The Eastern Verdant Province stretched before Lin Xian in vast, undulating layers of green—its valleys stitched with wild rivers, its hills blanketed in ancestral forests, and its mountain peaks touching veils of cloud like fingers reaching toward the heavens. The air here was thick with qi, not in visible mists or glowing threads as romantic tales often described, but in the way every breath felt deeper, every sound sharper, and every instinct more awake.
The province was an ancient land, home to more than a dozen cultivation sects and clans, each guarding their territories with talismans, beast wards, and veiled treaties. The balance of power was an ever-shifting current, influenced by bloodlines, relics, and the periodic disasters that swept through the cultivation world like karmic storms.
Among these powers, the Heaven's Gate Sect stood high—a pillar of cultivation orthodoxy for nearly a thousand years.
One of the eight great sects of the eastern region, famed for its blend of martial cultivation, formation mastery, and political reach. The sect sprawled across a chain of mist-shrouded peaks that pierced the sky like dragon fangs. Rumor claimed its highest peak touched the edge of the Immortal Veil.
Nestled within the Azure Dragon Mountain Range, the sect was built upon the remnants of an immortal battlefield, where spirit veins converged like arteries feeding a divine heart. From the lowest valley of its outer disciples to the heavenly tier peaks housing its inner sanctums, the sect was a world unto itself: scholars, warriors, alchemists, and array masters all trained under one sky, following different paths toward transcendence.
For Lin Xian, it was not just a sect. It was his first true step into the wider cultivation world.
He arrived not with the flash of a prodigy nor the arrogance of noble blood, but with measured steps and calculating silence. His linen robes were simple and worn, his bundle of possessions minimal. Yet his violet eyes absorbed every detail—the guards rotating in the watchtowers, the flow of formations around the entrance gate, the ebb and rise of spiritual energy around certain stone statues that others seemed to ignore.
At the entrance, a crowd of hopefuls had gathered. Children of merchants, minor nobles, itinerant cultivators, and a few sectless wanderers like himself. Banners flapped in the wind, bearing the Heaven's Gate insignia: a vertical eye surrounded by a ring of cloud and flame.
Lin Xian joined the line without a word.
The air buzzed with nervous chatter.
"Did you hear? The sect accepts only seventy disciples a year."
"I came from Snow Willow City, traveled for two months!"
"They say the third trial has a sixty percent fatality rate."
Lin Xian listened with half an ear, his mind turning.
The sect was not only testing raw talent. No, that would be too simple. Sects of this caliber tested perception, judgment, will, and alignment with their foundational principles. The Heaven's Gate Sect prized balance above all—between ambition and discipline, freedom and structure, body and spirit.
The trials would reflect that.
Lin Xian wore gray linen and dust. His gaze moved slowly across the crowd, cataloging strengths, weaknesses, alliances forming from shared hometowns, rivalries already kindling with glares and muttered insults.
He spotted three talents of note:
First, a girl in crimson robes, surrounded by an unnatural stillness. Her name, whispered in awe, was Wu Lian. Her clan traced back to the Flame Oracle sect, and her aura flickered like controlled wildfire.
Second, a bulky youth with bronze skin and cold eyes. He stood alone, arms crossed, saying nothing—but the air around him vibrated slightly with pressure. That was Shen Bei, a mercenary-born cultivator said to have killed a spirit beast barehanded.
Third, a boy with a flute at his hip, who smiled too easily and laughed too loudly. Beneath that charm, Lin Xian saw layered spiritual threads—a cultivator who hid blades beneath song. This was Yan Rui of the White Cloud Pavillion.
Dangerous, all of them.
Good.
He would need sharpened stones to test his edge.
A gong echoed across the valley, and a figure appeared atop the trial platform—a middle-aged man with a long beard and robes etched with gold threads of qi. His cultivation swirled around him, controlled yet oppressive.
"I am Elder Ma," he intoned. "Today, you stand before the First Gate of Heaven's Trial. Three tests await. Succeed, and you enter as Outer Disciples. Fail… and you may try again in three years—if you survive."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
Lin Xian's eyes narrowed.
Three tests.
What would they measure? Strength? Spirit? Intent?
Elder Ma gestured, and the ground rumbled. A massive circular formation lit up beneath their feet—an ancient array that pulsed once, and then activated.
"The First Trial—Mind!"
The world blurred.
Lin Xian found himself alone, surrounded by white mist. Sounds were muffled, and all sensation felt distant—as though he floated in a memory.
A voice, ancient and genderless, spoke within his mind.
"See not with eyes, but truth."
Before him, three doors appeared.
One glowed with radiant gold, leaking warm qi.
One shimmered in illusionary blue, cold and uninviting.
One was dark, cracked, and dripping with black ichor.
The average cultivator would be drawn to the golden door, repelled by the black, and confused by the blue.
Lin Xian smiled.
He knelt.
He placed his palm on the ground.
He sent a pulse of qi downward—not forward.
The moment his spiritual sense touched the floor, the illusion collapsed.
He stood not before doors, but a cliff.
Behind him, those who had chosen wrongly now wandered in loops, trapped in their own misperceptions.
"Trial passed," the voice said, amused.
The mist dissolved.
Only seventy remained.
Some stumbled out of the trial weeping. Others emerged with blood running from their ears. A few—like Wu Lian and Shen Bei—walked out calm, collected.
Lin Xian blended in with a group of dazed survivors, rubbing his head as if dizzy. No one looked twice.
The second trial began.
Elder Ma clapped his hands, and the valley shifted again. This time, the ground split into five paths, each leading through dense forest toward a stone altar.
"The Second Trial—Will!"
Lin Xian's path led into a thicket of twisting trees and shimmering air—illusion and danger interwoven.
As he walked, the forest attacked—not with blades, but with memories.
He saw his mother, aging rapidly before his eyes.
He saw his village in flames, and his younger self weeping before ashes.
He saw himself, powerless, broken, begging.
Each step grew heavier, as guilt and sorrow clawed at his heart.
But Lin Xian had long prepared for this.
He knew these emotions. He had filed them away like tools.
He let them speak.
Then silenced them.
He walked through fire, cold as the moon.
At the altar, he placed a single qi stone, and the illusions shattered.
He was among the first to pass.
Now only thirty stood.
The final trial came at dusk.
A great arena rose from the earth, stone pillars encircling it like sentinels. In the center stood a formation etched in blood and light.
"The Third Trial—Body!"
Elder Ma raised his hand.
"Pair off. One-on-one combat. Win without killing. Display control, not chaos. Survive, and you are worthy."
Gasps echoed.
Lin Xian drew his lot.
Opponent: Yan Rui.
The boy with the flute.
They stepped into the ring.
Yan Rui bowed, flute spinning between his fingers. "Apologies in advance, Brother Lin. I never forget a song—or a face."
Lin Xian bowed back. "Then remember mine."
The gong struck.
Yan Rui played a note.
Sonic waves laced with qi surged forward—designed to disorient, stun, and fracture concentration.
Lin Xian bent slightly, letting the wave pass overhead. His foot shifted half a step, grounding him. He drew a talisman and flicked it.
Smoke burst forth—dense, white, blinding.
Yan Rui played faster, pushing the smoke away, but Lin Xian was already behind him, palm extended.
Gentle Disruption Palm.
A technique designed not to harm, but to break flow.
Yan Rui stumbled, his song faltering.
Lin Xian's fingers struck four points along his back—interrupting qi flow, not damaging it.
Yan Rui fell to one knee.
Lin Xian stepped back.
Yielded.
The crowd erupted.
Elder Ma's eyes narrowed slightly.
But he nodded.
"Trial passed."
Lin Xian joined the Outer Sect that night.
He was given a modest dwelling, a wooden token, and access to the first-tier cultivation library.
He smiled politely.
But in his heart, he marked the true beginning.
The sect was a world of its own.
And Lin Xian had just become a player.
He had no intention of staying on the lowest rung.
The mask would remain—for now.
But soon, they would glimpse what lay behind it.
And by then, it would be far too late.