The mist recedes.
The weight of the illusion lifts from De-Reece's chest, but its presence lingers, pressing against the edges of his consciousness. Even as the trial fades, even as his vision clears, the final words of his reflection remain, a whisper at the back of his mind.
The world sharpens.
The illusionary battlefield is gone, replaced by an open clearing bathed in the cold glow of the trial's end. The towering stone archway that marked the entrance to the illusionary field stands behind him, its carvings lifeless once more. The suffocating fog that had consumed the competitors is now nothing more than a faint shimmer in the air.
De-Reece exhales, the motion slow, deliberate.
Then, he looks around.
The number of competitors has dwindled.
Dozens who entered the mist never emerged. Their bodies remain in place, motionless, their eyes blank, their minds still trapped in the illusions that broke them. Some tremble where they stand, barely clinging to consciousness. Others have collapsed entirely, eliminated.
The Overseers begin marking down names, confirming which competitors have failed. Those who remain standing are counted.
A fraction of those who entered made it through.
And those who did?
They are changed.
Across the clearing, Kalia stands with her arms crossed, her face carefully blank, but De-Reece knows the look in her eyes.
She does not need to speak.
He knows.
The trial hit her hard.
Her stance is firm, her breathing steady, but beneath the surface, the battle still lingers.
For a brief moment, her gaze meets his.
Neither speaks.
But the moment is enough.
They survived.
And that is all that matters.
A powerful presence descends upon the clearing.
The Sect Overseer steps forward, his gaze sweeping across the competitors who remain standing. His robes are pristine, his expression impassive, but his eyes tell a different story.
He has seen everything.
He has watched them falter, watched them fight, watched them break and rebuild themselves.
And now?
He will decide who is worthy to continue.
His voice cuts through the silence, cold and commanding.
"You have passed the Second Trial."
The weight behind the words settles upon the competitors. The survivors, though relieved, do not celebrate.
Because they know.
The next challenge will not be easier.
Among the sect representatives, expressions shift.
Some Overseers watch in quiet interest, their gazes lingering on specific individuals—assessing, calculating, deciding.
Whispers spread between them, some nodding, others murmuring in hushed tones.
Not all strength is physical.
And those who conquered their illusions have proven something far greater than raw power.
De-Reece ignores the murmurs.
He does not care who watches.
Because at the end of this trial, his path will not be dictated by them.
He will choose his own fate.
The Sect Overseer raises a hand.
The murmurs fade.
His voice carries the weight of finality.
"Rest. Recover. The next trial will begin soon."
No more details. No hints.
Only the certainty that another test awaits.
And this time?
The rules may not be as simple.
The tension in the air is different now.
The illusions are gone, the mist has faded, and the battlefield is no longer shaped by the mind. This time, it is a test of pure martial ability.
The final trial is simple—one-on-one combat.
Five separate tournament brackets have been formed, each competitor assigned randomly. The rules are straightforward:
Victory is rewarded, but not necessary for success.Sect representatives are watching—power is not the only thing that matters.Those who stand out will earn the right to advance, regardless of their final placement.
The crowd gathers around the open fighting arenas, makeshift stages carved into the stone courtyards of the selection grounds.
Each bracket fights in its own designated space. Competitors are called one by one, names echoing across the trial grounds as they step forward to prove themselves.
The brackets have been arranged, and fate has decided the matchups.
Kalia and De-Reece are separated.Joran and De-Reece are in the same bracket.Familiar names resurface, previous competitors returning to stand once more in the arena.
And as the battles begin, the overseers watch with cold precision.
For some, this will be their final chance to impress the sects.
For others—this is only the beginning.
When his name is called, De-Reece steps forward, calm, unreadable.
His opponent approaches from the opposite end, a mid-tier cultivator from one of the smaller clans. The competitor's stance is rigid, his blade gleaming under the midday sun.
A warrior. A standard duelist. Someone who has trained in a structured sect style.
De-Reece does not unsheath his sword.
Not yet.
The moment the fight begins, he moves.
The clash is short. Too short.
The moment his opponent lunges, he sidesteps, deflects, and counters with a precise palm strike that sends the competitor sprawling.
The fight ends before it truly begins.
The overseers take note.
De-Reece does not celebrate.
He simply steps back and waits for his next call.
On the opposite side of the selection grounds, Kalia fights her own battles.
She does not dominate like De-Reece.
But she never stops moving.
Her style is relentless—a perfect mix of precision and adaptation. Her opponents underestimate her at first, thinking she lacks the brute force of other cultivators.
But they struggle to land a clean hit.
And when she finds her opening?
She strikes with everything she has.
One fight at a time, she climbs her bracket.
But she is not the only one.
Others fight just as fiercely. And as the tournament progresses, the true contenders begin to emerge.
The murmurs in the crowd hush as both fighters step forward. The moment Joran's name is called alongside De-Reece's, the atmosphere changes.
This is not just another match.
This is personal.
Joran's stance is rigid, his shoulders squared, his expression carved from stone. The tension in his jaw is evident, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turn white.
But his eyes—his eyes burn with something deeper than the desire to win.
Resentment. Bitterness. Hatred.
To the spectators, this is a duel between two competitors.
But to Joran, this is retribution.
And to De-Reece?
This is nothing.
De-Reece observes him, gaze unreadable, measuring. He sees the changes.
Joran has grown.
His stance is stronger than before, his footing more solid. His movements have been refined—not by innate talent, but by relentless training, by the kind of obsession that comes from losing to someone you hate.
He is sharper.
Faster.
But still pathetic.
At best, Joran now holds the level of a mid-tier disciple from a mid-tier sect.
To most, that would be impressive. A sign of progress.
To De-Reece, it is laughable.
Joran's hatred had fueled him, had driven him forward. And yet, after all his struggle, all his sacrifice—this is all he has to show?
Weak.
Is this the boy who though he was a threat to him.
He was frankly laughable to De-Reece
Joran does not break eye contact.
His breathing is controlled, but tension rolls off of him in waves. He speaks low, just enough for De-Reece to hear.
"I should have been the one to leave that village first."
De-Reece says nothing.
"You stole that from me." Joran's voice trembles, not with fear, but with the sheer force of the emotions he refuses to suppress. "You stole her". You stole everything."
De-Reece meets his glare, impassive.
And then, he smirks. Just slightly.
The reaction is enough to send Joran over the edge.
The overseer signals the match.
Joran lunges.
Joran moves fast—faster than before. His attacks are sharp, precise, calculated. He does not waste movement, does not lash out wildly.
To anyone else, he would be a threat.
To De-Reece?
He is slow.
The moment Joran's spear thrusts forward, De-Reece sidesteps with ease. The attack cuts through empty air.
Joran adjusts immediately, shifting his stance, pivoting his spear into a downward strike. It is well-placed, aimed directly at the spot where De-Reece should be.
But he is not there.
De-Reece glides past the attack, his movements fluid, unhurried. He does not counter. He does not press the attack.
He simply avoids.
And in doing so—he makes Joran look foolish.
The crowd watches as Joran attacks again. And again. Each strike faster, more forceful than the last.
Each strike misses.
Joran's breath comes heavier now. Frustration seeps into his posture, his movements becoming more erratic.
De-Reece's smirk lingers.
Joran notices.
And he snaps.
With a roar, he drives forward with everything he has. His spear blurs, cutting through the air in a sweeping arc, enhanced by the full force of his qi.
De-Reece sighs.
He ends it.
A single step forward.
Joran's momentum is too great to stop.
De-Reece catches his wrist in an iron grip.
And in the next breath—
CRACK.
Joran's balance shatters.
His entire body twists as De-Reece shifts his weight, a precise motion sending him crashing into the stone below.
The impact is thunderous.
Joran's breath leaves him in a sharp gasp, his entire body momentarily stunned from the sheer force of the fall.
Silence.
The match is over.
De-Reece never threw a single real attack.
And yet, Joran was broken all the same.
The overseer calls the match.
Joran remains on the ground, coughing, his fingers clawing against the stone as if willing himself to rise again.
But he does not.
He cannot.
De-Reece steps back, his gaze still unreadable. The fight had not been satisfying.
There had been nothing to test him.
Joran had improved, but in the end?
He was still Joran.
Still weak.
Still beneath him.
Joran lifts his head, his expression twisted in pain—not just from his wounds, but from something deeper. Humiliation.
His hatred does not fade.
If anything—it grows.
This loss will not be the end of it.
This defeat will not silence his resentment.
De-Reece can see it in his eyes.
This is not over.