Chapter Two: False Grandeur and Worn Metal
The journey atop the envoy's violet cloud was not the dream mortals imagined in their folk tales.
It was a nightmare of cold and crushing pressure.
For Zhou Fan, who had never once left his valley, altitude meant only one thing: naked truth. From this height, his village, his clan— even the corpse of the clan elder—had been reduced to insignificant dots upon an endless chessboard.
The air above the cloud was thin, saturated with qi so dense it scorched his mortal lungs with every breath. Zhou Fan punished himself internally to maintain composure; he refused to vomit or collapse before the envoy, who stood at the cloud's edge with a straight back—like a sword blade stabbed into the heart of the sky.
"Five hundred and forty-two breaths since departure…" Zhou Fan murmured inwardly, clenching his hands, now blue from the cold. He counted time to distract his mind from pain.
"The speed is increasing. The spiritual pressure rises at a constant rate as we approach the peaks of Origin Dragon Mountain. If this continues, my blood vessels will rupture before arrival."
The envoy Li glanced back from the corner of his eye.
He saw the thin child trembling—yet something felt wrong. The boy's eyes were not filled with fear as they stared downward. Instead, they followed the flow of violet energy beneath their feet, as though trying to decipher the cloud itself.
"Do not attempt to comprehend what your senses cannot grasp, child," the envoy said, his voice cold, like slabs of ice colliding.
"You now stand upon the Path of Immortality. Here, your mortal intellect is nothing more than a fly's buzz in a lion's ear. What matters is the spiritual root—the metal from which your soul is forged. And from what I see… your metal is deeply flawed."
Zhou Fan did not respond.
He simply dug his nails deeper into his palm.
The words were harsh—but they were data, added to his calculations.
Spiritual metal. Root. Talent.
Terms that would determine his fate in the coming hours.
After nearly an hour of flight that felt like an eternity, Long Yuan Sect revealed itself.
It was not merely buildings atop a mountain—it was a suspended city, floating between eight towering peaks, connected by bridges of light and mist. Waterfalls of spiritual water poured from nothingness into lakes that reflected colors Zhou Fan had never seen in his life. Palaces built from heavenly marble radiated their own glow, while massive crane birds soared through the air, cultivators in snow-white robes riding upon their backs.
The cloud descended into a vast plaza known as the Purification Square.
The square was crowded with hundreds—no, thousands—of children between the ages of eight and twelve. They were nothing like Zhou Fan. Most wore fine silks, their faces healthy, their eyes brimming with confidence. These were the children of minor cultivation families—born with spirit stones already placed upon their tongues.
Zhou Fan stood among them in clothes stained with the dust of Whispering Winds Valley and the dried blood of his clan elder.
He felt gazes of disdain and disgust pierce him like needles.
"Look at that beggar…" whispered a chubby boy wearing a necklace of spirit jade.
"How did an envoy dare bring mortal trash here? He reeks of livestock."
Mocking laughter rippled outward.
Zhou Fan felt his blood boil—yet his calculating mind restrained him instantly.
"Anger is a useless variable. These children possess resources but lack awareness. The true enemy is not them, but the structure standing behind them."
At the far end of the square stood a row of elders in gray robes. Before them loomed a massive mirror, ten meters tall—the Dao Vein Mirror.
The trials began.
Children stepped before the mirror one after another.
"Third-grade talent! Mid-tier rank! Accepted as an outer disciple!" one elder shouted.
"Second-grade talent! High rank! Potential inner disciple!"
With each proclamation, children either swelled with pride or wept with joy.
Zhou Fan, however, watched the mirror itself.
He noticed it did not reflect images—but an inner radiance from within the child's body. The colors ranged from dull to brilliant, weak to blinding.
Then came the first true variable in Zhou Fan's calculations: Yang Lian.
Yang Lian did not hail from Zhou Fan's village, but from a neighboring, wealthier town. He possessed an athletic physique and a sharp gaze. The moment he stood before the mirror, a violent burst of violet light erupted—nearly blinding the crowd.
"First-grade talent! Heavenly rank!" the elder cried in shock, several elders rising from their seats.
"A rare genius! Accepted directly under the supervision of an elder from the Third Peak!"
Yang Lian walked away in arrogant strides. As he passed Zhou Fan, he deliberately slammed his shoulder into him.
"Prepare to return to your valley, little poet," Yang Lian sneered.
"Geniuses write history with swords. The weak write it with tears."
Zhou Fan staggered—but did not fall.
He looked at his bruised shoulder, then at Yang Lian.
There was no hatred in his eyes—only analysis.
"The force of impact suggests a body refined with medicinal support from early childhood. Violet radiance indicates high compatibility with the lightning element. Yang Lian is the mountain I must climb… or tunnel through."
Finally, his name was called.
"Zhou Fan! From Whispering Winds Valley!"
Mocking silence spread across the square.
Zhou Fan stepped forward, his movements heavy. Each step felt as though it took an eternity. When he stood before the massive mirror, an unnatural chill seeped into his pores, probing his depths—searching for the spiritual root that bound him to the heavens.
One second…
Two seconds…
Three breaths.
The mirror did not flare.
No violet. No gold.
Only a dull, desolate gray glow, like ashes after a fire had long gone out.
The elder sighed in boredom and disappointment.
"Zhou Fan… Fifth-grade talent. Perforated spirit veins. Mortal aptitude of the lowest order."
Laughter erupted like crashing waves.
"Fifth grade? This body can't even retain qi for a single day before it leaks away!"
"What a waste of space. Why did the envoy even bring him?"
Zhou Fan felt his heart tighten.
He had not expected miracles—but fifth grade was a death sentence in the cultivation world. Perforated talent meant that no matter how he trained, no matter how he tortured himself, his body would never retain energy. He was a leaking bucket trying to collect rain.
He looked at the elder.
"Is there another test? Intelligence… calculation…?"
The elder raised his head coldly.
"In our world, intelligence without strength is merely tragedy. Go to the Servant Student Quarters. If you survive one year and reach the first level of Body Tempering, we may consider keeping you as a woodcutter or herb farmer."
Zhou Fan turned away.
He did not cry.
He did not scream injustice.
His mind raced faster than ever before.
"Variables: weak talent, perforated body, enemies everywhere, zero resources.
Objective: immortality."
As he walked away amid mocking gazes, he scourged his own spirit.
"If my body is a leaking basket, then I will flood the entire world with energy until the hole no longer matters. I will turn weakness into a trap—and silence into poison."
At that moment, as he left the square toward the gloomy servant quarters, Zhou Fan glimpsed an old man seated in a distant corner, dressed in rags and holding a broom.
The old man was not watching the geniuses.
He was staring at Zhou Fan, wearing a strange smile the boy did not yet understand.
The true journey had begun.
A journey not reliant on the heavens' blessing—
but on stealing from the heavens themselves.