The gates of the Golden Sparrow Guild loomed before him, dark and imposing, carved from stone that had weathered centuries. A faint pulse thrummed through the ground beneath his feet, subtle yet insistent, as if the stones themselves knew the power contained within. The city behind him had become a distant murmur: the rattle of carts, the cries of merchants, the scent of burnt oil and morning dew — all swallowed by the vast shadow of the guild.
Senior disciples lined the cobblestone road, their black cloaks swaying like dark waves, edges fraying with countless battles. Light glinted off the weapons strapped to their waists, and masks hung loosely around their necks, shadows of intent lurking beneath the cloth. Each step they took, each movement, carried the weight of precise calculation, honed reflexes, and a quiet hunger that made even seasoned street rats hesitate.
"Move forward in a straight line!" one barked, voice snapping across the crowd like a whip. "No wandering, no talking, no foolish attempts. Those who stray will learn the meaning of discipline before being cast out."
The sound pressed down on Lu Mao like a storm, sharp but invisible, a warning that brushed against his skin and rattled his instincts. Children of every age — ten, fifteen, twenty — fell in line without a sound. Some kept their heads low, eyes fixed on the cobblestones. Others dared to glance at the cloaked sentinels, only to snap back under the weight of unseen scrutiny.
Lu Mao walked alone, his hands resting lightly at his sides, feeling the subtle pull of the qi around him — the faint trace of life energy that rippled off the other candidates, each heartbeat a note in a symphony of tension. The air smelled of dust, sweat, and steel, faint hints of incense drifting from a distant balcony, mingling with the damp aroma of early morning rain.
As he moved, his gaze drifted across the children. Some were wild-eyed, faces smeared with the soil of unknown lands, their garb foreign in cut and texture, hinting at tribes that had never touched the great cities. Others bore the careful polish of noble families, embroidery sharp and clean, jewelry glinting like captured stars. A few wore the marks of guild apprentices — the golden thread of insignias barely visible in the soft light.
Some walked in groups, speaking in low tones, forming small alliances. Others, like Lu Mao, moved alone, their steps measured, careful, their eyes scanning constantly for cracks, for opportunities, for danger.
The diversity was deliberate. He had learned from his father, from whispered conversations in the dead of night, that the Golden Sparrow Guild was no ordinary sect. Sects clung to structure, to lineage, to the old ways. They demanded loyalty and obedience, molding their disciples like clay into a single predetermined shape. Guilds were different. Guilds thrived on flexibility, on talent, on survival.
Anyone could join, provided they could prove themselves — skill, cunning, and a willingness to obey the guild's code were the only keys. The rest, the world would simply discard.
Even so, there were distinctions in the broader world. Lu Mao recalled the lesson from Jin Wu, repeated in his mind like the rhythm of a heartbeat: the world was divided into three forces.
Righteous sects, bathed in the light of tradition, wielding honor and discipline like shields.
Demonic sects, soaked in blood, wild, merciless, unbound by law.
And Forbidden organizations — guilds, clans, tribes — neither loyal to the righteous nor obedient to the demonic. They moved like shadows in the spaces between, shaping the world in quiet, often unseen ways.
The Golden Sparrow was one of those forbidden powers. A neutral blade in a land defined by extremes. The righteous condemned them. The demonic tolerated them. And yet, all feared the quiet truth: the forbidden guilds could tip the scales at a single stroke if the opportunity arose.
Lu Mao's thoughts barely had time to settle before murmurs rose among the children around him.
"This year's trial will be harsher than ever," one whispered, tone tight with apprehension.
"Why?" another asked.
"They're seeking talent, real talent," the first answered, voice low. "Nightmares have been appearing more frequently near the World Crevice. Powerful cultivators are dying. The guilds, the sects… they want the next generation ready."
A third voice, trembling slightly, added, "A General-rank Nightmare was seen, leading lesser creatures near the crevice. Many lives were lost. Even seasoned disciples fell before them."
Lu Mao's hands tightened at his sides. Nightmares. He had heard the word spoken in hushed tones, along with tales of creatures older than memory, spawned from the Abyss itself. The thought tightened his chest in anticipation rather than fear.
"Perhaps it's for the Divine Thunder Convergence," a fourth child interrupted. "Sixty years left. For cultivators, that's almost nothing. Soon, countless forces will clash for the Eternal Dao Shard. The stronger we are now, the better our chances."
Lu Mao stayed silent. Sixty years, a hundred days — time bent differently for cultivators. But whether it was a shard, a convergence, or a trial, his task was simple: survive, observe, adapt, and rise.
The path curved upward, the streets narrowing as the city gave way to the inner courtyard. Before him sprawled a colossal arena, circular, walls climbing skyward, tapering like the tips of ancient blades. Balconies, rooftops, and terraces overflowed with guild disciples, silent as shadows, watching the newcomers with eyes that weighed more than stones.
The air itself seemed alive here. Every breath carried tension, power, and the faint, bitter tang of unrefined qi. Lu Mao felt it brush against his skin like wind through reeds, stirring something deep within his chest.
Ahead, the stage rose, white stone etched with crimson lightning that flickered faintly under the morning sun. Figures began to take their places — elders, seated with a calm that belied the storms of time. Their auras radiated power so vast it bent the very space around them. Some looked centuries old, bearded and shadowed, while others seemed deceptively young, skin glowing faintly with the energy that simmered beneath. Each one was a Saint, a Divine Elder of the guild, and their mere presence bent the air into submission.
Lu Mao froze briefly, heart quickening. Even his father's lessons could not prepare him for this.
A voice called from behind. "I finally found you."
He turned. Yan Mei stood there, hands resting lightly on her hips, a faint grin teasing her lips. "You again."
"I knew you'd be here," he replied with a hint of amusement.
His eyes returned to the stage. "Do you know who they are?" he asked quietly. "They… they look stronger than even my father."
Yan Mei's expression softened, reverent yet unafraid. "Those are the Divine Saints — elders of the Divine Mountain. They dwell in isolation for centuries, descending only every five years to select disciples from the trial. Each of them could level mountains or tear the sky apart if they willed it. Every single one of them is a Saint."
Lu Mao swallowed. The air vibrated with the weight of truth. Stories spoke of power beyond imagination, but seeing it — feeling it — was something else entirely.
And then the sky tore open.
A streak of crimson lightning raked across the arena, and wind roared, stirring dust and leaves in a violent dance. From the storm descended a figure — robes of red, hair blazing like fire, moving as though the wind itself bore her. Her beauty was undeniable, but beneath it lurked the cold edge of inevitability, a presence that made the hairs on the back of his neck rise.
When her feet touched the stage, silence fell. Even the Saints behind her inclined their heads subtly, acknowledging her command over the moment.
Lu Mao's pulse tightened. Her aura was not the raw, crushing force of the Saints — it was precise, controlled, absolute. Every movement, every flicker of her eyes, seemed designed to weigh the hearts of all who looked upon her.
Yan Mei whispered at his side, voice low: "That… is Madam Yan. The Guild Leader."
Lu Mao could only stare. This was no ordinary mortal. No mere Saint. She was a living force, an apex predator in human form. Her gaze swept over the arena, sharp, steady, and when it passed over him, a faint stir pulsed deep within his chest.
She spoke, and the words echoed as if carried on the bones of the arena itself:
"Welcome, candidates. Today you stand before the Golden Sparrow Guild. Skill alone is not enough. Strength alone is meaningless. Only those who endure, adapt, and survive shall claim their place. Fail, and you vanish like smoke."
Even among the crowd, children flinched. Some fell to their knees. Lu Mao did not move. His eyes tracked her, chest tight, instincts alive, reading the pulse of energy that radiated outward — a tide of power, both testing and measuring each newcomer.
Yan Mei nudged him lightly. "You feel it too, don't you?"
He nodded, slowly, carefully. "Yeah. This isn't just a trial. It's… something bigger."
The Guild waited. The stage awaited. And beyond the gates, the world trembled with stories that would test them all.
Lu Mao tightened his fists, a small, wry smile forming. The path was clear. The game had begun.
And he would rise.