Chapter 13: The Mentor’s Test

Chapter 13: The Mentor's Test

The mist draped Mistveil Valley in a shroud of gray silence, its tendrils weaving through the sect's stone corridors and cloaking the dawn in a muted haze. Ming You stood before the formation hall, his gray robe pristine against the damp air, his sharp eyes fixed on the weathered door ahead. At twenty-two years of age, he wielded the 3rd stage of Qi Condensation with a cold precision, its triple strands a silent force he honed with relentless discipline. The jade slip of the Threads of Chance and the scroll of the Ninefold Mist Barrier rested within his sleeve, twin keys to a destiny he would seize with ruthless ambition.

The skirmish with Ashen Hollow's scouts had left the sect on edge, its disciples whispering of blood and looming war. Ming You felt the tension like a thread in his grasp, a chaos he would bend to his will with opportunistic cunning. The spirit stone he had looted—a faint glow now hidden in his sleeve—was a secret prize, its energy a whisper of power he would hoard until the moment was ripe. Elder Liu's approval had elevated his standing, a tool he would wield with tactful precision, but it was Elder Zhang's scrutiny he sought today—a test to sharpen his edge.

The hall's door creaked open, revealing Elder Zhang's stooped figure, his white-streaked hair catching the faint light of a lantern within. His lined face bore the weight of stagnation, his dark eyes piercing beneath bushy brows. "You return," he grunted, his voice a low growl, thick with expectation. "The scouts' blood stains the valley, and Liu speaks of your quick mind. Let us see if your hands match your wits. Enter."

Ming You stepped inside, his movements a dance of cold grace, his expression a mask of detached purpose. The air was heavy with the scent of old parchment and smoldering incense, the shelves lining the walls stacked with scrolls and jade slips, their surfaces worn but meticulously ordered. The scarred wooden table sat at the center, a fresh scroll spread across it, its ink detailing advanced patterns Ming You recognized as extensions of the Ninefold Mist Barrier. His mind dissected them with a scholar's hunger, his ambition a flame tempered by patience.

Zhang gestured to an open space at the hall's far end, his robe rustling as he moved. "The Ninefold Mist Barrier is your tool," he said, his tone stern. "I taught you its basics—a shield of mist, a veil for the weak. Today, you withstand my strikes. Fail, and you crawl back to the gardens. Begin."

Ming You nodded, his gaze unwavering, his heart a void of unemotional resolve. He stepped into position, his Qi rising with calculated intent, the triple strands surging through his meridians like rivers of ice. He wove the Ninefold Mist Barrier, its misty veil forming before him, denser now than ever, its edges shimmering with a sharpness born of persistent refinement. The haze thickened, a single layer still, but solid—a testament to his intelligence and control.

Zhang raised a hand, his Qi flaring with the strength of Foundation Establishment, its power a storm Ming You could not match. "Defend," he commanded, and unleashed a barrage of strikes—bolts of compressed energy, each one crackling through the air with a force that split the silence. The first struck the barrier, its impact a thunderclap that rippled through the mist, jarring Ming You's bones. He gritted his teeth, his focus a blade of iron, tightening the weave to absorb the blow.

The mist held, its surface quivering but unbroken, a shield crafted with strategic patience. Zhang's second strike followed, a piercing lance of Qi that tore at the barrier's edges, its heat searing the air. Ming You adjusted, his hands guiding the mist with a dancer's grace, redirecting the energy into the haze. Pain flared in his arms, a dull ache from the strain, but he crushed it with fearless detachment, his mind a fortress against weakness.

"You endure," Zhang muttered, his voice a grudging rasp, his third strike a sweeping arc of force that crashed against the barrier like a wave. Ming You staggered, his breath hitching, his Qi straining under the onslaught. The mist wavered, its edges fraying, but he wove it anew, his resourcefulness a thread that stitched it whole. The strike dissipated, its power swallowed by the haze, leaving Ming You standing, his robe damp with sweat, his posture unbowed.

Zhang lowered his hand, his Qi receding, his stern face softening with a flicker of approval. "Enough," he said, his tone measured. "You pass. The barrier holds—crude, but effective. Few outer disciples withstand me at all." He crossed his arms, his gaze sharpening. "Liu says you killed a scout. Zhang says you see weaknesses. What drives you, boy?"

Ming You steadied his breath, his expression a slab of ice, his words a feint of poetic ambiguity. "The mist shields the bold, yet bends to the wise," he replied, his voice low, masking his ruthless intent with tactful cunning. "I seek strength to shape what comes—nothing more." His ambition burned beneath the surface, a star of immortality he would seize, but he revealed only shadows, his manipulative grace a shield against scrutiny.

Zhang grunted, suspicion flickering in his eyes, but he let it pass. "Pretty words," he said, his tone dismissive. "Strength matters, not poetry. You have potential—more than most. If you prove yourself against Ashen Hollow, I will make you an inner disciple. Fail, and you are nothing." He waved a hand, dismissing him. "Go. Practice. The sect needs every blade sharpened."

Ming You bowed, his movements deliberate, his mind a labyrinth of plans. Zhang saw him as a tool, a disciple to mold. Ming You saw him as a stepping stone, a source of knowledge to exploit with opportunistic ruthlessness. The promise of inner disciple status was a prize, one he would claim with unscrupulous precision, its perks—better resources, closer access to the sect's core—a ladder to his ascent.

He stepped into the courtyard, the mist a silent conspirator, its dampness a cloak for his thoughts. The sect buzzed with activity, disciples hauling stones and sharpening staves, their fear a palpable scent he would twist to his gain. Chen Hao approached, his steps hesitant, his trust a chain Ming You had forged with cold efficiency. "You were with Elder Zhang," he said, his voice soft. "Did he test you? Are we ready for Ashen Hollow?"

Ming You's gaze flicked to him, his tone a whisper of detached purpose. "Readiness is a lie," he replied, his words a lure to bind the boy tighter. "We endure, or we break. Stay vigilant, and you may yet stand." He offered no warmth, only a cold directive, his manipulative intent deepening Chen Hao's reliance without revealing his hand.

Chen Hao nodded, his faith unshaken, his naivety a resource Ming You would harvest. "You keep repeating this" he said jokingly but seeing Ming You's serious expression he straightened himself out.

"I will," Chen Hao said, his eyes bright with trust. "With you, I feel we can face anything." His words were a leash, one Ming You accepted with silent cruelty, his heart a void of unemotional resolve.

Alone in the hall that night, he sat cross-legged, the spirit stone's faint glow a warmth against his sleeve. He traced its edges, his Qi refining itself with persistent effort, his mind dissecting the test. The Ninefold Mist Barrier was a shield, but the Veil of Fortunate Shadows was a blade—subtle, deceptive, a key to turn chaos into power. Ashen Hollow's threat was a storm he would ride, its fury a forge for his schemes—arrays sabotaged, wealth stolen, blame shifted with Machiavellian grace.

The mist swirled outside, a mirror to his soul—elusive, unpredictable, a veil for his ambition. He murmured into the dark, a poetic breath of cynical intent: "The storm tests the weak, but tempers the bold." His voice faded, swallowed by the night, his will a flame that consumed all doubt. Immortality was his star, and he would pluck it from the heavens, a schemer clad in shadow, his path unyielding, his heart a drum of relentless purpose.