The West Training Ring buzzed with energy the next morning.
Dozens of new disciples stood in uniform rows under a pale sky. The air smelled of crushed stone and cold dew. The ring was a wide platform of polished slate, surrounded by thin columns and rising terraces. It was not decorative. Not ceremonial. It was built for sweat, bruises, and spectacle.
A tall man in dark green robes stepped into the center. He folded his arms across his chest. His stance was sharp but casual, like a blade laid gently on a table. A simple jade token hung at his hip, but the pressure around him was clear. An outer sect proctor. middle Body Refining. Just strong enough to command the room, and cold enough not to care what the room thought of him.
He did not yell. His voice cut through the fog.
"You passed the first test. Congratulations. That only means you're not worthless."
No one laughed. Not even the arrogant ones.
"Today is for ranking. We don't care about your backgrounds, your villages, or your promises. We care about what you can prove, with fists, blades, or blood."
He pointed toward the central ring, a dark stone platform etched with old, fading lines. The kind that had seen too many fights. Blood had been washed off it more times than anyone could remember.
"You will spar. Two rounds per duel. Win once, and you stay. Lose twice... and you're out. No exceptions."
The group stirred. Some adjusted their stances. Others rolled their shoulders, trying to hide their nerves.
Then the proctor raised one hand, fingers marked with faint spiritual callus and added with finality: "Top two of today's matches will receive first-pick access to next month's cultivation allotment, refined scrolls, purified Qi pills, private guidance from inner sect instructors."
That stopped the whispering.
This was not just status. This was fuel.
Refined Qi pills,rare, tightly packed essence usually reserved for inner disciples. Scrolls from the Elder Halls, not mass-printed nonsense. Time with an instructor even a single hour could leap someone half a realm ahead.
A murmur ran through the ring. "First pick?" someone whispered. "No way. That's like a year's worth of guidance."
The proctor ignored them. His gaze swept the assembled youths, lazy, disinterested until it paused On Yan Shen.
He stood on the outermost edge. Silent. Not posturing. Just watching. His hands were not clenched. His robe was not new. His Qi did not leak. But there was a weight to him. A stillness that did not belong.
The proctor frowned faintly. Then moved on.
Today's sparring was not just for rankings. It was a viewing session.
The upper courtyard terraces circling the ring were rarely full. But today they brimmed with watching eyes. Senior disciples leaned over railings. Outer instructors sipped tea behind charm-screens. A few sect elders sat at the shaded back tier, not to observe everyone, but to watch for outliers.
Among them stood Elder Mei, sharp-eyed and serene, a mistcloak draped across her shoulders. Beside her, silent and arms folded, was Lanlan. Her robes marked her as an inner disciple. She looked older not in age, but in expression. Her eyes scanned the crowd, unreadable.
She had requested to observe. When Elder Mei asked why, she had simply replied: "I want to see how Qinghe boys handle themselves now."
Now, as she spotted a familiar figure below, her fingers twitched once, then tightened around the silk fan in her sleeve.
Near her, an older disciple whispered, "That boy at the edge. The calm one. You see him?"
Another leaned in. "Didn't he distort the pressure formation yesterday?"
"Not broke. Distorted. Formation techs said it flared unevenly. Like it was choking on density. Not realm-breaking. Just wrong."
"Think it's a constitution?"
"Maybe. Or maybe he's just built different."
Elder Mei said nothing. But her gaze never left Yan Shen.
The matches started fast: three duels at a time across the slate ring. The proctor barked names. No delays. No ceremony. Just fists.
Some matches were flailing chaos,wild swings, off-balance kicks. Others were stiff and formal, disciples trying too hard to remember forms. They followed the rules. And got knocked down anyway.
But here and there:brilliance.
A boy from Snowbridge village spun his staff with crisp grace. Another, short and thickly built, wielded his earth root like a coiled spring, stomping once and launching his opponent into the air with a burst of stone.
Spiritual bursts flared, weak flames, gusts of air, flashes of force. Enough to prove potential. Enough to leave bruises.
The proctor watched without emotion. He marked names. Crossed others out.
Twice he stepped forward, once to break a chokehold with a flick of his fingers, another to kick a faking disciple back to his feet. "This isn't theater," the proctor said coldly. "If you want applause, go dance in town." That boy was disqualified.
No one argued.
All the while, Yan Shen watched.
He did not chat. Did not pace. Did not stretch. He stood, arms loose, gaze half-lidded, like a sculptor studying rough stone, looking not at what was there, but what could be carved.
He took in everything. Their posture when confident. Their stances when scared. Who leaned left. Who did not guard their ribs. Who smiled before striking. Who gritted their teeth and dropped their guard after a hit.
Reach. Rhythm. Arrogance. Tell.
He did not need to know their names. He only needed to know their mistakes.
One disciple nearby, a stocky boy with fire root, nudged his friend and sneered toward Yan Shen. "That one hasn't moved all morning. Think he's nervous?"
"Or dumb," the friend muttered. "Bet he gets flattened."
"Hope I get paired with him. Free win."
Yan Shen did not flinch. He was not meditating. He was calibrating.
Then, as the fog lifted and light filtered into the courtyard, a voice called out: "Next round: Yan Shen versus Lin Cang."
The crowd stirred. A few turned to look.
The cocky fire-root boy grinned and stepped forward, spinning his wrists with bravado. "Guess I got my wish."
Yan Shen just walked. No ceremony. No chant. No glow of Qi. He stepped forward like someone walking through a door.
As he moved past the watching students, a heavy breeze rolled through the courtyard—too sudden, too cold for late morning. On the balcony, someone leaned forward slightly.