Just like before, the door remained open for an entire day—dawn to midnight—granting ample time for all to test their fate. I made no rush to step forward. I remained seated, letting the hours stretch and pass as I rested.

  There was no point in hurrying. If the heavens had truly changed their mind, they would still be there at the end of the day. And if they hadn’t… well, there was no reason to taste rejection any earlier than I had to.

  As I sat in silence, I felt the shift in the air. Not the wind, but the stares.

  Curious eyes wandered in my direction—eyes that had once laughed at me, dismissed me with sneers and scorn. Now those same eyes held something else entirely. Intrigue. Confusion.

  They didn’t understand.

  To them, my defiance was something bold. To stand before the cultivator, to raise a rusted sword in the face of indifference—it fit neatly into the stories they had been fed since childhood. They wanted to believe there was more to me than met the eye. That perhaps I was some hidden master in disguise, some long-lost genius cultivating in obscurity. Their fantasies demanded explanation, and since I didn’t offer any, they came seeking it themselves.

  Some approached me, eyes wide with misplaced reverence.

  “Senior, may I ask your name?”

  “Are you a hidden expert?”

  “Which sect were you once part of?”

  Foolish questions, asked with earnest hearts.

  But I said nothing.

  I had no desire for friends, no room for acquaintances, and no time for pointless attachments. My life—what remained of it—had been devoted to one path, and I would not let passing interest or temporary relations steer me from it. Their curiosity wasn’t dangerous—but it was a distraction.

  So, I let myself believe—forcefully—that these eyes, this attention, was nothing more than the will of the heavens testing me again. That they had cast these curious souls into my path to see if I would stray. That their interest was a trap, a subtle manipulation to soften my resolve.

  And deep down, I knew I was being hypocritical. I, who mocked their romanticism, had spun my own delusion to protect myself from it.

  But I clung to it anyway.

  Eventually, the sun dipped, and the sky surrendered to night. The day was nearly over.

  Only a short window remained before the gate would close again, sealing away the path of cultivation for another decade. I had waited long enough. I rose from the ground, brushing off the dirt from my clothes and began walking toward the gate.

  As I approached, I could feel the attention of others sharpening. Those who still lingered on the plain turned their eyes to me, their earlier curiosity reigniting with silent expectation. Whispers buzzed like flies in the air, as if my every step was confirmation of their beliefs.

  He’s going now. This must be it.

  He must know the gate will accept him.

  They looked at me with anticipation, as if my long silence had finally made sense to them. Even the cultivator, still standing at his post by the gate, turned his gaze toward me.

  Still unaware that I had already failed once. That I had stood in this very spot ten years ago, and been cast out like a weed in a garden of chosen flowers.

  I remembered every detail as I approached the golden vortex once more. My breath slowed, my heartbeat steady. I raised my hand and stretched it forward, fingers reaching into the familiar swirl of divine light.

  And just like before… I was stopped. My hand pressed against it, unmoving, no different than it had been ten years ago.

  And when they saw me fail…laughter rang out. Words of mockery came fast, thrown without hesitation.

  “He waited all day just to fail!”

  “He’s not some expert—he’s a fraud!”

  “What a joke!”

  It was nothing I hadn’t heard before.

  The golden gate began humming once more—a signal of its imminent closure. The cultivator followed suit, walking without urgency toward the entrance. As he passed, he no longer spared a glance, neither slowing his pace nor raising his voice. He simply said, “Know your place.” With those three words, he vanished into the gate.

  Failure, once again.

  And so, as I always did, I marched forward. Toward the same sacred wall that had denied me every decade since I first stood before it.

  I raised my broken soul weapon—and swung.

  Cling.

  The routine of a decade continued forward, pushing ever onward into another decade to come. I no longer heard the hums of the crowd behind me. Their laughter, whispers, and murmurs faded into static long ago. All I heard now was the clink of metal meeting the gate—or the void-like silence that followed when my sword was too broken to sound.

  The third decade came and passed.

  Another failure.

  But something had changed. That time, the cultivator… recognized me.

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  He didn’t speak. We exchanged no words, yet his gaze lingered a moment longer than before. In that silence, I became more than a nameless mortal to him—I became a familiar presence, as regular as his routine return to make his presentation.

  Then came the fourth decade.

  Another failure.

  But this time, he was not alone. He brought another with him—another cultivator, draped in the same silk. They stood at the top of the gate, both looking at me. I didn’t need to hear their conversation to understand it. The tale of the stubborn mortal who refused to stop swinging had finally become something worthy of retelling, even among the cultivators.

  And then came the fifth.

  The sixth.

  The seventh.

  The eighth.

  Failure. After failure. After failure.

  My body aged, hollowed by the years. My once-strong limbs grew thin, my posture hunched. My beard and hair turned long and white, a veil of age that trailed behind me like a worn flag.

  My vision dimmed—one eye fading to darkness.

  My steps became slow, pitiful things, dragging forward only with the help of my sword used now as a crutch more than a weapon. A single step taking minutes.

  But my swing… my swing never wavered.

  If anything, it had only grown sharper—not in strength, not in speed, but in precision. I had struck the same spot on the gate so many millions of times, I could do it with my eyes closed. At the same angle. With the same force. The same breath before, and the same exhale after.

  It was no longer a strike. It was a devotion. A prayer. An obsession.

  I didn't dare count how many times I tried—I had long since lost track. And yet, the Golden Gate of Ascension showed no marks at all—no scars, no dents, not even a hint of my countless attempts.

  It stood as it always had—Pristine.

  Then came the ninth decade.

  I was one hundred years old.

  My body had withered like dried bark, and my left arm lay paralyzed—a shadow of what it once was. Yet my right hand, my dominant hand, still gripped the blade and lifted it. Every breath became a struggle, each movement sending aching pain through my bones, while my heart beat slowly as if trying to lull me into sleep. But my spirit refused to give in. Because I had only ever promised myself one thing: I would defy fate until my last breath.

  Yet, I knew that this promise would soon happen. This ninth decade—my hundredth year—was most likely my last.

  My mortal life, once enduring, now flickered like a dying ember. I felt it—not through pain, but in the quiet certainty that death was no longer far off. It walked beside me now, its steps calm and patient, as if offering me one final attempt before claiming my soul.

  The Plains of Ascension had once again filled with life—fresh-faced mortals, brimming with ambition and energy. They came with strong bodies, soul weapons glowing bright with potential. They were younger, faster, sharper… full of everything I had long since left behind. And yet, as I passed through them—step by agonizing step, my sword-turned-cane scraping softly against the grass—they made way for me.

  They stepped aside without a word, and the crowd parted, bowing one by one. Not every single person, but enough to be noticed. I saw quiet nods of respect and subtle gestures of acknowledgment from those too young to know my name but old enough to have heard the tales. It seemed the stories had spread—about the old man who never stopped swinging, who appeared every decade, striking the same spot again and again, even when the heavens denied his plea.

  I couldn’t help but think, as I watched their expressions shift while I passed, that this new generation was more respectful than I had once imagined. Maybe time had changed them. Maybe mockery lost its taste when aimed at the pitiful frame of a dying elder. Or maybe… some of them truly understood.

  Then, for some reason, I stopped walking. This time, something unseen gripped me—perhaps the sensitivity born from decades of isolation, with only the gentle breath of the plains as my companion. I couldn’t say exactly what it was, but I felt it. Something was happening—something entirely new. And then, it came.

  A sound tore across the sky, echoing through the plains like a song too vast for this world. It wasn’t a cry of horror or a roar of aggression—it was a screech that carried an almost divine harmony. It was far louder than any bird I had ever heard, yet far more beautiful, powerful, and resonant.

  Every head turned skyward, including my own fading gaze.

  High above, a shape emerged in the distance—a mere speck against the clouds that rapidly grew larger, closer, faster. Every presence gasped; some shouted in awe, while others unknowingly fell to their knees.

  As it descended, it became clear: this was no ordinary bird. It was a divine creature—a being from a higher realm—descending into the mortal plane.

  Then, with one mighty sweep of its wings, it blotted out the heavens, casting a vast shadow over the Plain of Ascension before landing with a force that shook the ground—right before my eyes.

  The gust from its wings tore through the crowd like a hurricane, lifting mortals from their feet and tossing them aside like leaves in a storm. Cries of shock filled the plains as many struggled to steady themselves, falling to their knees or clutching the ground.

  Yet I did not move. Not a hair of my robe stirred, not even a whisper of wind touched my skin—as if the very air bent around me, shielding and protecting me.

  Did it shield me from the wind?

  The beast commanded its presence completely, and for reasons unknown, it chose not to affect me. I looked up at it, towering above me with an impossible majesty.

  Its feathers shone like silk, with silver and emerald spread across its wide wings. Its eyes were piercing, glowing a bright sapphire and brimming with intelligence far beyond mortal comprehension. Its long, smooth beak displayed simple marks, and its talons shone like polished stone—strong enough to crush almost anything, yet held with careful control.

  Yet no divine beast would descend to the mortal realm on its own. That much, even I knew.

  And as my eyes adjusted, I saw the truth.

  Atop the beast, two figures stood—balanced effortlessly on its back. One of them was all too familiar. The cultivator. The same man I had seen nine times before. Still draped in those pristine white robes, the same jade sword at his hip, his long black hair undisturbed age. Time had not touched him. Not once.

  But the man beside him… He was different.

  His presence was overwhelming—not in force, not in violence, but in stature. He looked older—far older, with long, clean-flowing hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He wore a robe of pure white, even brighter than his companion’s, adorned with golden patterns. And though his features bore the marks of age, his posture betrayed none of it. He stood tall and composed. There was no frailty, no sign of a body nearing the end of its days.

  His very presence seemed to quiet the world. Even the divine beast beneath him bowed its head slightly, as if humbled by its own rider.

  And I…

  I was a withered man of a hundred years, skin clinging to bone, hair white and wild with age, leaning on a cracked sword to stay upright. My voice rasped when I breathed. My muscles twitched from strain. My left arm hung uselessly at my side.

  I was the perfect picture of what they believed I was.

  The end of a foolish old man’s road.

  The two cultivators dismounted from the divine beast without so much as a sweat, their feet gliding through the air before touching the ground. The great bird lowered its massive wings, settling behind them with a quiet dignity, as if its role had already been fulfilled.

  The younger cultivator remained by its side, his arms crossed, his eyes never left me.

  The older one started moving forward. As he approached, the crowd instinctively stepped aside and lowered their heads without a word. Soon, he stood in front of me. The difference between us was staggering—different in fate, stature, and soul. He looked at me with a calm, steady gaze.

  “I’ve heard much about you,” he said, his voice deep, patient, and laced with a subtle curiosity.