The notice did not change the training grounds. The same stone platforms remained. The same practice poles were driven into the earth at uneven angles. The same instructors sat beneath their awnings with eyes half-lidded, correcting nothing unless it threatened to become fatal. Yet the air was different.
Xu Qian felt it the moment he stepped onto the ground at dawn. Conversations were shorter. Movements were tighter. No one warmed up carelessly. Even the habitual braggarts kept their mouths closed.
The Minor Assessment was unranked.
That fact was repeated often, usually too quickly, as if saying it aloud could soften what it meant. Unranked did not mean unimportant. The sect did not measure them against each other. It measured them against its minimum. It would not tell them who was better. It would only decide who was still allowed to remain.
Xu Qian took his place in the outer ring where the stone was more worn and the footing was slightly uneven. He stood with his sword sheathed, his feet shoulder-width apart, his posture straight but relaxed. Around him, other outer disciples mirrored the same stance with varying degrees of precision. Some were stiff with nerves while others tried too hard to look relaxed. A few stared ahead with unfocused eyes, already retreating inward to find whatever focus they had left.
An instructor rose from his seat. He did not announce rules or name stages. He simply spoke a single word.
"Draw."
Steel slid free in a dozen different rhythms. Xu Qian's sword came into his hand smoothly. The familiar weight grounded him. The slight drag in his arm was still there, a reminder of the poison's legacy, but it did not surprise him anymore. He had learned to move with the friction rather than against it.
"Basic sequence," the instructor said. "Thrust. Cut. Return."
There were no variations. This was the foundation.
Xu Qian stepped forward on his left foot and thrust his blade. The motion was controlled and driven from his waist, the point aligned cleanly with his centerline. He felt the resistance in his arm as the blade extended-a subtle friction that forced him to compensate with posture rather than raw strength. He cut across on the return, a simple horizontal slice meant to sever, not to impress. Then he withdrew, his blade settling back into the guard position.
Again he moved. And again.
The repetition stripped away the illusion of competence. By the fiftieth thrust, sweat made the grip slick. By the hundredth, the muscles in the lower back began to spasm in those who relied on brute strength rather than alignment.
Xu Qian did not fight the weight of the iron. He let his bones carry it. When he thrust, he did not push with his shoulder; he dropped his weight into his stance and let the force travel up through his spine, turning his arm into a rigid extension of the blade.
The disciple to his left was failing. The man was strong, broad-chested, but he treated the sword like a stone block. He was lifting it with the knot of muscle in his shoulder every time. Xu Qian could see the flesh trembling, the tendon straining under the skin. That tremor was a leak. In a real fight, that leak would become a hesitation. In this assessment, it was a target for the instructor's eyes.
Around him, the differences were obvious to anyone who knew where to look. One disciple overextended on the thrust, relying on reach instead of structure. Another cut too hard with his shoulders rising, wasting energy on a strike that lacked balance. A third hesitated on the return, breaking the flow of the sequence and leaving himself open.
The instructor did not comment. He walked the line slowly, his eyes tracking joints and balance rather than the paths of the blades. When he stopped behind a disciple two positions to the right of Xu Qian, he waited for the man to move again. The disciple faltered on his next thrust.
"Enough," the instructor said.
The disciple froze in place.
"Set your sword down. Move to the side."
There was no anger and no explanation. The man swallowed, placed his sword on the ground, and stepped away. An attendant appeared and guided him off the platform. No one watched him leave for long because the sequence continued immediately.
Xu Qian focused on his breathing. He inhaled through his nose slowly and exhaled through his mouth with control. He did not try to push warmth into his limbs. This was not a test of cultivation. This was a filtration of the weak. After the third repetition, the instructor raised a hand.
"Pairs."
There was a brief shuffle as disciples matched off with those nearest them. Xu Qian found himself facing a young man with narrow eyes and a careful stance. His grip was correct and his balance was decent. They inclined their heads once in a short greeting.
"Begin."
They stepped in. The first exchange was cautious. Thrust met parry. Cut met block. Neither man pushed and neither man retreated too quickly. Xu Qian tested the angles rather than using force. He let his opponent initiate the moves, watching how the man recovered after each movement. There was a slight hitch after the cut, a moment where the blade lagged behind the body by a fraction of a second.
Xu Qian adjusted his timing. On the next exchange, he shortened his thrust deliberately to invite a response. When the other man parried and cut, Xu Qian rotated his wrist instead of his shoulder. He redirected the blade and stepped inside the arc of the strike. His sword stopped an inch from the man's chest.
"Hold," the instructor said.
Xu Qian froze. The instructor approached and looked at the two blades.
"Why did you stop?" he asked Xu Qian.
"Because the line was broken," Xu Qian replied. "Continuing would have required force."
The instructor nodded once. He turned to the other disciple. "Your recovery is slow. You rely on reach to compensate for your poor movement. That will fail you outside the sect."
The man's face tightened with shame.
"Step aside."
The second disciple left the platform, offering no protest. Xu Qian returned to a neutral stance. He felt no satisfaction. He only felt a confirmation of his own training.
The assessment continued through the morning. The removals came steadily. Some were stopped for imbalance. Others were dismissed for breath irregularity. One man was removed after his grip trembled uncontrollably halfway through a sequence. Xu Qian recognized the look on the man's face-the look of someone forcing circulation they could not sustain.
By midday, the outer ring was thinner. No announcements were made and names were not called. Those who were removed simply did not return to the platform after the break.
In the afternoon, the focus shifted to the physical toll of the stance.
"Stability," the instructor said. "Hold stance."
They spread out with their feet planted and their swords extended in a guard. There was no movement. There was no technique.
Hours passed. This was trained flesh and bone, nothing more.
Xu Qian felt the strain build slowly. His legs began to burn. His shoulders protested the weight of the iron. The drag in his arm became more pronounced as his muscles tired. He adjusted his grip slightly, shifting the pressure from his fingers to his palm. He lowered his shoulders a fraction, aligning his bones over his muscles to save his strength.
Around him, others wavered. One disciple's blade dipped. Another's knees shook visibly. A third tried to mask his fatigue by locking his joints, which was a mistake that showed itself in the sudden stiffness of his posture.
"Enough," the instructor said to that man. "You will injure yourself."
The man sagged in relief as he was dismissed, though his eyes were full of regret.
Xu Qian held. When the instructor finally called the stance, Xu Qian's arms felt heavy but they remained controlled. He lowered his sword slowly, resisting the urge to shake out the tension in his muscles.
The day ended quietly. As the disciples dispersed, Xu Qian noticed the absences. Three men from his initial group were gone. By evening, two more would quietly pack their things and leave the mountain. No one spoke of it openly.
That night, Xu Qian returned to his room and sat on the stone floor. He did not cultivate. He stretched carefully, working the stiffness out of his joints and muscles, letting his breathing settle. The assessment had not pushed him forward. It had simply confirmed that he could remain under pressure.
The next morning, the notice was gone. Training resumed as if nothing had happened. Xu Qian practiced his forms with the same measured pace as before. Thrust. Cut. Return. Each movement was stripped of excess. He passed Sun Liang near the edge of the grounds. The older disciple gave him a brief nod. There were no congratulations. There were no questions.
Unranked meant unspoken. By the end of the day, the outer disciple roster was smaller-a change that could be felt rather than announced. The mountain had eaten.
Xu Qian sheathed his sword and stood still for a moment longer than necessary. He felt the weight in his arm and the steadiness in his stance. He felt the narrowness of his path.
He was still here. For now, that was enough.