The wind carried the metallic scent of rain and blood.
Ezra stood on the ridge overlooking the canyon, his bronze skin dusted with grit, his cloak torn by the earlier skirmish. The riders had come swift and brutal — mounted cultivators whose beast-steeds snorted sparks as they galloped through the dusk. They called themselves the Riders of the Northern Crest, a faction feared for their mercenary code: serve no sect, honor no law, and leave no witnesses.
Ezra had barely survived their first charge. His mind, not his strength, had saved him — a quick feint into the ravine, a roll through the mud, a single spark of his internal energy used to blind the lead rider. He could still feel his pulse hammering in his ears.
Now, as he crouched in the shadow of a jagged stone, he heard the echoes of hooves fade. He waited. One minute. Two. Then silence.
He exhaled, slow and steady. "Too close."
His body ached. His dantian still thrummed with the unstable energy of the Stormfang technique he'd learned weeks earlier in the rogue camp. It was powerful, but volatile — his control barely enough to keep it from tearing his meridians apart. Yet that same risk made it beautiful. It was like wielding thunder bare-handed — and he couldn't help but respect that danger.
He rose and brushed the dust from his sleeves, scanning the horizon. In the distance, the riders regrouped near a line of glowing banners — faintly illuminated by spiritual light. The banners marked the boundary of a territory Ezra had only heard whispers about.
The Crimson Veil Sect.
Unlike most sects that flaunted their power, the Crimson Veil were known for their secrecy and ruthlessness. They accepted disciples from all walks of life but demanded one thing above all — the willingness to bleed for strength.
Ezra's lips tightened. "If I want to grow… I can't hide forever."
He remembered what the old rogue cultivator told him before they parted: "The sects will either kill you or forge you. The difference is how you walk through their gates."
So, he walked.
Hours later, as night thickened, he approached the outskirts of the sect's outer grounds. The air grew heavier with spiritual energy, like invisible waves pressing on his skin. Lanterns hung from tall black pines, their flames burning a deep crimson hue. Each flame pulsed in rhythm — as if alive.
A voice called out from the shadows.
"Step no further, wanderer. This is sacred ground."
Ezra froze. From between the trees emerged a woman clad in dark red armor, her spear glowing faintly with runes. She looked young, maybe mid-twenties, but her aura screamed danger.
He raised his hands calmly. "I seek entry. I'm no threat."
Her eyes flicked over him — his torn clothes, the faint storm energy flickering under his skin. "You reek of killing intent and desperation. What makes you think the Crimson Veil would accept you?"
Ezra met her gaze evenly. "Because I'm still standing."
For a moment, there was silence — then a small, surprised smirk curved her lips.
"Arrogant. I like that." She lowered her spear slightly. "Name?"
"Ezra Thorn."
Her eyes narrowed, as if testing the sound of it. "Foreign name. You're not from this continent."
He didn't answer. She didn't push.
"Follow me then, Ezra Thorn. But understand — once you step past these trees, your life belongs to the Sect. Fail their trial, and not even your ashes will remain."
Ezra nodded. "Then I'll make sure to pass."
She turned sharply and began walking. He followed, silent, observant — noting the carved symbols etched into every tree. The symbols weren't decorative; they absorbed spiritual energy from the forest itself, channeling it inward toward the mountain heart.
They reached a gate of black jade, towering and ancient. Beyond it lay a wide courtyard, where torches burned with blood-colored flames and dozens of cultivators trained under the night sky. Their movements were precise, cruelly efficient — their energy sharp as blades.
Ezra's heart stirred. This was the world he'd dreamed of back home — the world of power, of ascension, of breaking limits. But standing in its presence, he realized something vital. The stories had never captured the smell of sweat and blood. The real cultivation world was not beautiful. It was raw. It was alive.
A tall figure approached from the steps — a man with silver hair and a crimson robe, his eyes like twin blades.
"Another stray?" His voice cut through the air. "We've had too many this month."
The armored woman bowed. "He survived the Riders. Alone."
That made the man pause. His gaze sharpened on Ezra. "Is that so? Impressive… or lucky. We'll find out which."
He stepped closer, his aura pressing down like a mountain. Ezra's knees threatened to buckle, but he grounded himself, forcing the Stormfang energy to circulate — a flicker of thunder answering the weight of the elder's presence.
"Hmm. You resist well. Very well." The man's lips curved faintly. "You will take the initiation trial at dawn."
Ezra inclined his head. "And if I survive?"
"Then you will be Crimson Veil." The elder's smile widened. "If not, your bones will feed our trees."
The woman shot him a quick glance — not pity, but a flicker of warning. "Rest while you can, Ezra Thorn. The trial isn't meant for the weak-hearted."
When they left him in a small stone chamber lit by a single crimson lantern, Ezra sat quietly on the floor, palms resting on his knees.
He thought of home — the flickering dorm lights, the cracked phone screen, the nights spent reading cultivation novels to escape a world that didn't believe in magic. Now, he was living it. But the price was real.
He whispered to himself, voice steady.
"I came here to grow stronger. To change. No system, no shortcuts. Just me."
Thunder hummed faintly in his chest. It answered his conviction, low and steady — like a heartbeat made of stormlight.
Outside, the mountain roared with wind. In the distance, he could hear the riders again, their cries fading into the night.
Tomorrow, he would face the trial of blood and spirit.
Tomorrow, Ezra Thorn would either rise among the Crimson Veil… or die as one of countless forgotten souls beneath their sacred trees.