Chapter 3: The Sect’s Call

Chapter 3: The Sect's Call

The village square buzzed with a rare energy, its usual stillness broken by the murmur of gathered villagers and the clatter of wooden carts. Ming You stood at the edge of the crowd, his burlap sack slung over one shoulder, the weight of the Threads of Chance jade slip a constant presence beneath his cloak. The mist from the valley lingered on the horizon, a gray veil that framed the scene before him. At twenty years of age, he had seen the square host markets and festivals, but never this—a recruitment by the Mistveil Sect, a whisper of the cultivation world descending upon their humble lives.

Three figures stood at the center, their robes shimmering with patterns that seemed to ripple like mist in the wind. The recruiters from the Mistveil Sect carried an air of authority, their gazes sweeping over the villagers with detached interest. Two were men, their faces weathered and stern, while the third was a woman, her sharp features softened by a faint smile. Each bore a jade token at their waist, etched with a swirling cloud—the sect's emblem, Ming You surmised, recalling descriptions from old texts.

The villagers parted as the woman stepped forward, her voice clear and commanding. "The Mistveil Sect seeks disciples," she announced. "Those with talent or will may step forth. Prove your worth, and you shall join us." Her words stirred the crowd, a mix of awe and skepticism rippling through them. Most would not dare—cultivation was a dream for the bold or the foolish, and the village bred neither. Yet a few shuffled forward, young men and women with hopeful eyes, clutching crude tools or trinkets as offerings.

Ming You observed them, his expression impassive. He had spent the past days refining his Qi, strengthening the single strand within him until it flowed smoothly through his meridians. The 1st stage of Qi Condensation was a fragile foothold, but it was his, earned through sleepless nights and relentless focus. The sect offered resources—herbs, techniques, knowledge—things he could not find in this stagnant place. He would seize this chance, not out of desperation, but calculation.

He stepped forward, joining the line of aspirants. The recruiters' eyes lingered on him, noting his scholar's frame and worn cloak, so unlike the brawny farmers or eager youths beside him. The woman gestured for the first test: a simple demonstration of strength or skill. One boy swung a rusty axe at a wooden block, splitting it with a grunt. Another girl presented a basket of woven reeds, her hands trembling. Ming You waited, his mind racing through options.

When his turn came, he approached the recruiters with measured steps. "I am Ming You," he said, his voice steady. "A scholar with knowledge of herbs and their uses." He reached into his sack, producing a bundle of Mistroot flowers—pale, delicate blooms he had gathered from the valley's edges. "These aid in calming the mind and strengthening the body, if prepared correctly."

The recruiters exchanged glances. The stern-faced man on the left, his beard streaked with gray, leaned forward. "Herbs alone do not make a cultivator," he said, his tone gruff. "Show us more."

Ming You nodded, concealing the flicker of anticipation in his chest. He extended a hand, focusing his Qi into his fingertips. The energy surged, subtle but controlled, and a faint ripple of warmth pulsed outward, stirring the air. It was a small display, barely visible, yet enough to prove he had begun the path of cultivation. The woman's smile widened slightly, and the gray-bearded man grunted in approval.

"You have taken the first step," the woman said. "Crude, but promising. What drives you to seek the sect?"

Ming You met her gaze, his answer rehearsed yet sincere. "Knowledge," he replied. "The world holds more than this village can offer. I wish to understand it, to master it." His words carried the weight of truth, though he kept his deeper ambition—the hunger for power, the defiance of fate—locked within.

The recruiters conferred briefly, their voices low. Then the woman nodded. "You are accepted as an outer disciple," she declared. "Gather your belongings. We depart at midday."

A murmur rippled through the crowd, envy and curiosity mingling in their stares. Ming You felt their eyes but paid them no heed. He returned to his shack, the village's dirt paths familiar beneath his boots. His uncle sat outside, whittling a stick with a dull knife, his face creased with displeasure.

"Off to chase fairy tales, are you?" the man growled, not looking up. "You will be back, begging for scraps."

Ming You paused, his hand tightening on the sack. "I will not return," he said, his voice flat. He stepped inside, retrieving the jade slip from its hiding place and a few scraps of parchment—remnants of his old life. The shack held nothing else worth taking. He left without another word, his uncle's muttering fading behind him.

At midday, the recruiters gathered the chosen—five in total, including Ming You. The others were a mix of eager and nervous faces, their hands clutching meager possessions. One stood out: a boy of perhaps eighteen, his broad grin cutting through the tension. He approached Ming You as they waited, his steps light with excitement.

"I am Chen Hao," he said, bowing slightly. "You are the scholar, yes? That trick with the air was impressive! I could barely feel my own Qi when I started." His eyes sparkled with unguarded enthusiasm, his simple tunic patched but clean.

Ming You studied him, noting the boy's open demeanor. "Ming You," he replied, offering a faint nod. "You have cultivated too?"

"Barely!" Chen Hao laughed. "I stumbled into it last year, sitting by the river. Felt something odd and kept at it. I want to be an inner disciple someday—maybe even an elder!" His dreams spilled out, unguarded, a stream of hope Ming You found almost foreign.

"Ambitious," Ming You said, his tone neutral. He saw potential in Chen Hao—not as a rival, but as a tool. The boy's trust could be useful, his loyalty a lever to lift Ming You higher. He filed the thought away, his expression unchanging.

The recruiters signaled departure, leading the group toward the valley. The mist swallowed them as they walked, the village vanishing behind a curtain of gray. Chen Hao chattered beside Ming You, recounting his life—orphaned like him, raised by a kindly aunt, driven by tales of cultivators. Ming You listened, responding sparingly, his mind elsewhere.

The Mistveil Sect lay ahead, a promise of power veiled in uncertainty. The jade slip pressed against his chest, its secrets his true guide. These recruiters, this boy, the sect itself—they were stepping stones, means to an end. He would enter their world, learn their ways, and bend them to his will. The Qi within him pulsed, a quiet echo of his resolve, as the mist closed in around them.