The air in the Valley Cross village square tasted of dust, sweat, and the fragile, brittle scent of desperate hope. Above, the sky was a vast, indifferent blue canvas, stretching between the colossal peaks of the Cardinal Mountains—North, South, East, and West—titans of stone that loomed over the valley like slumbering gods. Today, however, all eyes were fixed firmly on the ground, on the cleared space where the hopes of a generation were about to be weighed, measured, and likely found wanting.
It was the day of the Quinquennial Selection.
Banners, representing the four great Sects residing atop those distant peaks, hung from makeshift poles. Stark white and icy blue for the Northern Frost Citadel Sect; fiery crimson and obsidian black for the Southern Emberheart Sect; metallic grey interwoven with deep umber for the Western Bastion Sect; and the vibrant emerald green and earthy brown of the Eastern Verdant Hand Sect. They fluttered occasionally in the breeze, symbols of unattainable power, casting fleeting shadows over the anxious faces gathered below.
A low murmur ran through the crowd—parents shifting nervously, younger children fidgeting, and the candidates themselves, boys and girls between the ages of ten and fifteen, standing in a ragged line, their postures ranging from forced confidence to trembling apprehension. They were the valley's offering, a tithe of potential sent up every five years, praying one of the aloof cultivators presiding over the event would deem their inner potential suitable for the path of Qi Cultivation.
Fang Shen stood among them, thirteen years old but smaller than most his age, swallowed by the rough-spun tunic that hung loosely on his thin frame. His hands were clenched so tightly his knuckles were white mountains against a landscape of tanned skin. His breath came in shallow, controlled gasps, an attempt to leash the frantic hammering in his chest. He wasn't just hoping; he was drowning, and the Selection felt like the only plank visible in a churning sea of fear.
He scanned the Sect cultivators standing near the center of the square. They seemed carved from different material than the villagers—robes immaculate despite the dust, expressions ranging from bored detachment to mild impatience. Their eyes swept over the line of children with the casual assessment of merchants examining livestock. To them, this was merely a task, a periodic harvest of talent suitable for their ways. To Fang Shen, it was everything.
His gaze locked onto the instrument of judgment: the Nexus Stone. It rested on a simple wooden pedestal—a perfect sphere of polished obsidian, deep and dark as a moonless night sky. It wasn't designed to detect the Spirit Root—the fundamental core of awareness and self that every living being possessed. No, the Stone measured something more specific, more crucial for the Sects' path: the innate quality of the Qi Nexus, the conceptual space within one's core, often called the 'Inner Furnace' by cultivators, where internally generated Qi was meant to be gathered, nurtured, and compressed. A vibrant, receptive Nexus, capable of holding and refining vast amounts of internal Qi, would make the Stone glow brightly. A weak or dormant one meant the path of Qi Cultivation was effectively barred.
A bright glow meant a future soaring among the clouds. A faint flicker offered a chance, a foot in the door. Nothing… nothing meant being left behind, grounded in the mundane dust of the valley forever.
Forever weak. Forever vulnerable.
The memory, sharp and suffocating as the wreckage that had once pinned him, flashed behind his eyes: the roaring sound from above, the sudden, cataclysmic impact, the splintering wood and collapsing earth, the screams abruptly silenced. He remembered the darkness, the crushing weight trapping his small body but miraculously not ending him, the smell of blood and pulverized stone, and the terrifying realization of his own utter powerlessness as indifferent titans fought their battles in the heavens, their stray power erasing lives below like smudged chalk marks. He had survived, burrowing out after hours of terror, only to find his home, his parents, everything… gone. Collateral damage. He would not be collateral damage again. He needed this validation, this path to strength. He needed his Qi Nexus to respond.
A sharp command broke his reverie. The selection had begun.
A girl, barely ten, stepped forward, pushed gently by her anxious mother. She placed a trembling hand on the obsidian sphere. Silence stretched. Nothing. The stone remained utterly dark. A cultivator from the Southern Emberheart Sect, his robes embroidered with flickering flame motifs, sighed softly. "Qi Nexus dormant," he announced, his voice carrying easily. "Unsuited for Qi Cultivation. Next." The girl's face crumpled as her mother led her back into the crowd, shoulders slumped in defeat.
Next, a sturdy-looking boy approached with determined strides. He pressed his palm firmly against the stone. A moment passed, then another. Just as disappointment began to dawn on his face, a faint green pulse emanated from within the obsidian, soft as new moss. An Eastern Verdant Hand cultivator, a woman with calm eyes, nodded almost imperceptibly. "Basic Wood Affinity Nexus," she murmured, just loud enough for her peers to hear. "Minimal capacity. Perhaps suitable for the outer sect chores, might learn some basic techniques." She made a small mark on a scroll. The boy let out a shaky breath, relief warring with a hint of disappointment at the 'minimal' assessment, but his father clapped him proudly on the back. A chance. He had a chance, however small.
Another failure followed—a boy whose Nexus was also unresponsive. Then came a girl who elicited a brighter, warmer red glow from the Stone. "Good Fire Affinity Nexus, decent capacity!" declared the Emberheart cultivator who had dismissed the first girl, a flicker of interest finally showing in his eyes. "The Southern Emberheart Sect accepts this candidate for preliminary training!" Ripples of excitement went through the crowd. This was a true success.
Fang Shen watched, his heart mimicking the unpredictable flicker of the Stone—soaring with vicarious hope, plummeting with shared despair. He felt his own Spirit Root, that core of himself, thrumming with desperate awareness, but would the vessel, the Nexus, respond?
His turn was approaching. His palms were slick with sweat. He wiped them uselessly on his tunic. He tried to remember the breathing exercises Old Man Liu, the village herbalist, claimed could calm the spirit, hoping it might somehow coax his Inner Furnace into wakefulness, but his lungs felt tight, constricted.
"Next!" The call came from a West Mountain cultivator, a man with a stern face and robes the color of unyielding rock.
Fang Shen swallowed, the sound loud in his own ears. He walked forward, legs stiff, each step an effort of will. The murmuring crowd seemed miles away. The faces of the cultivators were impassive masks. Only the Stone felt real—cool, silent, holding the key to the only future he could imagine.
He reached it. The obsidian felt smooth, almost unnaturally so, beneath his trembling fingers. He pressed his palm flat against its surface, mimicking the successful candidates. He closed his eyes, pouring every ounce of desperate longing, every shard of fear, every memory of powerlessness into that single point of contact, willing his internal space to resonate, to show something. Please, he begged silently, his Spirit Root aching with the intensity of the plea. Please, respond. Just a flicker.
He waited. One heartbeat. Two. Three. The silence wasn't empty; it was heavy, crushing. He could feel the weight of stares—the cultivators', the villagers', his own desperate hope pressing down like a physical force.
Nothing.
The stone remained utterly, profoundly dark. Cold. Inert. A void reflecting the uselessness of his potential for their path. It didn't negate his existence, his Spirit Root, but it judged the crucial tool for their cultivation methods completely wanting.
He opened his eyes. The West Mountain cultivator's gaze flickered over him, then to the unlit Stone, then dismissed him entirely with an almost imperceptible shake of the head. "Qi Nexus unresponsive," the man stated, his voice flat, devoid of malice or pity. Just a clinical assessment. "No potential for internal Qi cultivation. Stand aside."
The words hit Fang Shen like physical blows, confirming his deepest fear. Unresponsive. Not weak, not faint, just… incapable. The final door to the Sects' power slammed shut. He stood frozen for a heartbeat, the world tilting. He existed, he could feel the thrum of his own spirit, his own will, but the part needed to walk the luminous path of Qi cultivation, the path to recognized strength, was fundamentally inert. It felt like having legs but being unable to walk, having eyes but being unable to see. The sounds of the square rushed back in—the drone of the crowd, the cry of a vendor, the next hopeful candidate being called forward. He felt a nudge from behind.
Moving felt like wading through thick mud. He stumbled back, away from the pedestal, away from the center of the square, his gaze unfocused. He saw blurred faces—some showing pity, some indifference, some simply turning away, their attention already on the next potential success. He was irrelevant now. Judged unsuitable. Discarded.
He drifted away from the Selection field, propelled by a numb instinct. The shouts and occasional cheers faded behind him, meaningless noise from a world whose primary path to power had just rejected him utterly. The vibrant colors of the banners seemed garish now, mocking. The sun beat down, but he felt cold, a chill seeping into his bones that had nothing to do with the mountain air.
The walk back to his small shack on the edge of the village was the longest journey of his life. Each step was heavy, weighted down by the soul-crushing finality of his failure. Qi Nexus unresponsive. The words were a death sentence to the only future he'd dared to envision. He kept his eyes glued to the dusty path, watching his worn sandals scuff against the dry earth. He didn't want to see the familiar sights of the village, didn't want to meet anyone's eyes.
He passed the blacksmith's forge, the clang of hammer on metal usually a comforting rhythm, now just noise grating on raw nerves. He heard laughter spill from a doorway where a family celebrated their daughter's successful selection—the girl who had elicited the bright red glow. The sound felt like knives twisting in his gut. He hunched his shoulders further, trying to shrink, to disappear.
Part of him, the part that felt hollowed out and exhausted, wanted nothing more than to simply stop. To lie down right there in the dirt, curl up, and let the world roll on without him. Like a puppet whose strings had been snipped, collapsing in a useless heap. Let the dust settle, let the seasons turn, let the earth slowly reclaim him. It seemed easier than continuing to carry this crushing weight of inadequacy.
But another part, a deeper, more primal instinct fueled by the phantom sensation of crushing weight and suffocating darkness, kept his legs moving. The terror of being weak, of being helpless collateral, was a spur even despair couldn't fully blunt. He trudged on, a ghost haunting the edges of his own life, his Spirit Root a caged bird beating against unresponsive bars.
His shack leaned slightly, built from rough-hewn planks scavenged over time. It stood a little apart from the other homes, closer to the wild edge of the valley. It was small, poor, insignificant. Just like his potential in the eyes of the Sects. He reached the door, the rough wood familiar under his touch. He raised a hand, ready to push it open and collapse into the gloomy interior, ready to finally let the despair consume him completely.
That's when he noticed him; he wasn't sure how he missed him, standing as he was beside the doorway, half in shadow, half in the stark sunlight.
He was tall, noticeably taller than most villagers, with a breadth of shoulder and a density to his frame that spoke of immense power, yet his skin was fair, unmarked by the sun or the calluses of hard labor. He wore simple, dark clothing, clean and well-maintained, fitting his powerful physique without ostentation. He stood perfectly still, his presence a heavy weight in the air, radiating a quiet intensity that was vastly different from the crackling energy Fang Shen had sensed around the Sect cultivators. This felt… denser. More grounded. More dangerous.
Fang Shen froze, hand hovering near the door. His weary mind struggled to process the anomaly. Who was this? A traveler? A relative he didn't know? He felt a flicker of wary suspicion pierce through the fog of his despair.
The man's eyes met his. They were dark, steady, and unnervingly perceptive, as if they saw straight through Fang Shen's dejection to the terrified core beneath, acknowledging the Spirit Root that the Stone ignored. After a moment that stretched thin, the man spoke, his voice calm, deep, and resonant, cutting through the afternoon quiet.
"I am Tie Shan."
He paused, letting the name settle, letting his presence fully register. Fang Shen just stared, mute, unsure how to react.
Tie Shan's gaze didn't waver. "You sought strength from the Sects today," he stated, not unkindly, but with blunt acknowledgement of the raw wound. "And they found you lacking."
Another silence. Fang Shen felt the sting of the words, the shame rising anew. He wanted to look away, to retreat into his shack, but the stranger's gaze held him fast.
Then, Tie Shan leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping a fraction, yet gaining intensity. The question landed like a stone dropped into a still, dark pool, shattering the surface of Fang Shen's despair.
"But the Sects do not hold the only path to power, Fang Shen. Tell me…" His dark eyes seemed to bore directly into Fang Shen's soul, seeing the fear, the desperation, the flickering ember of will buried beneath the ash of failure.
"Do you still desire strength above all else?"