The night after the Inquiry was restless. Whispers stirred the sect halls like insects under a rotting log — disciples spoke of Xu Tian's silence that cracked Heaven-Steel, of the arrogance in his voice when he declared he needed no shield against Heaven. Admiration mingled with fear, fear mingled with envy, and envy turned swiftly to malice.
But Xu Tian himself sat in quiet cultivation.
Chains no longer bound him, but whispers weighed heavier than iron. Within his courtyard, under the faint glow of lanterns, he breathed in, drew the Qi of heaven and earth into his meridians, and exhaled with quiet precision.
Already, his cultivation had risen to the late stage of Foundation Blooming, astonishingly fast compared to his peers. Where most outer sect disciples would still be struggling to open all Qi Veins, Xu Tian had already begun weaving Yin and Yang within his dantian. The speed at which his Dao drank essence was unnatural — though not born of shortcuts.
His Dao was severance. Where others struggled against bottlenecks, Xu Tian's blade simply cut the knots that bound their progress. For him, every realm was a thread — and threads could be cut.
He opened his eyes. The candle flame quivered, reflected faintly in his gaze. "Tomorrow," he murmured, "the Pavilion reveals its hand."
The appointed night came.
Xu Tian left his courtyard in plain robes, without crest or ornament. His sword was sheathed in cloth, slung across his back like a humble traveler's blade. Zhou Wei had tried to follow, but Xu Tian had stopped him with a single glance.
"This path is mine alone."
The sect's outer wards shimmered faintly with moonlight. Xu Tian's steps were measured, his breathing shallow, his presence faint — he walked not like a disciple but like a shadow. The night itself seemed to fold around him.
At last, he left the mountain's heart and descended into the low valley where the Fragrant Bridge of Fallen Petals lay.
The bridge was ancient stone, worn smooth by centuries, spanning a stream that glittered with moonlight. Trees lined its banks, branches heavy with pale blossoms that shed petals into the water. The petals drifted slowly, glimmering faintly as though touched by hidden Qi.
Xu Tian stepped onto the bridge. Each step echoed softly in the silence.
A figure awaited him at the center — veiled in white, robes flowing like moonlight woven into silk. The fragrance of drifting petals clung to her like an aura.
"You came," she said softly, her voice muffled but melodic.
"The Pavilion summoned. I answered."
Her veil inclined faintly, a smile hidden. "Few dare to answer us. Most fear we watch too deeply. You — you walk to us as though you carry nothing to lose."
Xu Tian's gaze was calm. "A blade that fears being watched will rust. A blade that cuts does not ask permission."
The woman studied him for a long moment. Then she gestured, and three more figures stepped from the shadows at the edges of the bridge. Men in dark robes, faces hidden by silver masks shaped like crescent moons.
Xu Tian's eyes sharpened. His hand shifted slightly toward his sword.
"This," the veiled woman said, "is not betrayal. It is test. The Pavilion observes storms, but storms are meaningless unless they can break mountains. Show us, Xu Tian — can your silence break what seeks to bind?"
The masked figures advanced.
Their movement was swift, practiced — clearly cultivators, not common assassins. Threads shimmered faintly before Xu Tian's vision, binding their strikes together in formation. They moved like a net, three swords converging, meant not to kill but to overwhelm.
Xu Tian inhaled, and in his dantian, Qi surged. Threads shimmered. He did not strike immediately — instead, he stepped within the weave, and with the faintest flick of intent, cut a single thread.
The formation faltered. One of the masked men stumbled, his sword clashing awkwardly against his comrade's. Xu Tian's hand flicked — his blade whispered from its cloth sheath.
One stroke.
The moonlight itself seemed to bend. A single cut severed the bonds between their blades, and petals swirled wildly around them. The masked men staggered back, shock breaking their rhythm.
The veiled woman's eyes gleamed faintly behind her veil.
But the test was not finished.
The last of the masked figures stepped forward. His presence was heavier, his Qi thicker — at least Core of Yin and Yang realm, far above Xu Tian's Foundation Blooming. His blade hummed with power as he raised it, pressing down with intent like a storm.
Xu Tian exhaled slowly. His cultivation was not yet equal. Against this man, direct clash was folly. But his Dao was never about directness.
The man struck, his sword glowing with Qi. Xu Tian stepped aside, his blade still sheathed, and cut only in silence.
Not the strike. Not the man.
He cut the silence that followed.
The Severed Echo flared. The masked man's blade slowed for the briefest instant, its rhythm broken by a scar Heaven could not mend. In that gap, Xu Tian moved. His sword slipped free.
A single arc of steel. The masked man's sleeve tore, his weapon flung from his grip. He staggered, eyes wide behind the mask.
Xu Tian stood calm, his sword resting once more in its cloth.
The veiled woman's voice was soft, but carried clearly in the night.
"Enough."
The masked men withdrew, retreating into the shadows. The blossoms drifted once more, as though nothing had happened.
The woman stepped closer, her veil catching the moonlight.
"You passed."
Her eyes studied him with new weight. "You cut what is unseen. You broke silence itself. Even those beyond our Pavilion cannot easily do this."
She lifted her sleeve, producing once more a slip of silver silk. "This is the second token. With it, you may enter the Pavilion's outer gatherings when summoned. Few disciples of sects are granted this."
Xu Tian accepted the slip without bowing. "The Pavilion watches storms. Why choose me?"
Her laugh was faint, drifting like petals on water. "Because Heaven itself has already chosen you — for death. And those who stand against Heaven either fall… or become legends."
She turned, fading into the drifting blossoms. The fragrance lingered, delicate, mysterious.
Xu Tian remained upon the bridge, the petals swirling around him. He looked down into the stream, watching blossoms drift, watching his reflection shimmer in the water's broken surface.
His cultivation stirred within him, resonating with the night. Another bottleneck loosened. He exhaled, and Qi surged. Already, he stood at the cusp of early Core of Yin and Yang, a speed that would terrify any elder if they knew.
He sheathed his sword fully, the cloth wrapping it once more.
"Legends," he murmured. "Legends are written in silence… and in scars Heaven cannot mend."
Thunder rumbled faintly behind clouds. Heaven had heard.