It had been two weeks since the stone tiles of the arena had been turned to dust, and for the first time in this life, Yuan He didn’t wake up feeling like he’d been through a hydraulic press.

  He sat on the edge of his narrow cot, rotating his right shoulder. There was no grinding, no sharp stabs of pain. In fact, the limb felt... unnervingly efficient. During his recovery, he’d analyzed the sensation with the detachment of a mechanic: the massive energy surge from the Piledriver had essentially acted as a high-pressure flush. It had scoured the narrow, stagnant pathways of his meridians, forcing them to widen to accommodate the load.

  "Forced expansion through structural overload," he thought, a small, weary smile tugging at his lips. "Not exactly the safest way to upgrade the hardware, but I'll take it."

  He paused, his gaze drifting downward, as a stray, clinical thought crossed his mind.

  The realization of exactly where his train of thought was heading hit him like a physical blow.

  Yuan He’s face went from pale to a deep, radiating crimson in under three seconds. He coughed violently into his hand, nearly choking on his own spit as he stood up with a jerk.

  he hissed at himself, his ears burning with a heat that had nothing to do with cultivation. He squeezed his eyes shut, shaking the thought out of his head with such vigor it made him dizzy. Dismissing the absolute lunacy of "anatomical optimization" through explosive recoil, he grabbed his outer-sect robes and practically fled his own room, desperate for the cooling air of the mountains to settle his nerves.

  , finally leaving that silliness behind.

  He headed out for his daily rotation of chores. Today was water duty—hauling heavy iron buckets from the lower springs to the alchemy labs. It was backbreaking work for most, but for Yuan He, it was a steady stream of merit points he desperately needed for everyday necessities and cultivation.

  As he walked the familiar mountain paths, he spotted a group of familiar faces near the spirit-grain silos. It was Zhao Hu and a few others from Sun Ba’s circle. Usually, this was the part of the day where he’d have to calculate the optimal angle for a defensive stance while they threw insults or stones.

  Today, however, was different.

  As soon as Zhao Hu caught sight of Yuan He, he didn't puff out his chest or reach for a weapon. He stiffened, his face going pale, and immediately turned his back to "intently" study a sack of grain. The rest of the group followed suit, hovering in a strange, silent huddle, carefully making sure they didn't even breathe in his direction.

  Yuan He realized, suppressed amusement finally replacing his embarrassment.

  He kept walking, the heavy buckets feeling lighter than they ever had. But as he approached the main thoroughfare of the sect, the amusement began to fade, replaced by a deep, prickling sense of awkwardness.

  A group of three younger disciples were walking toward him, laughing and jostling each other. The moment they saw him, the laughter died. They didn't just stop; they practically scrambled to the edge of the path, one of them nearly tumbling into a decorative hedge to clear the way.

  "Good... good morning, Senior Brother Yuan!" one of them stammered, bowing so low he was nearly doubled over.

  Yuan He froze mid-step, the iron buckets swinging slightly.

  "I'm not—" he started to say, but they were already looking at the ground, waiting for him to pass like he was a high-ranking elder or a temperamental explosive.

  He sighed and kept moving, but the "Red Sea" effect followed him everywhere. Disciples who used to point and snicker now suddenly found the architecture of the nearby buildings fascinating the moment he looked their way. Conversations died in a radius around him, replaced by a heavy, cautious silence.

  he thought, his ears turning a faint pink again—this time for a different reason.

  He reached the alchemy labs and set the buckets down. "Senior Brother Yuan?"

  He jumped, turning to find a young girl holding a clipboard. She was trembling slightly, her eyes wide as she looked at his right hand.

  "The... the Alchemist is ready for the water," she whispered. "If... if it pleases you."

  "It pleases me," Yuan He muttered, feeling his face heat up even further. "And please, just... Yuan He is fine. I'm just here for the merit points."

  She nodded frantically, clearly not believing a word of it, and hurried away.

  Yuan He looked at his hands—the split skin had healed, leaving only faint, silvery scars. He had his peace. He had his entire body now free from pain. He even had his "protection" treaty. But as he looked out over the sect, watching people scurry away from his shadow, he realized that "blending in" was officially something far out of his reach.

  After finishing the delivery for the alchemist, Yuan He made his way toward the outskirts of the main training yard. He bypassed the central arenas, opting for a secluded corner shielded by a row of gnarled, ancient pines.

  A few dozen disciples were scattered across the grounds, their grunts and the rhythmic of wood on wood filling the air. To his immense relief, they seemed too engrossed in their own forms to pay him any mind. For the first time all day, he didn't feel like a freak show or a ticking time bomb.

  He stopped in front of a weathered iron-wood post. It was a dense, stubborn timber that didn't just absorb force—it resisted it.

  he thought, shaking out his shoulders.

  He took a deep breath, visualizing the internal gears of his spiritual root. He began to rotate them, feeling for the specific, grounding rhythm of the Grounded CircuitElemental Piledriver

  He let the two techniques slide into place. It was like dusting the rust off a complex engine; there was a moment of friction, a screech of mismatched frequencies, and then—.

  His fist hit the iron-wood post with a sound like a muffled gunshot. There was no recoil, no shock in his shoulder. The force traveled through the post and into the earth with terrifying efficiency. A small, perfect ring of dust puffed up from the base of the timber.

  "Still works," he whispered, examining his knuckles. They weren't even red.

  "I really don't want to be on the receiving end of that technique again."

  Yuan He spun around, his heart leaping into his throat. He hadn't heard anyone approach—not because the person was being stealthy, but because the yard had suddenly gone dead quiet.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  The disciples who had been practicing moments ago were gone. They had vanished into the surrounding buildings the moment they sensed a potential altercation. The "Red Sea" had parted again, leaving Yuan He alone with a massive figure standing ten paces away.

  It was Deng Shou.

  He was healed—the healers of the Azure Cloud Sect were competent if nothing else—and he remained a mountain of a man, his presence as imposing as a stone monolith. But the "pristine" quality was gone. His robes were standard-issue grey, lacking the silk embroidery of Sun Ba’s inner circle. His posture, once rigid with the arrogance of a favored bully, was now slumped, weighted by a different kind of gravity.

  Yuan He’s hand instinctively dropped into a defensive posture. "Deng Shou. I’ll remind you of the duel terms. Any physical interference results in a ten-merit fine and a report to the Disciplinary Hall. You can’t afford to touch me!"

  Deng Shou didn't move. He didn't even look angry. He just looked at the iron-wood post. "I’m not here to fight you, Yuan He. I was just watching."

  "Watching for what? An opening?"

  "No," Deng Shou said, his voice hollow. "Just watching. I’m not with Sun Ba’s group anymore. I lost. In that circle, a tool that fails once is a tool that’s discarded." He looked down at his massive hands. "I’ve been... 'relieved' of my duties. I’m just an ordinary disciple now."

  Yuan He remained alert, his eyes narrowed. "If you're looking for pity or forgiveness, you're talking to the wrong person. I have none for you. You were perfectly happy to be his hammer when it was my bones on the anvil."

  "I’m not expecting any," Deng Shou replied, his voice devoid of his former thunder. "I just wanted to see it again. Without the adrenaline rushing through my veins."

  He turned to walk away, his gait heavy. He stopped after a few steps, looking back over his shoulder.

  "What do you call that technique again?" he asked. "The one you shouted. Elemental Piledriver

  Yuan He felt the blood vanish from his face. The "Senior Brother" awkwardness from earlier was nothing compared to the sudden, violent surge of shame that erupted in his chest.

  "I... I don't—" Yuan He stammered, he just wanted to bury his head in the sand.

  "It’s pretty cool," Deng Shou said. He gave Yuan He a slow, honest smile. It wasn't a smirk or a mocking sneer; it was the weary, non-mocking acknowledgement of one warrior to another. "It’s a good name. Really fits the way it feels when it hits."

  Deng Shou turned and disappeared into the shadows of the pines, leaving Yuan He standing alone by the Iron Wood post.

  Yuan He stood there for a long time, his face a radiating, beet-red mask of pure agony. He covered his eyes with his hand, leaning his forehead against the cool timber of the post.

  "Even when he isn't fighting," Yuan He groaned into the silence, "the big guy still manages to inflict critical damage."

  The cringe was so intense it felt like a secondary meridian expansion. He had hoped—prayed—that everyone had been too shocked to remember him shouting the name of his move like a shounen protagonist. But no. Deng Shou remembered. Which meant somebody else probably remembered.

  he thought, suffering through a fresh wave of heat.

  Yuan He’s internal spiral of embarrassment was mercifully cut short by the deep, resonant toll of the sect’s Great Bell. The sound was heavy—a metallic vibration that commanded every disciple to drop their tasks and head toward the Grand Hall.

  He pushed off the iron-wood post, grateful for the distraction from the lingering "piledriver" cringe. He followed the thickening stream of grey-robed disciples flooding toward the central plaza. By the time he reached the front of the hall, any lingering sense of being a "freak show" was crushed by the sheer weight of the crowd.

  At the very least, no other disciple seemed to avoid him here. In the frantic rush to secure a spot near the dais, the disciples had no room for caution or fear. Yuan He was jostled, bumped, and pressed from all sides as the space reached maximum capacity. He found himself packed like sardines in tin, and the olfactory data hitting his nose was nothing short of a biological hazard.

  he thought, pulling the collar of his robe over his mouth and nose.

  The air was thick with the scent of unwashed robes and the humid heat of too many bodies in too small a square. To his left, a disciple with a persistent cough accidentally elbowed him in the ribs; to his right, someone was stepped on and let out a sharp yelp. Yuan He simply braced his feet, maintaining his center of gravity amidst the human tide.

  On the high marble dais, Elder Chen stepped forward. The crowd’s buzzing died down, though the heat of the packed bodies remained. Chen looked out over the sea of disciples, his face a neutral mask of authority.

  "Disciples!" Elder Chen’s voice was amplified by his qi, vibrating through the plaza like a low-frequency hum. "The time for the Inner-Sect Selection

  A ripple of excitement and nervous tension passed through the crowd. Yuan He felt the collective heart rate of the plaza rise.

  "The selection process will be rigorous," Elder Chen continued. "Tomorrow morning, we begin the first phase. It will be an elimination round designed to test the stability of your cultivation and your resolve. From the hundreds of you standing here, only the top ninety

  The murmur grew louder.

  "Those ninety" Elder Chen said, raising his hand for silence, "will then move on to the evaluation phase, where the ninety disciples will be whittled down to the final thirty. Those thirty disciples will be elevated to inner-sect status immediately, granted access to more resources, and the direct guidance of the elders."

  Thirty slots. The math was brutal, and Yuan He could see the calculations running behind the eyes of every qi condensation cultivator around him. For most, this was a dream; for others, it was a terrifying gamble.

  "Return here at dawn to hear the specific details of the initial round," Chen commanded. "Use this night to settle your spirits. You are dismissed."

  With a final, sweeping gaze, the Elder turned and vanished into the shadows of the Grand Hall. The announcement was over, but the crowd didn't disperse. The plaza remained packed as disciples lingered, huddled in small groups to speculate on the nature of the first round. The air was a chaotic storm of whispers, theories, and the occasional boastful laugh from those who felt their position was secure.

  Yuan He maneuvered through the press of bodies, eager to escape the stale air and the mounting anxiety of the plaza. Thirty slots. He had the output and the theory, but he was still an outlier in a system built for traditional geniuses. As he walked back toward his quarters, his mind was already shifting back into "analysis mode," breaking down the possible variables for the morning.

  The heavy doors of the inner council chamber swung shut, cutting off the distant, buzzing roar of the disciples in the plaza. Inside, the air was cool and smelled of aged cedar and the bitter tang of medicinal tea.

  Elder Chen

  "I have delivered the announcement," Chen reported, his voice dropping the public boom he had used on the dais. "The disciples seem to have taken it very well. Most of them are already preparing for the morning."

  Gao Ren gave a slow, measured nod of satisfaction. He didn't look up from the map of the Droven Weald spread across the table. "Good. The timing is narrow, but sufficient."

  "Are we truly certain about this?"

  The voice belonged to Elder Zhou. The old man was sitting in the shadows, his hands trembling slightly as they gripped the arms of his chair. "We are talking about thirty of our own children, Gao Ren. If we promote them under these conditions... we are sending them to their deaths. They don't have the experience to survive a Grade-3 secret realm."

  Gao Ren finally looked up. His eyes were hard, reflecting the flickering lantern light like polished flint. "The Sun Clan was very specific in their 'sponsorship' agreement, Zhou. They requested a vanguard of thirty inner sect

  He tapped the map. "The Gilded Sepulcher will not fully appear for several months, years even. That gives us just enough time to conduct this 'selection,' elevate the winners, and present them as our elite. By the time they step into the Weald, they will have the robes and the titles the Sun Clan demanded."

  "But why the charade?" asked Elder Lian, a sharp-featured woman who oversaw the sect’s archives. She leaned forward, her brow furrowed. "If we need an effective vanguard, why not send our inner disciples? They are stronger, better equipped, and have a significantly higher probability of surviving. If the goal is to clear the room, shouldn't we use our best?"

  Gao Ren’s expression didn't change, but the air in the room seemed to grow a few degrees colder.

  "Because that will be a waste," the Sect Leader said simply.

  Lian blinked, taken aback by the bluntness of the statement.

  "A Grade-3 secret realm is a meat-grinder, regardless of who enters first," Gao Ren continued, his voice devoid of emotion. "Compared to the Great Sects of the capital, our resources are a pittance. Our current inner disciples—the ones we have spent years cultivating, the ones who hold our actual heritage—they are the lifeblood of this sect. We cannot afford to lose a single one of them to a golem’s fist."

  He looked at the doors, toward the plaza where hundreds of outer disciples were currently celebrating their "chance" at a future.

  "The outer disciples, however... they are numerous. They are replaceable. We give them title, we give them hope, and we give them to the Sun Clan as the vanguard they asked for. We protect the core by sacrificing the shell. It is the only way the Azure Cloud Sect survives the winter."

  A heavy, suffocating silence flooded the room. Elder Zhou looked away, his face etched with a grief he couldn't voice, and Elder Lian just stared blankly at the map, unflinching.

  Gao Ren returned his gaze to the map, already calculating the next move in a game where the pieces were made of bone. Outside, the disciples were still cheering, unaware that their promotion was merely a change in their classification—from "trash" to "expendable."