The next morning, when the first rays of sunlight pierced through the clouds, illuminating the vast plaza at the foot of Azure Cloud Sect's mountain, the entire outer sect was already boiling with excitement.
This was the annual grand event, and the only chance for countless lowly ants to change their fate—the Spirit Testing Ceremony.
Mo Fan brought A-Song, mingling among thousands of raggedly dressed servants in the queue, slowly surging toward the plaza with the crowded flow of people.
The air here was thick with a mixture of sweat, dust, and extreme excitement.
Looking around, it was a sea of humanity.
The plaza was distinctly divided into three tiers.
The Outermost Ring: Thousands of servants like Mo Fan and Old Lü, along with accompanying family members. They wore dull, coarse hemp cloth, their eyes containing both hope and deep reverence, like prisoners awaiting judgment
The Middle Ring: Dozens of boys and girls dressed in silk and satin, some even accompanied by family servants. Most clutched "recommendation letters" from secular families or rogue cultivators, their expressions carrying some arrogance—confidence piled up by money and status.
The Innermost Elevated Platform: Swirling with clouds and mist. That was where the Azure Cloud Sect's elders and inner sect disciples resided. Occasionally sword lights would streak past, or snow-white figures would appear and disappear among the clouds, drawing wave after wave of irrepressible gasps from the crowd below.
That was the celestial realm, the clouds beyond mortal reach.
"Seventh Brother, there are so many people."
A-Song gripped Mo Fan's sleeve tightly. Though wearing the new clothes Old Lü had rushed to make overnight, they still appeared shabby and plain compared to the gorgeous brocade robes of the wealthy young masters around them.
"The more people, the livelier it is."
Mo Fan patted the back of his hand, feeling the youth's palms drenched in sweat. "Straighten your back. Remember, once you're up on that platform, they look at what's in your bones, not what's on your body."
A-Song took a deep breath and nodded forcefully. His previously somewhat hunched spine slowly straightened. Those eyes, nourished to increasing clarity, held little timidity, instead burning with an inner flame.
That was the gaze of wild grass suppressed too long, yearning to see the sunlight.
"Oh, Xiaoqi, you're all here?"
A somewhat shrill voice interrupted their silence.
Mo Fan turned to see Steward Wang with his hands behind his back, leading several lackeys on an inspection tour through the crowd.
The current Steward Wang didn't wear his usual sinister, fault-finding expression when targeting Mo Fan. Instead, he displayed a kind of distant indifference befitting "official business."
"Steward Wang." Mo Fan appropriately showed a simple, honest smile and bowed slightly.
"Mm, good spirits."
Steward Wang casually glanced at Mo Fan, his gaze finally settling on A-Song, a barely perceptible expectation flashing in his eyes—after all, this was a child from his district. If he really tested positive for Spirit Roots, it would be another entry on his record.
He casually pulled from his sleeve a wooden token carved with a number and handed it to A-Song.
"This is your number token, Group C Number Three. Hold onto it, don't lose it. When your number's called, go up. Don't embarrass my district."
"Yes, thank you for your guidance, sir." Mo Fan accepted the token for A-Song.
Steward Wang nodded and left with his hands behind his back, like a landlord inspecting his domain.
With a long toll of the bell, the ceremony officially began.
At the plaza's center, the giant stone monument previously shrouded in mist finally revealed its true form.
[ Spirit Testing Monument ]
It stood ten zhang tall, entirely black as ink, its surface flowing with arcane runes. It was like a silent judge, coldly observing the masses at its feet.
Mo Fan looked at that monument, and for a moment, memories of the original Lu Xiaoqi surfaced in his mind.
Five years ago, Lu Xiaoqi had also stood here full of hope. However, fate played tricks—when the monument lit up with the murky gray light representing "five-element miscellaneous Spirit Roots," in that moment, young Lu Xiaoqi's heaven instantly collapsed into hell.
That genius praised by elders for having "exceptional bones" instantly became a joke in everyone's eyes, ultimately exiled to Abandoned Sword Cliff to work as a wood-chopping servant.
"Phew..."
Mo Fan unconsciously pressed his chest.
There, beneath his heartbeat, was hidden a secret that didn't belong to this world—the "Necromancer System."
"Lu Xiaoqi's path ended."
Mo Fan said silently to himself. "But Mo Fan's path has just begun. And today... it's A-Song's turn."
The testing process was tedious and cruel.
There weren't many heart-stopping phenomena, mostly just suffocating silence and disappointment.
"Group A Number One, ordinary mortal, no Spirit Roots. Step down."
"Group A Number Two, ordinary mortal, miscellaneous Spirit Roots. Step down."
...
One after another, hopeful children walked up, pressed their hands on the cold monument, then in deathly silence, walked down with ashen faces.
Occasionally the monument would light up with faint white or red light, representing low-grade Spirit Roots, and the crowd would erupt with sparse applause and envious sighs.
In the cultivation world, Spirit Roots were divided into five grades: Heaven, Earth, Superior, Middle, and Lower.
Lower-grade: Could still cultivate, but would spend their entire lives in the Qi Condensation stage with no hope of Foundation Establishment, only becoming outer sect disciples or stewards.
Middle-grade: The sect's backbone forces, with a slim chance of attempting the Golden Core path.
Superior-grade: True core seeds. Once one appeared, they'd immediately be taken as personal disciples by inner sect elders. Like that Luo Yu who casually cleared the screen with one sword in Qingmu Town—he had a rare Superior-grade Sword Spirit Root.
Heaven-grade: One-in-ten-thousand prodigies. Supposedly only the founding ancestor who established the sect had possessed one.
"This year's harvest... isn't looking good."
On the elevated platform, several outer sect elders presiding over the ceremony looked at the testing queue that was already more than half done, frowning and whispering.
Generally speaking, Azure Cloud Sect could produce a batch of Middle-grade Spirit Root seedlings every ten years, and one Superior-grade per century.
And this year, according to the almanac, was clearly an "off year."
Thousands of children had already been tested through more than half, with the vast majority being ordinary mortals or waste Spirit Roots (like Lu Xiaoqi's type). Only a few dozen lower-grade Spirit Roots caught the eye, and as for Middle-grade Spirit Roots, not a single one had appeared yet.
The entire plaza's atmosphere was somewhat oppressive, even carrying a thread of crushing despair. Those children yet to be tested, whose faces had originally been excited, were now frightened pale, their legs trembling.
"This is the cruelty of the cultivation world."
Mo Fan observed coldly, watching these scenes of tragicomedy unfold. It was like a lottery drawing with no fairness whatsoever, where the vast majority were destined to leave clutching worthless paper.
"Next, Group C Number Three, Li Hansong!"
The steward calling names had a hoarse voice, revealing the weariness of routine procedures.
Hearing that name, A-Song, who'd been tensed up the entire time, trembled violently.
He instinctively turned back to look at Mo Fan behind him.
"Go."
Mo Fan stood in the crowd. Though wearing coarse hemp cloth, though slightly hunching his back to disguise his identity, his eyes looking at A-Song were calm as a deep, profound lake.
He didn't say much encouraging nonsense, only lightly nodding his head.
That gaze seemed to say: Go take back what belongs to you.
A-Song took a deep breath and released his grip on the sleeve. He turned around, taking steps that were somewhat stiff, passing through the path automatically opened by the crowd, walking step by step toward that towering black monument reaching into the clouds.
The entire venue's gaze, even those of the casually indifferent elders, now briefly focused due to procedural inertia on this servant youth dressed in brand new gray cloth, with a thin frame.
No one knew.
In this utterly unremarkable "off year," a thunderbolt sufficient to shake the outer sect was about to explode.