CHAPTER 4: TRIAL OF BLADES AND BLOODLINES (PART-4)

The sun had begun its descent into the western peaks, bleeding amber and violet across the sky. The world around the trial ground softened, but the silence sharpened. A tension hung in the air so thick even the mountain wind refused to move. The final formation, dormant till now, shimmered into being at the center of the plateau.

A massive orb of translucent jade floated above a dais of white stone. Runes—ancient, archaic, older than any sect scripture—curved along its surface. They pulsed faintly with dormant light, almost as if sleeping. The orb itself radiated no qi, no temperature, no pressure. And yet, every cultivator present could feel the weight of it settle in their bones.

The Outer Sect Elder stepped forward, his beard swaying gently as he raised his staff.

"This is the final trial," he declared, voice grave. "The Qi Orb tests no technique, no muscle, no talent in combat. It measures your spirit. Your soul's resonance with the path of cultivation. What stirs within you… shall be seen. And if the heavens allow, revealed."

Murmurs passed among the gathered disciples. Not everyone would shine here. Not everyone wanted to.

The elder's gaze swept over the crowd. "Step forth. Place your hand on the orb. Show us the truth of your path."

No one moved immediately. Then, slowly, one brave soul emerged from the group—a short, broad-shouldered youth with a stubborn face and worn gloves.

He placed his palm against the orb.

The jade glowed faintly green. The runes barely shifted. It was a pass—barely. Enough to be considered aligned to the martial path, likely suitable for outer sect labor or basic weapon training. Still, the boy grinned.

Another followed. A girl from a mid-tier alchemy clan. Her touch lit the orb with pale orange ripples that danced gently, like fireflies caught in dusk. A few elders took note.

Then came three more—each progressively less impressive. One boy got no reaction at all. Another triggered only a static hum, and a nervous girl from some forest village began to cry when the orb dimmed after a single flicker.

Then…

A hush.

From the back of the gathered crowd, a figure stepped forward.

A girl. Young, perhaps seventeen. The last one, which made a mark on Sword Cliff. Dressed in silken robes the shade between dusk and starlight. Her steps were so light they barely stirred dust. Her hair, long and pale, flowed behind her like drifting clouds, and her eyes—silver-blue and fathomless—reflected the fading light of the sky.

Some didn't even notice her arrival.

Others stared.

She had an ethereal quality that was difficult to place, as though she existed just slightly apart from the present moment. Her gaze swept across the orb and the disciples as if she'd seen it all before and found it amusing.

No one announced her name.

She placed her hand on the orb.

The jade surface didn't just glow. It bent.

The air around the orb twisted like moonlight reflected in water. Illusions—if they could even be called that—flared briefly into being: a child crying silently in a room with no doors, wolves howling beneath a blood-red moon, a battlefield littered with petals, not bodies.

Not even the elders spoke.

Then the illusions vanished.

The orb pulsed once. Deep silver. Then stilled.

Only then did the Outer Sect Elder finally murmur, "Name?"

She smiled faintly. "Yan Lihua. Silent Moon Clan."

Behind the veil, an inner sect elder muttered, "She was holding back in every other trial. She didn't come here for outer sect ranking. She came to be seen."

The orb continued to shimmer faintly even after she stepped away.

One of the Phantom Twins whispered, "She's like us. But colder."

A few more brave souls stepped forward. Another inner alchemy hopeful. Two brothers from the Golden Willow Dojo. One of them caused the orb to spark unexpectedly before dimming. It wasn't entirely unimpressive—but not enough to stir the elders.

Then came a moment of teasing flame.

Feng Yan, the proud princess of the Vermilion Phoenix Clan, tossed her crimson hair as she strutted to the orb. Her smile was radiant—confident, daring, and a touch too practiced.

"Let's give them something to talk about," she murmured as she placed her hand.

The orb didn't resist her.

Flames burst—not uncontrolled, but elegant. Phoenix feathers made of pure crimson qi unfurled behind her like wings. The orb shimmered from gold to scarlet to molten red before calming. The runes danced with her heartbeat.

A few male disciples broke into cheers. Even a few inner sect observers nodded.

"She's not just performance," one elder said. "Her flame roots are refined. That bloodline isn't diluted."

Feng Yan stepped back with a smirk, her eyes finding Lin Feng.

"Not bad, muscles," she whispered.

Then came the heiress of the Black Tortoise Clan.

Shui Daiyu made no announcement. Her movements were calm, deliberate, and cold. As she touched the orb, the jade did not glow.

It sweated.

Condensation beaded on its surface. A spiral of oily black and noxious green began to churn within it. Mist unfurled at its base like a ghost's breath.

Several disciples stepped back. One fainted.

"She didn't push qi into the orb," a sharp-eyed elder noted. "She let it breathe hers."

Shui Daiyu removed her hand, expression unreadable. "Weak orb," she said simply, and turned away.

Then came the Rustless Blade Clan's silent heir.

Jian Nian walked barefoot, his black robes plain and marked only by a single old threadbare insignia stitched at the hem. He didn't speak. Didn't bow. Didn't pause.

His hand touched the orb—

—and a single vertical line of silver swordlight split it like a crack through glass. Not destructive. Measured. Permanent.

"His sword intent wrote itself into the jade," someone breathed.

The orb continued to glow for several seconds after he stepped away. Jian Nian didn't look at it. His eyes, for the first time, flicked toward Lin Feng.

Lin Feng looked back, calm as still water.

Next came the twins.

They ignored the elder's protest and placed their hands together on the orb.

The jade split visually—one side glowing white, the other black. Shadows curved around it in synchronized arcs, forming loops like breathing patterns. The orb pulsed. Not like before. Like a heartbeat.

"They're linked… sharing a single meridian system."

When they pulled back, the orb let out a soft chime.

Then—

"Go on," Meixiu whispered.

Lin Feng stepped forward.

He walked with no dramatic flare, no posing. Just calm, measured strength. His half-ripped shirt clung to his frame. His hand still bore faint dust from the Sword Cliff trial.

He pressed his palm to the orb.

It didn't glow.

It cracked.

A fine hairline fracture spread like lightning across its surface. The runes stopped. The jade dimmed. For a moment, nothing happened.

Then the orb pulsed—once—and a deep, thunderous echo rolled across the plateau.

Not sound. Not qi. Something else.

The inner elders stood.

One whispered, "That orb… It couldn't hold his spirit signature. It tried to reflect him. It broke instead."

Another said, "It's not just strength. He's walking a path the orb doesn't recognize."

Lin Feng turned. Unbothered.

Only Meixiu smiled at him, arms wrapped around Mr. Bunbun. "You did so good, baby~"

The last to step up was Meixiu herself.

She strolled to the orb barefoot, robes of twilight dancing around her like the first breeze of dusk. Still hugging Mr. Bunbun in one arm, she placed her other hand on the jade sphere.

For a second, nothing.

Then—

The orb flared white. Then orange. Then both at once, weaving into a spectral fire that shimmered with holy warmth. Not violent. Not sharp. Healing. Deep.

Runes flew off its surface like petals in wind.

An elder dropped his fan.

"Sacred fire root… but that pulse—alchemy resonance?! That's… a fusion of divine and refining paths."

And then the orb dimmed gently—like bowing.

Meixiu tilted her head. "Oh, did I do something again?"

Mr. Bunbun blinked once.

The silence that followed was not reverent—it was stunned. A few outer sect disciples looked at the plush rabbit, then at the dulled orb, then back at Meixiu as if they'd just witnessed a divine calamity disguised as a nap.

"...She didn't even try," someone whispered.

"That thing isn't human," muttered a girl from the Jade Light Sect.

"Was that orb... scared?" another murmured, still clutching his own result—a faint yellow flicker at best.

More candidates stepped forward, hoping to wash the tension away.

A boy in tattered robes, barely sixteen, touched the orb and sparked a tiny ember—earning a proud cheer from his younger sister in the crowd.

Another, a girl from the Sky Vine Academy, awakened a swirl of gentle green leaves—marking a wood-natured affinity. A good result.

Then a confident son of a merchant clan stepped up, smirked, and slammed his hand on the orb—only for nothing to happen at all. Dead silence. His face went pale. Someone coughed awkwardly.

A wide-shouldered youth with calloused hands pressed his palm to the jade. For a moment, it seemed nothing would happen… until iron-colored ripples churned within the orb—marking him as a fist-path cultivator with rare metal resonance. He grinned and punched the air.

Only once the final group had finished—some elated, some broken, all exhausted—did the Outer Sect Elder lift his staff with both hands.

His voice rang like iron:

"Thus ends the Qi Orb Revelation."

Gasps still echoed across the trial grounds. But the Outer Sect Elder's voice rose, firm and reverent—cutting through awe like a blade through silence.

"Many of you have passed. Some with brilliance. Some with blood. Some with tears."

He paused, letting his words settle over the courtyard like dust after battle.

"Those who failed—take heart."

He turned, sweeping his gaze across the rows of hopefuls. His staff tapped once against the ground, steady and rhythmic.

"The dagger trials begin next week. Martial disciples will have their chance in the Fist Path. Alchemic tests resume next moon. Not all power lies in the sword, and not all paths carve the same wound."

A few discouraged cultivators straightened. Even among those who had failed the Qi Orb trial, hope flickered like a slow ember refusing to die.

Then the elder lifted his gaze to the highest point of the mountain range behind them—an outcropping of stone shaped like the jagged tip of a blade. The light of the descending sun caught its peak in crimson and gold.

"Though we are known as the Celestial Sword Pavilion," he continued, voice now low and reverent, "do not mistake us for a place that teaches only the sword."

A murmur of confusion spread.

"This Pavilion honors the sword not because it is all we teach—but because those who walk its path have carved deeper legends than any other. The ones who stand atop the world's cultivation rankings… who etched their names into the bones of history…"

He turned slowly, pointing his staff toward the towering peak behind them.

"...They held swords."

The wind stirred like something ancient had just awakened.

"Our sect welcomes those who choose fists, flames, poison, puppets, beast-taming, medicine, and more. But the reason we are called 'Celestial Sword'... is because the man who leads us is the sword."

More than a few disciples froze.

A name passed between inner elders behind the veil like a prayer.

Sword Saint Hong Ye.

The elder's voice dropped.

"Our Pavilion Master is the strongest sword cultivator in this world. A man who once cleaved an immortal calamity during the Silent Sky War with a blade of qi so vast it carved a canyon where the northern sea once stood."

Some outer disciples swallowed audibly. Others looked toward the horizon, as if expecting to see a sword-shaped rift across the sky.

"He has no left arm," the elder said, almost gently. "His robes are gray. His hair, tied in a topknot, bears the storm of salt and steel. A scar stretches from his throat to his waist—left by the only blade that ever reached him. He has not smiled in twenty years. He needs not to."

The sun seemed to dip an inch lower as if bowing at the name.

"Eyes like blunted steel—tired, but unyielding. He is Sword Saint Hong Ye… and he is watching."

Even the wind stopped.

A young boy in the crowd muttered without thinking, "He's real?"

And though no one saw it… far, far above—on that windbitten crag of stone—

A single figure stood with robes billowing, one arm tucked behind his back. Silent. Still. Staring down at them with eyes dull like worn iron—but sharp enough to weigh every soul below.

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