The Desolute Sect Outpost branch did not waste ornament on the unproven. Its outer hall was not a hall. It was a chamber of waiting, a chamber of judgment, a chamber where bodies were measured before names were remembered.
Stone walls sealed the space, polished smooth by centuries of candidates pressing against them. No banners hung. No symbols marked allegiance. The sect did not decorate those who had not yet survived its cruelty.
Twenty candidates waited inside. Some stood, some sat, some leaned against the walls as if stone itself might lend them confidence. Their voices rose and fell unevenly, fragments of conversation overlapping, testing the space—and each other.
The sect allowed this noise. It was not mercy. It was measurement.
"Is this it?" a young woman asked, arms folded tightly across her chest. "I thought there'd be formations. At least some kind of test."
A man beside her snorted. "What, you wanted drums and fireworks? This is a sect, not a festival."
She frowned. "Still. They could at least tell us what they're looking for."
"They're looking for people who don't need to be told," another voice cut in.
That earned a few glances.
Kael sat near the wall, cross‑legged, the axe strapped across his back drawing occasional looks. He did not join the conversation. He listened. His breath was slow, his weight distributed carefully, his body aligned with stone as if stone itself could absorb the pressure that others wasted in words.
The pale‑robed man leaned against a pillar, arms folded loosely, eyes moving constantly. His tone was casual, but his gaze was sharp. "Which city did you come from?"
"Inner City. House Yan."
The man nodded, unimpressed. "Explains the confidence."
"And you?" someone asked.
"Outer district. Doesn't matter."
A woman scoffed. "Of course it matters. Everything matters here."
"Then you're already losing," he replied flatly.
The sect did not correct him. Institutions did not care about truth. They cared about utility.
Kael shifted slightly, redistributing his weight. The stone beneath him responded faintly, then settled. No one noticed.
Noise before silence.
Then the air changed.
Not abruptly—gradually—like pressure building before a storm. Conversations died mid‑sentence. Bodies straightened. Eyes turned toward the entrance.
An attendant entered first, head lowered, movements quick and precise. Behind him followed a young man with shoulder‑length hair, expression devoid of interest.
"This is it?" the young man asked.
"Yes, Senior Brother."
The Senior Brother's gaze swept the room, dismissive and efficient. "Move."
The word landed like a blade.
Candidates scrambled to their feet, adjusting robes, spacing themselves without instruction. Kael rose last, smooth and unhurried.
Someone whispered behind him, "He's not even nervous."
"Or he's already broken," another replied.
The Senior Brother flicked his sleeve.
A sword no larger than a palm slipped into the air. For a heartbeat, it looked unimpressive. Then it expanded. Metal unfolded as if space itself were yielding, the blade stretching outward in a blur until it formed a massive platform hovering just above the ground.
Several candidates gasped.
"Spirit treasure…"
"No—look at the control—"
"That thing could carry a small army."
The Senior Brother stepped onto the tip of the blade, hands clasped behind his back. "Get on," he said calmly. "If you fall, you walk."
No one laughed.
Candidates hurried forward.
Kael stepped onto the blade at an even pace. The surface did not shift.
The sword lifted. Wind rushed past as the ground fell away.
"Ah—!"
One candidate stumbled, grabbing the sleeve of the person next to him.
"Watch it!"
"Get off me—!"
The Senior Brother turned his head. "Enough."
Pressure descended.
Two bodies slammed to their knees instantly, faces draining of color, teeth clenched against a weight that crushed breath from lungs.
The rest of the group froze.
The pressure vanished.
No one spoke again.
As the sword carried them toward the inner mountains, the sect's territory came into view—terraced stone, layered formations, an invisible heaviness pressing down with each passing moment.
this was not scenery. This was hierarchy. The Stonewake Sect was a 2‑Star institution, brutal and unglamorous, known for breaking disciples who expected shortcuts. Its territory was not beautiful. It was heavy. Every terrace was a verdict. Every formation was a reminder that survival was not a right.
A trembling voice broke the silence. "How is anyone supposed to endure this place?"
No one answered.
Kael adjusted his stance slightly, redistributing his weight. His body responded without conscious thought.
The pressure increased.
Some candidates swayed. Others clenched fists, jaws tight.
Kael remained steady.
Once, he had believed strength meant overpowering others. Now he understood. Strength meant remaining when others could not.
The sword crossed into the sect's airspace.
Pressure doubled.
Breaths hitched. Knees bent.
Kael inhaled slowly and let the weight settle through him, into the blade beneath his feet, into the structure holding them aloft.
He did not smile. But he did not bend.
The intake had truly begun.
This moment will not be remembered for spectacle. It will be remembered because half of those present will not endure the next cycle. The sect did not care who they were. The sect cared who remained.