The First Victory

When I finally crossed the trial platform, drenched in sweat and barely standing, the elder from the Iron Wind Pavilion stared down at me with a sharp glint in his eyes.

"You didn't die," he muttered, scratching his jaw. "That's more than I expected."

He circled me once, grunting as he looked me over. "You're too raw to be anything special. But you didn't collapse, and you didn't scream. That counts for something."

He stopped and looked me in the eye.

"Your body… not ordinary for a village brat. Who taught you?"

I met his gaze. "No one."

"Hmph." He tossed a flat iron token into my hand. The edges were rough, the emblem of the Iron Wind Pavilion pressed deep into its surface. "Then keep it that way. You're an outer disciple now."

My heart thudded once, hard.

I had passed.

Around the plaza, the last embers of incense burned low. Only a handful of us stood. Dozens of others still lay crumpled in the dust, groaning or unconscious.

The elder raised his voice. "The rest of you—failures—clear out. Come back next year if you still have bones left."

He turned to the rest of us—the few who remained standing.

"No farewells. No goodbyes. If you want the path of strength, it begins now."

Murmurs broke out in the crowd. Even I hesitated.

The elder sneered. "What, you thought we'd let you go home and throw a party first? You want to be cultivators—then you move when told."

I tightened my grip on the token.

Somewhere beyond the crowd, I spotted Uncle Tian. He stood quietly beneath a stone archway, arms crossed, face unreadable.

I stepped toward him. He met me halfway, his weathered hand grabbing my shoulder.

"I guess you're going then."

I nodded.

He stared at me for a long moment. Then his voice dropped low. "The path you've chosen… it doesn't lead back here, Chen Yu. Once you walk it, you walk it alone."

"I know."

He gave a slow, approving grunt. "Good. Then don't let them break you."

I nodded once more and turned away, each step heavy with the weight of everything I was leaving behind.

---

We were marched out of the city gates before noon, following a robed outer disciple up a jagged mountain path.

No carriages. No rest.

Just stone and wind and sky.

The Iron Wind Pavilion didn't bother easing us in.

Every step of the climb was a reminder: you earned this, now prove you deserve it.

By nightfall, our legs ached, our lungs burned, and our numbers had already begun to thin. One boy collapsed from exhaustion. Another coughed blood and was carried back down by the escort.

I didn't stop.

The cold wind tore at my sweat-soaked clothes, but I didn't stop.

The iron token around my neck grew heavier with every step, like a silent weight reminding me what I had chosen.

---

That night, we reached the outer gate of the Iron Wind Pavilion.

A towering structure of black stone carved into the mountain itself. No torches lit the walls. The darkness itself seemed to recognize only those strong enough to climb this far.

Inside, cold silence awaited us. No cheering elders. No warm beds. Just a hall lined with stone bunks, empty uniforms, and a single sentence etched into the wall above the door:

"Break, or be broken."

I sat on the edge of my cot, token clutched tight in my hand.

The bruises on my back throbbed. My legs trembled.

But something in me pulsed—slow, strong, steady.

The path of the True Martial Body.

The iron of my bones. The fire in my blood.

This wasn't the end of something.

This was the beginning.