hall
Senior Instructor Feng Zhao set down the examination scroll he'd been reviewing for the third time and looked across the table at his colleagues with an expression caught somewhere between deeply impressed and mildly concerned about his own reading comprehension.
"Has anyone else read Candidate Ashford's responses to the situational judgment section?" He paused, then added, "Multiple times? Because I feel like I'm missing layers."
Instructor Mei nodded slowly, pulling out her own copy with several passages marked in red ink. "Question forty-seven. The scenario where the candidate is surrounded by superior enemies with no escape route." She cleared her throat and read aloud. "'Benefits and risks must be calculated precisely. I will use them to sharpen my blade while removing obstacles from my path. Heaven and earth are heartless—so too must I be.'"
Silence.
"What does that mean?" Instructor Pidong asked finally.
"I... think he's saying he'd use the combat experience to advance his cultivation?" Liu Mei ventured. "While systematically eliminating threats? And the heaven and earth reference suggests he's embracing the natural ruthlessness of the dao?"
"Or," Feng Zhao interjected, stroking his beard thoughtfully, "he's implying that emotional attachment in that scenario would be fatal, so he'd adopt the same indifferent perspective as the heavens themselves—treating enemies as tools for refinement rather than threats to fear."
"That's what I said."
"No, you said 'use combat experience.' I'm saying he's fundamentally restructured his perception of danger itself to align with cosmic principles."
"Aren't those the same thing?"
"The depth is different."
Pidong picked up his own scroll. "Question sixty-one. The sect destruction scenario. candidates wrote emotional responses about revenge or rebuilding. Listen to what Ashford wrote: 'Thirty years east of the river, thirty years west. Do not bully the young and poor, for one day the dragon will ascend and the heavens themselves will shift.'" He looked up. "What in the ancestors' names does that mean?"
Liu Mei leaned forward. "It's... a temporal metaphor? He's acknowledging that power is cyclical, that today's weakness becomes tomorrow's strength, and that underestimating someone based on current circumstances is strategically foolish?"
"It's more than that," Feng Zhao said, excitement creeping into his voice. "He's not just talking about personal reversal—he's referencing the fundamental impermanence of all hierarchies. The river changes course. The dragon represents hidden potential. He's saying that revenge isn't just about getting stronger, it's about understanding that the very nature of power is temporary and cyclical."
"From a seventeen-year-old?" Pidong sounded skeptical.
"From a seventeen-year-old who was crippled three weeks ago and is now Rank Four," Liu Mei pointed out. "He's not theorizing. He's speaking from direct experience."
Another instructor—Instructor Wu, who'd been silent until now—suddenly sat up straight. "Question seventy-three. The treasure confrontation, its about what you will do if a powerful being forces you to give out your belongings. I've been staring at this answer for an hour trying to decode it." He read carefully: "'Today I am weak, so I hand it over. Tomorrow when I am strong, I will take back what is mine with interest. A loss is not defeat—it is investment in future victory. The wise man calculates ten thousand steps ahead; the fool sees only the current exchange.'"
Dead silence around the table.
"That's..." Feng Zhao trailed off. "That's frighteningly pragmatic."
"Is he saying he'd deliberately lose battles to win wars?" Liu Mei asked.
"I think he's saying he views every interaction as part of a longer game," Pidong said slowly. "Giving up the treasure isn't submission—it's a calculated move in an extended strategy where the end goal is not just recovering the treasure but gaining advantage over the one who took it."
"With interest," Wu emphasized. "He specifically said 'with interest.' He's not planning revenge, he's planning to profit from the revenge."
"Mercantile thinking applied to combat philosophy," Feng Zhao murmured. "Treating grudges like investments. That's... actually brilliant? And slightly terrifying?"
Mei flipped to another marked page. "There's more. Question eighty-two. The question about choosing between saving a fellow disciple or completing a critical mission. Most candidates wrote something about honor or loyalty or trying to do both. Ashford wrote..." She paused, reading it twice to make sure she had it right. "'The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. A true cultivator must sometimes bear the weight of necessary evil. Sentiment is the luxury of the strong; the weak cannot afford compassion when survival is at stake.'"
"That's cold," Pidong said flatly.
"That's practical," Feng Zhao countered. "He's not saying compassion is wrong—he's saying it's situational, and that weak cultivators who prioritize personal feelings over necessity won't survive long enough to become strong cultivators who can afford those feelings. Its hard to swallow but its true."
"You're finding philosophical depth in a teenager telling us he'd abandon his friends," Pidong pointed out.
"I'm finding depth from a teenager who understands that cultivation often requires difficult choices, and that pretending otherwise is delusion." Feng Zhao tapped the scroll. " candidates his age still think in absolutes—good versus evil, loyal versus betrayer. Ashford thinks in systems. He's asking 'what produces optimal outcomes' rather than 'what feels right.'"
"Question ninety-four," Wu added, clearly getting into this now. "The political scenario where two allied sects are about to go to war and the candidate must choose a side. Ashford wrote: 'In the game of power, neutrality is death. Choose the winning side, or create it. If neither side can guarantee victory, become the balance that tips the scales—and charge accordingly for your weight.'"
Liu Mei blinked. "Is he suggesting... becoming a mercenary? In a theoretical Academy question?"
"He's suggesting leveraging positional advantage," Feng Zhao said, and he was actually smiling now. "He's identified that in a conflict, the third party holds disproportionate power if both sides are equally matched. He wouldn't just pick a winner—he'd make himself invaluable to whoever he chose, ensuring maximum return on his alignment."
"This is a seventeen-year-old," Pidong repeated, like saying it enough times would make it make sense.
"A seventeen-year-old who apparently thinks like a grandmaster, " Mei said. She pulled out another scroll. "I have his theoretical answers here too. Perfect scores across the board. His explanation of twelve-fold meridian circulation patterns was more detailed than our textbook. His analysis of elemental qi interaction included applications I hadn't considered."
"And three weeks ago?" Wu asked.
"Three weeks ago he couldn't circulate past Rank Three," Mei confirmed. "His cultivation was considered permanently crippled. His family had given up on him. The entire city called him trash."
Feng Zhao set down his scroll and steepled his fingers, his expression turning serious. "So we have a candidate who went from crippled to Rank Four in three weeks, developed what witnesses are calling the Foundation Crumbling Technique—some method of defeating superior opponents through verbal engagement—scored first place out of ten thousand candidates, and writes responses that suggest either deep strategic genius or..." He paused. "Or what?"
"Or he's spent his entire life thinking about these scenarios because he was too weak to do anything else," Mei said quietly. "Physical weakness forces intellectual development. His answers aren't theoretical to him—they're survival strategies he's actually had to consider."
"The weak must be wise to survive among the strong," Pidong quoted softly. "That's from the ancient texts. If Ashford has been living that principle for years..."
"Then his breakthrough wasn't just cultivation advancement," Feng Zhao finished. "It was the accumulation of years of thinking suddenly backed by the power to implement it."
Another silence, this one heavy with implication.
"Do we think he's dangerous?" Wu asked.
Feng Zhao considered the question carefully. "I think he's interesting. Someone this calculating, this willing to embrace necessary ruthlessness, this focused on long-term outcomes over short-term morality... in the wrong circumstances, that could be dangerous. But in the right circumstances?" He smiled, sharp and predatory. "That could be exactly what the cultivation world needs. Someone who thinks before acting. Someone who calculates costs and benefits instead of charging in on emotion."
"Whether that's dangerous or brilliant depends entirely on what game he's playing and what his end goal is." Mei added.
"Which is why," Feng Zhao said, gathering his scrolls with decisive movements, "I will be personally observing his performance during the Survival Trial. I want to see if his actions match his words. If this tactical thinking translates to practical application..."
"Then this year's candidates are competing against someone who's playing a completely different game than they are," Pidong finished.
"Precisely." Feng Zhao stood. " Lady Mei, you'll observe from the western quadrant. Pidong, take the northern forests. Wu, monitor the central tower approaches. I want detailed reports on every decision Ashford makes, every interaction, every choice."
"You're that interested in one candidate?" Wu asked.
"I'm that interested in seeing if we have a dragon in our hands, his words are gold the rest is undecided" Feng Zhao's smile widened. "If the rest is revealed, then we're not just looking at this year's top candidate. We're looking at someone who might reshape the next generation entirely."
The instructors filed out, leaving Feng Zhao alone with his thoughts.
Somewhere in the city, Ryker Ashford was celebrating with his friends, completely unaware that he'd accidentally sparked an intense debate among Academy instructors by quoting edgy webnovel protagonists.
Feng Zhao pulled out one last scroll—the complete compilation of Ashford's answers—and read through them again, searching for patterns, for underlying logic.
'Benefits and risks must be calculated. The weak cannot afford sentiment. Choose the winning side or create it. Today's loss is tomorrow's victory. The dragon will ascend.'
"What are you playing at, Ryker Ashford?" Feng Zhao murmured to the empty room. "And more importantly... do you even realize you're playing?"
—------------------------------------------------------------
The small restaurant Lian had dragged Ryker to was mercifully quiet, tucked away from the main crowds, Ryker had managed to eat approximately three bites of noodles before another group of passing candidates spotted him through the window and started whispering.
"This is going to be my life now, isn't it?" Ryker said into his bowl.
"Being recognized as the top-scoring candidate?" Lian was on his third serving, relief and excitement having apparently triggered a massive appetite. "Yeah, probably. You're famous now. Again. More famous than before."
"I was happier being trash."
"No you weren't."
"Okay, no, I wasn't. But at least when I was trash, people ignored me." Ryker poked at his noodles without enthusiasm. "Now everyone's going to expect me to be some kind of genius "
"You are a genius ."
"Lian."
"What? You got first place! Your answers were so impressive that their are rumours about the teachers not being able to comprehend them!" Lian's eyes were bright with pride that made Ryker feel guilty. "You deserve to be recognized for your achievements."
Ryker wanted to tell him the truth, but looking at Lian's smiley face, he sighed
He couldn't do it. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
"Thanks," Ryker said instead. "For believing in me. Even when I was... before."
"I just don't get the problem, you're getting fame, recognition and even power, what else is there a need for? If others deduce something based on their own thoughts, thats their problem" Zyx chimed in, which was not wrong entirely.
The soft pinch was still there though, thats fine, there is nothing wrong with white lies.
He has to step up his game.