CHAPTER 4: TRIAL OF BLADES AND BLOODLINES (PART-3)
The heat of the earlier trials had faded, replaced by an eerie hush. The third trial site stood nestled at the base of the northern cliff range—a wall of black stone towering like the edge of a god's blade. No banners here. No cheers. No fanfare.
Only silence.
This was the Sword Cliff.
Sword scars marred every inch of its surface. Some looked like wild gashes torn in rage, others were gentle and fine as if carved by moonlight. These were not just physical marks—they were remnants of intent, left by generations of sword cultivators who had meditated before it.
The Outer Sect Elder, old and bent like a wind-worn tree, stood before the cliff with a gnarled staff. His robes were plain, but the pressure around him was suffused with something sharper than steel.
He tapped the cliff once.
"This is not a trial of force," he said, voice rasping like dry paper. "This is the Sword Cliff Meditation. Here, we do not test your body. We test your spirit."
He gazed across the gathered disciples. "Sit before the cliff. Meditate. Open your mind. If the Sword finds you worthy, it will answer. You may comprehend its essence—or not. It is not mandatory, but it will mark your future." He paused. "Some leave here with insights. Others leave changed. A few have left... without their minds."
A ripple of unease passed through the younger candidates.
---
The first to move was Jian Nian, heir of the Rustless Blade Clan. With practiced grace, he stepped forward and sat cross-legged without a word, his chipped wooden sword laid gently across his lap. The wind did not stir his hair. His stillness was that of water undisturbed.
Next came Shui Daiyu of the Black Tortoise Clan. She drifted like a winter mist, settling at the cliff's edge with poise and distance. Her aura, normally sharp with toxins, dimmed into something more stable—less deadly, more focused. Even the mountain wind seemed to slow around her.
Feng Yan groaned audibly. "Ugh, more sitting?" she sighed, fanning herself as she walked. "This is a trial, not a nap session." Yet she produced a silk mat from her sleeve and sat gracefully, arranging her robes like a phoenix nesting.
The Phantom Twins arrived in silence, masks reflecting the swordlight. They didn't speak, but one twin chose a spot, then the other mirrored it exactly ten paces away. They sat in eerie harmony, their cloaks fluttering like whispers.
Jin Chen of the Frostblade Clan arrived next. He scanned the cliff with narrowed eyes, his frost-blue robes immaculate, as if afraid a speck of dirt might mar his prestige. But when he saw Lin Feng already near the cliff's center, his jaw clenched. He chose a seat nearby—close enough to be seen, far enough to pretend he didn't care.
A few minor sect disciples followed: a tall girl from the Violet Flame Sect mumbling sword mantras under her breath; a round boy from the Green Willow Sect who tried sitting three times before deciding on a tree root; and a pair of mirror twins from the Lotus Sky Pavilion who sat back-to-back, eyes closed before even touching the ground.
And then—Lin Feng.
He walked calmly to the center, to where the scars ran deepest, where the cliff pulsed faintly with buried echoes. His torn black shirt hung loosely, muscles marked by faint bruises and old training scars. A few nearby disciples—girls and boys alike—gasped softly, though Lin Feng didn't seem to notice. He simply sat.
No sword. No bow. No dramatic breath.
Just stillness.
His eyes closed.
He didn't force understanding. He just listened.
---
From behind veils of qi and illusion, the Inner Sect Elders watched.
"...He matched the cliff's rhythm in under ten breaths," murmured Elder Bao, arms folded. "That's not meditation. That's resonance."
Elder Xiu tilted her head. "No... it's like the Sword is remembering him."
Another elder scribbled a character onto their scroll.
---
And then, barefoot and still hugging Mr. Bunbun, came Li Meixiu.
Her robes shimmered the color of twilight, rippling like dusk on a lake. She hummed softly, walking past stunned disciples, choosing a seat right beside Lin Feng with zero hesitation.
"A-Li~," she whispered, pulling at his loose sleeve. "I'm sitting here. Don't go too far."
Her head tilted against his shoulder. Mr. Bunbun lay balanced on her knees. And within moments—she was asleep. Upright. Breathing softly. A kitten's snore escaping every now and then.
A girl from the Silent Orchid Sect frowned. "She's seriously asleep?"
"Is that allowed?"
"Wait... look at the cliff."
---
A breeze rippled across the sword wall.
The air shimmered faintly—then shifted.
A glow. Barely visible. One sword scar that hadn't been there before—a crescent cut, delicate and clean, etched into the cliff like a sleeping moon.
The Outer Sect Elder's staff dropped from his hand.
Behind the veil, even Elder Xiu leaned forward. "...That mark wasn't there before."
"No draw, no qi pulse, no posture," said Elder Lan, eyes narrowing. "She harmonized with the cliff without even trying."
"No," corrected Elder Bao. "She didn't harmonize. The Sword came to her."
---
Inside Lin Feng's mind, the world was not still.
He stood upon an endless field of broken blades. Fragments floated in the air, each vibrating with stories of triumph, failure, vengeance, peace. A storm of swordlight spiraled above, as if every path of cultivation warred against each other.
He walked, unhurried.
Not dodging. Not resisting. Just watching.
His steps were silent, measured. He examined every broken weapon, learning what not to be.
Then, amidst the chaos, a single blade hovered. Whole. Untouched. A sword without ornament. Its edge unfinished. Waiting.
He reached out.
When his fingers touched it—
---
The Sword Cliff thrummed.
Low. Deep. A sound that wasn't a sound. More like intent echoing through every scar on its face.
The disciples jerked upright.
Even those still meditating felt the pulse. Jin Chen snapped open his eyes. Feng Yan gasped. Jian Nian raised his head slightly.
From the cliff's center, a new mark appeared—a deep, clean line, without flare or curve. A line of raw resolve.
The Outer Sect Elder exhaled sharply. "That... wasn't comprehension. That was rejection. He didn't follow sword law. He walked past it."
Behind the veil, Elder Bao turned to the others. "He's not echoing our path. He's carving a new one."
Elder Xiu nodded slowly. "He didn't find a sword style. He made the cliff admit it doesn't know his."
---
But Lin Feng was not the only one.
As the hum of the Sword Cliff faded and the echoes of his intention settled across the stone basin, something curious happened—one by one, six other marks began to shimmer to life on the wall.
Only seven.
Seven marks total.
Out of nearly a hundred cultivators.
The cliff, it seemed, was selective. Mercilessly so.
---
The first appeared quietly, almost shyly—an elegant horizontal cut, clean and deliberate. It traced across the stone like the edge of a sigh, barely shifting the air. The mark belonged to Jian Nian, the silent heir of the Rustless Blade Clan, whose sword never once left its scabbard.
He hadn't tried to impress the cliff. He had merely sat. Breathed. Let the weight of his will settle around him like mist upon water.
And the wall answered.
Some of the older elders exchanged nods.
"He doesn't draw his sword," murmured Elder Xiu. "He is the sword."
---
A short distance away, a spiral bloomed on the wall—slow, purposeful, and glowing faintly green.
Shui Daiyu still sat with eyes closed, her dark hair stirring in windless air. Her poison qi had threaded into the stone itself, not as attack but as infiltration—tender, precise, patient.
Her mark wasn't a strike.
It was a slow bleed.
"Subtle," an inner elder said. "She poisons even the laws of the sword."
"If she used that intent in battle," another muttered, "a man would be dead before he even bled."
---
The third mark arrived in a flamboyant flourish—a long, dramatic crescent with twin flicks at the end. Crimson threads of qi shimmered faintly around it, like scattered petals on the wind.
Everyone knew who it belonged to before they even saw her smirk.
Feng Yan, Vermilion Phoenix Clan princess, lounged casually on her silk mat, fanning herself with lazy satisfaction.
"If I'm leaving my signature on history," she said aloud, flipping her fan closed with a snap, "then it might as well be pretty~."
A few male disciples swooned. Others rolled their eyes.
One elder whispered, amused, "Even her sword mark flirts."
---
Near the base of the cliff, shadows shifted. One of the Phantom Twins—which one, no one could say—had carved a mark that almost wasn't there.
A vertical groove, thin as spider-silk, only visible when the light of the twin moons struck it from the right angle. It shimmered, then vanished when looked at directly. Ghostly. Ephemeral.
"That's not a sword mark," someone whispered. "That's a phantom."
"No flourish. No presence," Elder Xiu said. "And yet… it cuts."
The twin who made it said nothing. But as they rose and joined their sibling in eerie unison, both turned their masked faces toward the cliff and bowed—as if to a fellow killer.
---
And then, the seventh mark. The last.
It was delicate. A crescent shape that seemed etched by moonlight itself—faint, graceful, with no visible force behind it.
No one had seen it form.
No qi surged. No ripple warned. It simply… appeared.
Only after all six had been counted did someone point.
"Wait. There's one more."
Eyes turned toward the far left of the stone basin, where a lone figure stood. She was distant—beautiful in a way that chilled the breath. Her lavender robes billowed soundlessly, untouched by wind. Long black hair framed a pale face too serene for this world. Her eyes—pupil-less, pure white—gazed at the cliff with unknowable calm.
She had said nothing. She had moved less than a ghost.
And yet, the cliff had heard her.
"Did anyone… even see her sit?" someone asked.
"She didn't sit," murmured another. "She was just there."
The elders did not speak her name.
Only one, voice low and brittle, said:
"The moon leaves no shadow."
---
And now, all seven sword marks stood upon the cliff—distinct as snowflakes, each a declaration of self, intent, and spirit.
Seven cultivators. Seven truths carved into stone.
Jian Nian's whisper-cut.
Shui Daiyu's spiral of saturation.
Feng Yan's dramatic curve.
The Phantom Twin's vanishing ghost line.
The silent girl of moonlight's crescent.
Li Meixiu's soft, curious harmony.
And Lin Feng's singular stroke—
A deep, straight line. No curve. No vanity. Only will. A sword drawn through fate itself.
The cliff was still. But the world beneath it had changed.
---
Up in the veiled pavilions, the inner sect elders stood together now—no longer seated, no longer whispering. Every one of them stared at the wall, as if trying to memorize what had been born there.
Elder Xiu said quietly, "Seven marks. No more. No less."
Another added, "The cliff has chosen its inheritors."
And beneath them all, the disciples sat in stunned quiet.
Some were weeping—realizing they hadn't made a mark.
Others looked toward the seven with awe, or hunger, or buried resentment.
But none dared speak too loud.
Because the cliff had spoken.
And it had remembered their names.
---
Back below, Li Meixiu blinked awake and stretched, rubbing one eye like a sleepy kitten. Her twilight hair tumbled loose down her back, and she let out a content sigh before peeking over at Lin Feng.
"Did I pass, baby?"
Lin Feng gave a simple nod, his gaze still on the wall.
She smiled brightly, completely unaware of the faintly glowing crescent cut that now pulsed behind her on the cliff. Her bare feet kicked slightly as she adjusted Mr. Bunbun in her lap.
Mr. Bunbun blinked once. Silently judging everyone.
---
Far below, Lin Feng stood.
The cliff behind him seemed quieter now. As if holding its breath.
He turned toward the final trial path.
Not a word spoken.
But already, everyone watched him.
---