Morning arrived not with peace, but with shouting.
"Wake up! You useless lot! The sun's already out, and you're still dreaming?"
Instructor Gao's voice cut through the quiet like a whip. Birds scattered from nearby trees as heavy footsteps echoed through the cracked stone yard.
Wooden doors creaked open. Young men stumbled out of their dorms, still pulling on robes, eyes bleary with sleep. Some groaned. Some cursed under their breath. But all of them moved.
This part of the Azure Feather Sect was not what came to mind when people imagined legendary cultivation halls. There were no floating peaks, no radiant immortal monuments. Just a cracked stone yard, splintered training posts, and a dusty weapons rack where the wooden swords had more splinters than handle.
This was the Trial Yard of the Azure Feather Sect.
Where failures trained.
The disciples here were those who hadn't passed their first-year assessment — those who, after a year in the sect, still hadn't shown enough progress. Most sects would have expelled them outright. But Azure Feather Sect gave them one last chance.
One last assessment.
If they failed again, they would be sent down the mountain.
Li Fan stood near the edge of the group, silent. His robe was too thin for the cold morning air. The cuffs were frayed, the cloth stitched over with cheap thread. His arms were crossed, and his head was slightly lowered.
He looked weak. Small. Easy to ignore.
Behind him, two disciples whispered just loud enough to be heard.
"Look, the scarecrow's still standing."
"Thought the wind would've carried him off by now."
"Maybe he's cultivating the Path of Sleep," another chuckled.
Li Fan didn't respond. He didn't even look at them. But his fingers curled slightly at his side.
---
Instructor Gao stalked to the center of the yard, hands clasped behind his back. He was short, broad-shouldered, with a voice like gravel and a sharp tongue that had sent many a disciple to tears.
"You lot have six days left," he said, turning a slow circle. "Six days to prove you're not complete wastes of space. If you fail the final assessment, you're out. No appeals. You'll walk down the mountain with your bags."
He stopped walking. His gaze swept over the group—then landed on Li Fan.
A smirk touched his lips.
"And some of you—" he sneered, "—won't even make it that far."
The group laughed. Li Fan's shoulders didn't move. But his jaw tightened.
"Warmups," Instructor Gao barked. "Ten laps around the yard!"
The disciples groaned and scattered, feet slapping against the stone as they ran.
Li Fan immediately fell to the rear of the group. His stamina had always been weak. In the Azure Feather Sect, where talent and physical strength determined one's future, his body had always betrayed him.
By the fifth lap, his breath came in short, ragged bursts. By the eighth, his legs trembled like bamboo in a storm. And the end of tenth lap, he was gasping, dragging one foot in front of the other. Sweat soaked his back. The world spun.
But he didn't stop.
When the warmups ended, the disciples gathered again in rows. Instructor Gao gave brief instructions, and the daily drills began.
They practiced basic martial forms, breathing patterns, and sparring footwork. These were techniques every first-year disciple had memorized, yet Gao forced them to repeat each one countless times. Each strike had to be exact. Each movement grounded.
Li Fan tried with all his strength to follow the drills.
But his movements were always behind the others. His stances were unstable. His strikes lacked strength. It was not due to laziness—Li Fan practiced more seriously than most—but his body lacked the responsiveness and power needed for martial cultivation.
"Too slow!" Instructor Gao shouted. "Lower your stance! Are your legs made of straw?"
Li Fan winced as he tried to adjust, but during a turning step, he lost his balance and fell. His elbow struck the ground hard. Pain shot through his arm.
Laughter followed from some of the nearby disciples. But Li Fan simply got back up and resumed his position in line. He had long since grown numb to humiliation.
---
When the group paused for a short rest, Zhao Kun approached Li Fan.
Zhao Kun was different from the others. He was talented, confident, and came from a respected family. His training clothes were clean and well-fitted. His manner was arrogant, and he looked down on those he considered beneath him.
"You know," Zhao continued, "it's almost impressive how bad you are. You don't have to keep humiliating yourself. No shame in quitting now. Go home. I hear your mother runs a noodle stall—maybe you'll be more useful there."
Li Fan said nothing. But his grip on the gourd tightened.
He had no spiritual root. His talent was nonexistent. He could not gather Qi properly, nor could he keep up with even the weakest of his peers.
But despite that, he refused to give up.
---
The final segment of morning training was always the same: sparring.
Instructor Gao clapped once. "Pair up!"
The disciples began choosing partners. Most looked toward their friends or someone close to their level.
Then Instructor Gao pointed. "Li Fan. Zhao Kun. Platform."
Zhao's smile returned, sharper this time.
"Oh good. I was getting bored."
Li Fan's heart sank. He had faced Zhao in sparring before. It always ended in pain.
But he did not hesitate. He walked to the dueling stage without a word.
He climbed the stone platform in silence. The crowd circled quickly, all too eager to see the entertainment.
Zhao cracked his neck and bounced on his feet.
"I'll make it quick," he said with a grin.
Li Fan took a deep breath, steadying himself.
"Begin!" Gao shouted.
---
Zhao attacked without hesitation. His movements were fast and precise.
Li Fan tried to block the first strike—a palm to his chest—but the force knocked him back.
The next was a sweeping kick. It slammed into Li Fan's side, knocking him off balance.
Zhao didn't let up. A punch to the ribs followed—hard and sharp.
White-hot pain exploded through his side. He gasped, doubling over.
But Zhao wasn't done. He stepped forward, spinning, and drove his foot hard into Li Fan's shoulder.
Li Fan flew backward, hitting the platform hard. Pain surged through his body. The crowd murmured.
"Is it over already?"
"Same as last time."
Li Fan could barely breathe. Blood filled his mouth. His arms shook as he tried to rise.
Zhao stepped closer. "Stay down," he said. "Seriously. You'll only embarrass yourself."
Li Fan forced himself to move. Inch by inch, he pushed his hand against the stone.
Zhao raised his knee—and drove it into Li Fan's stomach.
Li Fan crumpled again.
The pain became unbearable. Every part of his body screamed. But in that deep pain, something strange stirred.
His consciousness dimmed. Time seemed to stretch.
Then—he heard a voice.
[Initial scan complete.]
[Suitable host found.]
[Limitless Tempering System: Binding in progress…]
Li Fan's eyes widened faintly. The voice was cold and mechanical, unlike anything he had ever heard.
Was it real? Or was it his imagination?
Before he could answer that question, darkness swallowed him.
He lost consciousness.