When the final evaluations ended, the remaining applicants were called forward and instructed to step through the portal one by one.

  Damian stood among the crowd, the noise around him forming a strange kind of music—laughter, anxious whispers, half-prayers spoken under breath. The air itself seemed to hum, as if the portal was pulling at the world in quiet waves. Most of the hopefuls wore uncertainty like armor that didn’t fit.

  Damian felt something else.

  Nervousness, yes—but beneath it was a spark of confidence. He had trained too long, suffered too much, and planned too carefully to freeze now. Whatever came next, he wanted to meet it head-on.

  When his turn arrived, he stepped toward the shimmering gateway.

  The moment he crossed the threshold, the ground vanished beneath him.

  For five seconds he was weightless, untethered, his senses scrambling as if his body had forgotten what “up” meant. It reminded him of a newborn trying to stand—dizzy, disoriented, not quite real.

  Then the world snapped back.

  Damian blinked and inhaled.

  Warm sunlight hit his skin. The air smelled of damp soil and living plants. He heard birds somewhere distant, the rustle of leaves, the soft movement of wind through branches.

  And the sect opened around him.

  It wasn’t a simple compound tucked into a mountain the way old stories liked to pretend. It was a pocket dimension that felt as vivid as the world outside—flatlands stretching wide, buildings placed with deliberate order, architecture blending clean functionality with cultivation aesthetics. The forest surrounding the central grounds looked dense and alive, as if it had been planted to grow qi rather than simply exist.

  Damian couldn’t help the small smile that pulled at his mouth.

  If this was going to be his home, he could adjust.

  But he didn’t forget why he was here.

  Once the last student emerged, a young man—maybe in his twenties, bronze-skinned, dressed casually but carrying himself with clear authority—raised his voice and began directing the group.

  “Follow me.”

  He led them through the central grounds toward a large arena.

  It wasn’t grand in the way great family arenas were, built to impress. It was practical—wide stands encircling a circular ring, reinforced floors, barriers built for safety rather than spectacle.

  And it was full.

  Teachers and upperclassmen filled the seats, watching the new arrivals with sharp interest. Damian felt that gaze settle on him like invisible hands. Not oppressive, but unmistakable. It made him acutely aware of every movement, every expression.

  Was he being measured for potential?

  Or was this just entertainment?

  The students were organized into sections and given the rules. The first phase would be one-on-one duels.

  Damian’s first instinct was to relax. He trusted his body. He trusted his training. Unless he was matched against a true prodigy—someone with a rare constitution or a terrifyingly refined technique—this wasn’t something he needed to fear.

  And if it became dangerous…

  His sister’s artifacts sat quietly in his spatial ring, ready.

  Before the matches began, they were given a short period to wait, observe, and—whether the organizers admitted it or not—size each other up.

  Damian took full advantage.

  He watched the ones who stood too still, too confident, like they didn’t feel the weight of the arena at all. He watched the ones who talked too loudly, trying to drown out their own nerves. He looked for calluses, posture, breathing patterns, scars. Anything that hinted at experience.

  “Just great,” he muttered, forcing a friendly smile when someone glanced his way.

  He greeted people casually, shook hands, exchanged quick introductions—but underneath, his mind stayed sharp.

  Every detail mattered.

  When the matchups were announced, relief slid through him.

  His first opponent was not one of the terrifying figures he’d been tracking.

  It was a slim boy with sun-kissed skin, gripping a basic training sword like it might bite him. The type of sword that screamed “beginner.” The type you gave someone before they embarrassed themselves with something sharp.

  Damian stepped into the ring, eyes calm as he studied the boy.

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  The crowd roared louder than the fight deserved, but his opponent didn’t carry the quiet danger Damian had learned to respect. No stillness. No discipline. Just nervous energy wrapped in stubborn pride.

  The signal sounded.

  Damian approached cautiously at first—not because he feared the boy, but because he respected the unpredictability of the inexperienced. Beginners didn’t fight with logic. They fought with panic.

  It didn’t take long to understand what he was dealing with.

  The boy’s strikes were wild. Footwork uneven. Every swing was a full-body commitment with no recovery. It was brute force and desperation, the style of someone who had probably hunted small spiritual beasts near a village and survived just enough to believe he was ready for bigger things.

  Damian dodged the first slash easily.

  Then the second.

  He let the boy burn himself out.

  Jabs and sharp kicks interrupted the boy’s rhythm, stripping stamina faster than the crowd realized. Within thirty seconds, the boy was panting heavily, shoulders dipping, sword arm trembling.

  It was almost disappointing.

  Damian imagined some teacher in the stands noting “potential” in the boy’s raw aggression, but potential didn’t win fights today.

  The boy launched one last reckless swing.

  Damian stepped in.

  His knuckles smashed into the boy’s hands, clean and precise. The sword flew from the grip and clattered across the ring. Before the boy could process it, Damian followed with a controlled strike to the throat—not lethal, but perfectly placed.

  The boy collapsed, gasping, eyes wide.

  The match ended as abruptly as it began.

  Damian stepped back, breathing steady.

  Originally, he’d intended to stay quiet. To blend in. To avoid attention.

  But the moment the referee called the win, something hot and stubborn sparked inside him.

  No more hiding.

  No more moving like prey.

  The next matches proved what the first one didn’t.

  Youth was savage—especially when armed with talent, weapons, and desperation.

  The arena turned into a stage where ambition collided with fear. Some fought for legacy. Some fought for survival. Some fought like they didn’t understand what restraint meant.

  A few competitors stood out immediately.

  One was a pale swordsman with long brown hair and a posture that screamed confidence bordering on arrogance. He moved like a natural-born blade, each match a brutal exhibition. The rules forbade killing, but they did little to stop him from crippling opponents. Arms bent the wrong way. Legs snapped beneath precise strikes. The crowd roared like it was watching something heroic.

  Damian watched with a sinking feeling.

  He didn’t know how he’d deal with someone like that without exposing every hidden card he had.

  Another standout was a girl with rich brown skin and a body built through relentless work. She fought aggressively, overwhelming opponents before they could stabilize. She was dangerous—no doubt—but Damian didn’t feel the same cold fear he felt watching the swordsman.

  Against her, he believed he could gamble.

  Against that swordsman… it felt like gambling with his life.

  Then there was the “nerdy kid.”

  Unassuming at first glance. Glasses. Quiet posture.

  And movement so fast it didn’t look real.

  Damian’s eyes narrowed as he watched. Even from the stands, the kid’s agility felt unnatural—too clean, too sudden, like his body skipped steps. Teachers leaned forward when he fought, their expressions shifting in a way Damian couldn’t ignore.

  Whatever that kid was, he wasn’t normal.

  Damian silently hoped they wouldn’t meet until he had time to study him properly.

  Damian’s second match was where the day started to matter.

  His opponent was a spear-wielding girl—controlled, polished, trained. Not wild like a village fighter. Her stance alone suggested structure, likely a middle-class city family with a warrior tradition.

  Her spear was strange. Its design made it look shorter than it truly was, and more than once Damian misjudged range by inches.

  That mistake stung.

  She fought methodically, every thrust intended to drain him, every sweep meant to carve shallow cuts that weakened over time. Her speed was close to his—close enough that dodging became work, not instinct.

  Damian felt irritation rise. Not anger, but the pressure of realizing he couldn’t dominate this fight with natural aggression alone.

  At a tryout, he couldn’t simply break her.

  So he adapted.

  He studied her timing, her breathing, the way she reset after attacks. Slowly, a single solution formed.

  Close the distance.

  Drag the fight into a range where the spear became a problem instead of a weapon.

  He tried once and failed.

  Tried again, riskier.

  On the third push, he slipped past her guard—taking a minor graze along his arm—and got inside.

  He saw the shift in her eyes immediately.

  Her confidence wavered.

  In close quarters, her spear turned clumsy. And the moment she hesitated, Damian surged forward like a tide.

  Elbows. Punches. Pressure.

  He didn’t let her breathe.

  The match became less about technique and more about composure—and she cracked first.

  The end came fast.

  A brutal hook to the jaw.

  She dropped unconscious, spear clattering beside her.

  Damian stepped back, chest rising and falling, sweat cooling along his spine.

  That one had been real.

  But he was still standing.

  At the start of the day, over two thousand hopefuls had entered the arena with dreams burning bright.

  Now fewer than two hundred remained.

  They gathered near the base of the main hall as officials called names and organized the survivors for the next phase. Some students were bloodied and barely upright. Others looked disturbingly untouched, like the entire day had been nothing but warm-up.

  A few wore expressions that unsettled Damian—eyes too bright, smiles too thin. A hunger that didn’t belong in a “tryout.”

  Damian considered himself fortunate.

  He was tired but not broken. His clothes remained mostly intact. And he hadn’t been forced to use Kara’s artifacts.

  Fine—for now.

  Then the noise shifted.

  A presence entered.

  The principal appeared.

  Tian Liyang descended the stone steps in a flowing gray robe, the fabric moving lightly in the breeze. He wasn’t tall. He wasn’t physically imposing. His white hair was cut short, his expression calm.

  And yet the air changed.

  What unsettled Damian most was what he feel.

  No crushing aura. No intimidation that forced weaker cultivators to bow their heads. Tian Liyang looked almost… ordinary.

  That should have been comforting.

  Instead, it made Damian’s skin prickle.

  How strong did someone have to be to hide themselves that completely?

  Tian’s voice carried across the courtyard—calm, measured, and clear.

  “This sect is not merely a place of learning,” he said. “It is a branch—part of a greater network meant to sustain those who walk the path. Here, you will discover your potential, free from stagnation, free to grow.”

  His words landed heavier than Damian expected.

  Tian continued, outlining the structure of the sect—missions for points, the library’s depth, the rules, the gate that led not into the city, but into the wild forest itself.

  At the mention of that gate, Damian’s focus sharpened.

  That wasn’t an exit.

  That was a test the sect kept permanently open.

  Then Tian’s gaze swept across them, expression shifting just slightly.

  “Now,” he said, “we begin the third trial.”

  The courtyard quieted.

  “For those of you who endure,” Tian finished, “you will earn a place in my academy.”