"In past years, the sect's refined sword itself would choose who was worthy, but this year it's different."
"As long as we grasp this technique and can display its basic forms, the Heavenly Sword Sect will take us in."
Before Zhao Yan could answer, Fan Xing straightened, determination burning in his gaze.
"I'm getting myself a sword!" With that, he dashed toward the far end of the square, already bargaining with a group of guards for a weapon.
Left behind, Zhao Yan lowered his eyes to the glowing text in his status window. His lips parted, and a quiet exclamation slipped through.
"Holy shit…"
His hand twitched, hovering over the shimmering ( + ) beside Plum Sword Technique.
The temptation gnawed at him—just one tap and the he would be admitted into the Heavenly Sword Sect. Yet he clenched his fist and pulled back, forcing restraint.
No.
I can't do that.
I should let someone else take the lead.
Exhaling slowly, he stepped out of the Heavenly Sword Sect's line and moved toward the edge of the square.
Finding a quiet spot, he sank down cross-legged, shutting out the noise of the crowd.
Closing his eyes, he let the intricate diagrams of the technique rise once more in his mind, tracing every arc and stroke, chasing the rhythm of the sword within.
A short while later, Fan Xing came jogging back through the crowd, two iron swords clutched in his hands.
His face was flushed with excitement as he thrust one toward Zhao Yan.
"Brother Zhao, take it!"
Zhao Yan blinked, momentarily caught off guard, then accepted the weapon with both hands.
"Thank you," he said with genuine surprise, his tone softer than usual.
Without hesitation, he rose to his feet and drew the blade, trying to follow the flowing lines of the sword diagram still etched in his mind.
Each movement felt foreign, stiff, as though his body refused to match the elegance of the technique.
Beside him, Fan Xing was already in motion, his strokes awkward at first, but with each repetition his form sharpened, becoming steadier, closer to the precision of the diagram.
Zhao Yan found himself stealing glances at him, measuring, comparing—yet no matter how carefully he tried, his own blade never quite matched Fan Xing's growing rhythm.
All around them, the square had transformed into a sea of steel.
Hundreds of people stood shoulder to shoulder, blades raised, tracing the same arcs, the same stances, each trying to give shape to the Plum Sword Technique.
The air hummed with the hiss of blades cutting through wind, with murmurs of effort and the clash of determination.
From the platforms, the representatives of the Earth Demon Sect and Frozen Heart Sect watched with twitching lips.
Irritation flickered across their faces, but none of them dared to interfere.
They remained silent, standing stiff with folded arms, biding their time as the square pulsed with the rhythm of swords.
After three long hours of endless practice, the first pair of youths finally stepped forward, their faces pale but determined.
They bowed low before the azure-robed man.
"Immortal Master, we—"
They didn't even finish.
With a single wave of his sleeve, the azure-robed man gestured, and the barrier of transparent light formed.
Silently, the two were accepted inside.
Another hour passed before three more gathered their courage.
They approached, tense and hopeful, but only two were accepted.
The third pressed again and again against the barrier, sweat dripping down his brow, yet no matter how hard he struggled, the barrier refused to let him enter. He slumped back, defeated.
Time stretched on.
Three hours later, the central square buzzed with noise as dozens made their attempt.
One after another tried to step through, yet only a fraction succeeded.
By the end, no more than fifty stood behind the Immortal Master's back, chosen by the barrier's silent judgment, while the rest were cast aside like waves against a cliff.
Fan Xing's voice suddenly rang with triumph. "I've mastered it!"
His face lit with joy as he gripped his sword.
He turned, expecting to see Zhao Yan ready to celebrate—but instead found him seated cross-legged on the ground, sword laid calmly at his side, eyes closed in meditation.
Fan Xing's lips curled faintly, disdain flickering across his face.
He said nothing, only strode forward with confidence.
The barrier rippled as he approached, but unlike the countless others who had been thrown back, it let did not stop him.
With ease, he passed through the transparent barrier and vanished into the platform's glow.
An hour slipped by, and Zhao Yan carefully gauged the time.
Most sects had already filled with new disciples, and by his calculation, there were less than two hours before the sect recruitment came to an end.
He opened the system panel and tapped the small (+) beside the Plum Sword Technique.
In an instant, his mind was flooded with torrents of knowledge, as though he had trained in the technique for years.
Every stance, every breath, every subtle shift of weight—etched into him as naturally as memory.
Rising slowly from the ground, he gripped his sword and began to move.
The blade flowed like a plum blossom branch swaying in the wind, his strikes precise, elegant, and flawless.
A faint smile tugged at his lips as the air hummed with the grace of his technique.
With that, Zhao Yan strode toward the platform where the azure-robed man sat.
From the crowd came faint smirks and sneers, mocking him from the shadows, but he did not so much as glance in their direction.
His focus was unshaken.
The moment he stepped forward, a chill surged across his body.
The transparent barrier pulsed before him, its energy sweeping over him like an unseen hand scanning every fiber of his being.
Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the barrier dissolved, opening a path only for him.
Without hesitation, Zhao Yan walked through.
Inside, rows of young faces turned to him, curiosity and disbelief flashing in their eyes.
Among them, Fan Xing's gaze lingered, wide with surprise. Zhao Yan offered no words, no explanation. He simply took his place and waited with the others.
By now, the day was fading.
The sect recruitment, which had begun at eight today morning, would end at six sharp.
Outside, chaos brewed as stragglers rushed to choose their futures.
Earlier, the Sky Water Sect had stood nearly empty, but as the sun dipped lower, it had swelled into the most sought-after.
Zhao Yan counted carefully—over three hundred disciples had been recruited in that sect.
Two hours slipped away, and with them the grand sect recruitment came to an end.
The central square, once alive with shouting, anticipation, and the rustle of countless robes, fell silent as the gates closed.
One by one, the sect representatives approached the platform of azure-robed man belonging to the Heavenly Sword Sect.
They bowed deeply, their voices united in respect: "Immortal Master, we will take our leave."
Yet the azure-robed man said nothing.