The road out of Green Lotus Town was long, sunbaked, and nearly devoid of travelers. Xiao Xuan walked with a purpose far heavier than the supplies in his worn cloth satchel. His boots, already thinned from weeks of use, picked up dust as he left behind the jeering crowds and cruel sect disciples.
He didn't look back.
Every step was a choice — to reject the world that had rejected him, and to begin again, even from the mud. The merchant's directions were vague: northeast past the twin hills, through an old pine grove, and along a river trail until he reached the crumbling gate of Ironwood Sect. A half-day's walk, if he didn't get eaten.
The wilderness between towns was lawless. He stayed off the main path, weaving between shrubs and hollow trees, wary of spirit beasts. A boar spirit once trampled an entire caravan not far from these hills, he'd overheard in Green Lotus. The tales didn't frighten him — they sharpened his awareness. If death could come from any shadow, then each breath must matter.
He chewed on a strip of dried meat, the last gift from Willow Brook, and drank sparingly from his waterskin. It wasn't fear that slowed him — it was the weight of change. He was about to stake his life on a sect barely anyone respected.
By midday, the path narrowed into a shaded trail. Sunlight fractured through old pine needles. The sound of birds and insects filled the air, accompanied by the ever-present rustle of wind through grass. He spotted the remnants of old stone steps ahead, half-swallowed by dirt and moss.
A cracked wooden sign leaned sideways, the words nearly illegible from weathering: Ironwood Sect.
Xiao Xuan paused at the foot of the trail and took a breath. He smoothed his robe, wiped dust from his brow, and continued.
The entrance was no more than two logs lashed together in a makeshift gate, flanked by vine-wrapped poles. Behind it stood a scattering of wooden buildings — lopsided, sagging with age, some partially burned. Smoke rose from a chimney in the back.
He passed a barren training field, its wooden dummies splintered and broken, weeds growing unchecked through the cracks. No elite disciples trained here. No elders offered guidance. Just silence and shadows.
A lone boy mopped the front steps of a hall, pausing as Xiao Xuan approached.
"You're not a disciple," the boy said, more observation than accusation.
"I heard the sect takes in workers. I'd like to apply."
The boy stared a moment longer, then shrugged. "Elder Mu's in the hall. Knock twice. Don't beg. He hates that."
Xiao Xuan nodded and entered.
Inside was dark, lit by oil lamps and filtered sunlight. The scent of ash and herbs lingered in the air. Elder Mu, a gaunt man with streaks of gray in his tied-up hair, sat at a table, grinding powder into a bowl. His eyes lifted lazily.
"Laborer?"
"Yes. No spirit root, no background. Just hands."
"Chores, discipline, no complaining. Fail to wake up before sunrise, you're out. No sparring. No pills. You work, you eat. Simple."
"I accept."
Mu slid a wooden token across the table. "Room nine. Tools in the back shed. Rice at dusk. You're dismissed."
Xiao Xuan bowed deeply. "Thank you, Elder."
He exited the hall and moved through the compound with quiet reverence. He wasn't just entering a sect — he was stepping into his next test. No golden finger, no secret inheritance, no lucky breakthrough. Just effort, dirt, and time.
Room nine was little more than a storage shed cleared out for bodies. A mat on the floor, a cracked window, and a roof that leaked if you breathed too hard on it. Still, it was shelter.
He placed his bag in the corner, pulled out the parchment he'd kept folded in his robe, and updated it beneath his last note:
Progress:
Gained entry to sectAssigned daily laborStable roofAccess to inner movementsMust learn by observation only
He stared at the page. His hands trembled not from fatigue — but from focus.
Tomorrow, he'd begin scrubbing floors and carrying water. But every whispered instruction, every passing disciple, every open scroll left unattended — he would absorb it.
He had a foothold. And that was enough.
"I will rise," he whispered.
The wind howled through the cracked window, but this time, it didn't feel cold.
It felt like permission.