Stonequiet Village had no walls, no gates, and no reason for outsiders to visit.
Its stone houses sat low against the ground, as if afraid of collapsing should the wind grow even slightly stronger. The narrow paths were filled with dust and gravel, worn smooth by countless footsteps—people walking without grand ambitions, only routines meant to keep them alive one more day.
In this village, people were not taught how to become strong.
They were taught how not to die.
Lin Arka grew up with that understanding.
He could not remember the first time he saw death. Perhaps it was when a neighbor fell from a cliff while gathering firewood. Perhaps it was during a long winter that claimed two children in a single week. There were no ceremonies. No prolonged mourning.
The villagers buried the bodies and moved on.
"The living continue," his father once said. "The dead are finished."
Lin Arka remembered those words as he stood in the village square, facing a group of people dressed in gray robes marked with a faint mist emblem.
Envoys of the Eastern Mist Sect.
They came once a year—sometimes once every two years. Never on a fixed schedule. They did not promise wealth. They did not promise protection. They offered only one thing:
A chance.
"The selection begins today," said the swordsman at the front. His voice was flat, emotionless. "Those who wish to participate, step forward."
Not everyone moved.
Some parents pulled their children back. Some youths hesitated, then shook their heads. They all knew the stories—of those who left and never returned.
Lin Arka stepped forward without hesitation.
Not because he was brave.
Not because he was confident.
He simply saw no reason to stay behind.
Life in Stonequiet Village meant working until the body broke, then dying slowly. The sect was dangerous, but at least the danger came with change.
The envoys scanned the participants. Only briefly. There was no interest in their eyes.
"The first test," the swordsman said. "Stand."
That was all.
The sun moved slowly across the sky. Time passed. Legs trembled. Breathing grew uneven. One participant collapsed, unconscious in the dirt.
No one helped him.
An hour later, two more fell.
One cried before dropping to his knees.
Lin Arka remained standing.
He did not tense his muscles. He did not fight the pain. He let the fatigue exist, flow through him, and fade little by little—like enduring the cold during winter. Resisting only made one fall faster.
One of the envoys glanced at him briefly, then looked away.
When the sun neared the horizon, the test ended.
Out of more than fifty participants, only twenty remained standing.
"Enough," the swordsman said. "You will come with us."
There were no congratulations.
No cheers.
That night, Lin Arka returned home and packed his belongings—thin clothes, a water pouch, and a dull knife. No one stopped him.
His mother only said, "Eat."
They ate in silence.
When Lin Arka stood to leave, his father did not hug him. He said only one sentence:
"Don't die stupidly."
Lin Arka nodded.
He did not promise success.
He promised only that he would not die meaninglessly.
They departed the next morning.
There were no carts. No mounts. The sect envoys walked at the front, their steps steady, never looking back.
On the first day, feet blistered.
On the second day, one participant vomited blood.
On the third day, a girl collapsed and did not rise again.
The group continued walking.
Lin Arka was not shocked. Stonequiet Village had already taught him that death was not an event—it was the result of a wrong choice.
When the mist-covered mountains finally appeared in the distance, only eight people remained.
Lin Arka was still walking.
He did not feel strong.
He did not feel special.
He only felt that he had not collapsed yet.
And in a world like this, that was enough to go farther than most.
The mist swallowed the mountain peaks.
The Eastern Mist Sect awaited.