A Path Chosen

When Chen Yu returned to Uncle Tian after wandering the city, his mind was calm—but his heart burned.

"Uncle," he said quietly, "I want to try."

Uncle Tian looked up from his trade pack, brows furrowing. "Try what?"

"The sect recruitment. I overheard it at the market." Chen Yu clenched his fists. "I'm going to join."

Uncle Tian sighed, the lines on his face deepening. "Boy… you've never even sensed qi. You don't know what you're asking."

"I know I don't," Chen Yu said. "But something in me changed. I can't explain it. I feel it in my bones—I have to walk this path."

For a moment, silence stretched between them. Then, slowly, the old hunter nodded.

"…Then I'll walk you there."

---

The plaza near the eastern gate roared with energy.

Four great sects had set up their stages, each a world of its own. The Crimson Cloud Sect shimmered in pride. The Emerald Pill Sect steamed with alchemical scent. The Shadow Veil lurked behind dark curtains.

But Chen Yu's eyes locked on only one:

The Iron Wind Pavilion.

Their platform was simple—bare stone under the open sky. No glamor. No illusions. Only strength.

Uncle Tian watched him with a crooked smile. "You've got rocks in your head, boy. But I respect it."

Chen Yu nodded once and stepped forward.

An elder of the Iron Wind Pavilion stood atop the platform, arms crossed. His beard blew sideways in the force of an unnatural wind surrounding the stage.

"You wish to join the Iron Wind Pavilion?" he bellowed. "Then prove your body can withstand the world!"

With a wave of his hand, the wind died.

A formation flared beneath the platform—ancient, simple, cruel.

Stone pillars lit with dull red light, and a heavy silence fell.

"One trial only. The Iron Crucible. Kneel within the formation. Remain until the incense burns down."

A stick of incense was stabbed into a bronze holder. Flame caught.

Candidates looked at each other.

None moved.

The elder's eyes scanned the crowd. "No spirit arts. No qi techniques. Only your flesh, your bones, and your will."

Chen Yu stepped forward.

The elder's gaze landed on him. "You? Do you even have cultivation?"

"No," Chen Yu said.

The elder grunted. "Then kneel, and learn your place."

---

Chen Yu stepped into the formation.

And the weight came down.

Invisible, silent, merciless.

It crushed his shoulders like a mountain. His spine groaned. His knees slammed into the stone, teeth rattling in his skull. The crowd gasped as he swayed—but he didn't fall.

The pain was like molten iron driven into his joints.

But pain was nothing new.

This weight—this pressure—it wasn't worse than the tree trunks he struck until his bones bruised. It wasn't sharper than the cold river that bit into his lungs. It wasn't deeper than the fear he had faced in those ancient ruins.

His body screamed.

His flesh trembled.

But his heart was calm.

"Refine the flesh. Return to the source."

He remembered the whisper of the True Martial Body—the path of enduring pain, not fleeing from it. This was not suffering. This was refining.

The incense stick burned slowly.

Time passed like a dying heartbeat.

Around him, others collapsed—screaming, vomiting blood, limbs locking under the pressure.

Chen Yu stayed kneeling.

A trickle of blood slipped from his nose.

His vision swam.

Still, he endured.

The elder watched in silence, arms crossed.

When the final curl of smoke vanished, the formation dimmed.

Chen Yu collapsed forward—hands trembling, face pale, soaked in sweat.

But he was still conscious.

The elder stepped forward, eyes unreadable.

He looked down at the boy who didn't even have qi sense—and nodded.

"Pass."

The word echoed louder than any cheer.

Chen Yu didn't smile. He couldn't. His body was broken, his bones aching.

But in his chest, something stirred—the faintest spark of pride.