Chapter 12 - Trials

The overseer arrives without spectacle, yet his presence alone commands the village's attention. Robes of deep grey ripple with each measured step, hair bound in a severe knot, silver as the edge of a blade. Lines of age carve his face, not in weakness, but in tempered precision—like steel honed by relentless winds. His qi remains veiled beneath an unmoving surface, but De senses it, a quiet force coiled like a serpent waiting to strike. Every cultivator gathered feels it, an instinctive response to a power so absolute it does not need to be flaunted.

Elder Faen steps forward, the authority he holds over the village dimming beneath the weight of the outsider's presence. Yet his voice does not waver.

"Welcome, Overseer." A formal bow, one of respect but not submission. "The village stands ready for your judgment."

The man surveys the gathered hopefuls with eyes that miss nothing. A moment passes, stretched taut by silence, then he speaks.

"Let us begin."

The selection has started.

A hush spreads across the crowd as the overseer takes his place on the raised wooden platform. The morning wind tugs at his robes, yet he stands unmoved, his gaze sliding over the young cultivators gathered before him. No words are needed to quiet them—his presence alone does that.

"Step forward," he commands, voice smooth but edged with the weight of tempered steel. "Let me see the potential of this village."

Elder Faen gestures toward an open space before the platform. "The first trial will test your control over qi," he announces, his voice carrying over the assembled. "A simple test, but a vital one."

A flick of the overseer's wrist, and a jade orb appears in his palm, no larger than an apple. Soft white light pulses from within, faint yet steady.

"This is a Resonance Stone," he explains. "Each of you will step forward and channel your qi into it. The stone will reflect not only your strength but your control. A wild surge will reveal recklessness; a weak trickle will expose fear. I seek balance."

A ripple of unease spreads through the crowd. The test, on the surface, appears simple, but its design is ruthless. No deception, no posturing—only raw cultivation skill laid bare.

Joran steps forward first.

Broad shoulders squared, jaw locked tight, he presses a palm to the stone. Qi surges from within him, powerful, but unfocused. The orb flares too bright, the light trembling at its edges, unstable.

The overseer watches, expression unreadable.

"Lacks control," he murmurs.

The words strike deeper than any insult. Joran's lips thin, but he bows stiffly before stepping back, muscles coiled with barely restrained frustration.

One by one, others take their turn. Some struggle to awaken the stone at all, their qi too feeble or inconsistent. Others force too much into it, causing jagged pulses of uncontrolled energy to lash out. Few find the balance the overseer seeks.

Then De steps forward.

No hurry in his movements. No tension in his form. A stillness settles over him as he lifts a hand to the stone.

Solar's presence brushes against his awareness—not a voice, but a quiet pulse of curiosity.

Fingertips graze the jade's cool surface. He closes his eyes, letting his qi flow—not a flood, not a whisper, but a steady, measured current. The stone responds at once. A soft, unwavering glow emanates from within, pulsing in even rhythm, as though recognizing the harmony of his control.

The overseer's gaze lingers longer than it had on the others.

"Adequate," he says. No praise, no critique. Yet to those listening closely, the single word carries more weight than any flattery.

As De steps back into the crowd, Kalia's eyes remain on him—keen, assessing. Joran stands rigid at the edge of the group, fists clenching at his sides.

The first trial is far from over, yet the ripples have already begun.

The weight of the overseer's judgment lingers even after the first test concludes. Conversations splinter into hushed clusters, some whispering anxiously about the trials ahead, others dissecting the meaning behind the single word given to De.

Adequate.

It gnaws at Joran.

From his place at the far end of the gathering, he flexes his hand, the ache from his recently opened node dull but persistent. The stone's reaction still burns in his mind—a flare of power, unfocused, chaotic. Too much, not enough. He forces his gaze away from the platform, only to find it drawn toward De.

The blacksmith's apprentice stands at the crowd's edge, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. No boastful reactions. No eagerness for attention. Just a steady, quiet presence that unsettles more than any overt display of power.

Kalia has noticed, too.

She steps closer, voice low but carrying just enough weight. "Didn't take you for someone well-versed in qi control."

De turns slightly, gaze level. "Balance is fundamental."

A pause. Then, a flick of amusement in her tone. "A bit different from what we saw earlier."

Joran stiffens as Kalia's gaze flicks—not subtly—toward him.

De says nothing, his expression giving away little, though his attention drifts—just for a moment—to the shadow beneath a nearby tree where Solar rests. The spirit beast watches, golden eyes half-lidded but aware, a silent force lingering just beyond notice.

Joran steps forward.

"You talk like you've been cultivating for years," he says, voice neutral but lined with something sharper. "Yet no one here really knows where you came from."

Silence.

Kalia tilts her head slightly, interest flickering behind her eyes.

De holds Joran's stare, unmoving. "Where I came from doesn't matter." A beat passes. "Only where I'm going."

The words land with quiet finality.

Tension coils tight in Joran's jaw, but before he can respond, a voice cuts through the air, cool and absolute.

"Enough."

The overseer stands once more at the platform's center. Though his expression remains impassive, the air itself seems to constrict around him.

"The first trial has shown me what I needed." His gaze sweeps over the crowd. "Tomorrow, we test your combat aptitude."

A ripple of anticipation spreads through the gathered hopefuls.

Joran's fingers curl at his sides.

Kalia remains still, though the calculating glint in her eyes does not fade.

And De—silent, composed—feels the faint pulse of Solar's presence against his own. The bond thrums beneath his skin, steady and certain.

The storm has only begun to stir.