The elder of the Emei Sect, Bai Ruyin, rose gracefully from her seat.

  Though her face remained veiled, her posture spoke for her. Even without seeing her expression, it was clear from the gentle lift of her shoulders, the calm control in her movements—Elder Bai Ruyin was pleased.

  “Lan Rou,” she said, “you have made a wise decision. You will not regret it. Within Emei, you will be nurtured, protected, and guided. I will personally ensure you walk a path true to your potential—no more, no less.”

  The promise was not boastful, nor gilded with grandeur. It was a quiet assurance.

  Lan Rou offered a low bow, deep with respect and gratitude. Though she said no words, the sincerity in her movement spoke loudly enough.

  The announcer returned to the center of the platform, voice lifting with clarity once more.

  “Congratulations to Lan Rou, now of the Emei Sect.”

  Then, from the far entrance behind the announcer, five flag bearers emerged, stepping in unison.

  Each carried a tall ceremonial flag, its fabric rippling lightly as they marched forward and planted the poles in the polished stone floor. One by one, the banners revealed the emblems of the five great sects.

  The Qingcheng Sect: a coiled serpent winding around a branch of blooming plum flowers.

  The Shaolin Sect: a golden lotus floating above a ring of sunlight.

  The Wudang Sect: a flowing river beneath a mist-wrapped mountain.

  The Mount Hua Sect: a single brushstroke of crimson, shaped like a rising blade cutting through mist.

  The Emei Sect: A blooming orchid, with slender petals of violet and lavender, curling outward in perfect symmetry.

  And lastly… a blank white flag.

  Unmarked. Devoid of symbol, color, or clan. Among the proud crests of the five sects, it stood out not for what it displayed, but for what it withheld. My brow furrowed as I stared at it. I understood the meaning behind each of the other five banners—each a representation of the sects who had come to recruit.

  But that one? It was currently a mystery.

  “Lan Rou,” the announcer called, “please take your place behind the clan of your chosen—the orchid of the Emei Sect.”

  She moved softly, until she stood behind the banner of the Emei Sect.

  Then, the chamber erupted in applause and cheers, carried forth by the spectators and even from among us, her contenders. Some clapped in respectful silence, others offered congratulatory nods and gestures.

  The hall quieted as the announcer stepped forward again, his voice rising.

  “Let us now continue. The one who ranked second—step forward.”

  All eyes turned as the tall figure made his way to the center of the open circle.

  The man was calm in his stride, bearing the same serene aura he had displayed since first arriving. Though broad-shouldered and tall, each movement was deliberate, like a man used to carrying weight far greater than his own.

  He came to a halt and gave a respectful bow toward the gathered spectators.

  “I am ready.”

  The announcer gave a simple nod.

  “Please, manifest your soul weapon, so the selection may commence.”

  And then… he did.

  He extended his hand.

  Light shimmered gently in the air around him. From it emerged a chain of oversized prayer beads, five in total, each the size of his fists.

  They hovered around his hand, slowly circling, radiating a deep bronze hue.

  I blinked.

  I had seen many soul weapons in my lifetime. Swords, spears, axes… even non-lethal ones like folded fans or brushes. But never this.

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  Prayer beads.

  Not a strand of countless beads, but five singular, oversized orbs—each one the size of a clenched fist—rested in perfect stillness between his palms, pressed together in a silent, reverent gesture. They weren’t weapons of destruction, yet their presence held more weight than even a blade. They radiated calm… and authority.

  Though no aura flared, no light dazzled the eyes, the chamber stilled.

  And I wasn’t the only one who felt it.

  Around me, murmurs began to stir, spreading through the crowd. Because we all knew—if the third rank could draw a unique cultivation method, then this man, ranked even higher, was surely destined to attract something of equal or even greater significance.

  And then… It happened.

  High above, a single tone flared into radiant light—brighter even than Lan Rou’s. Its brilliance spilled across the room like the first light of dawn. Then, the glow began to shift, coiling and folding in on itself, slowly taking form.

  Until from its radiance emerged a golden hand. Its fingers were together, thumb resting against its palm in a mudra-like gesture, radiating solemnity. It didn’t grasp the tome. It simply hovered beside it, like a guardian escorting a sacred treasure.

  The book and hand descended slowly, as one.

  And I, like many others, looked toward the highest platform—toward the elders.

  Would they react as they had with Lan Rou?

  Oh yes.

  But this time, it was the Shaolin Elder, Bao Rujing, whose calm exterior showed a flicker of something far deeper—his hands clenched in stillness, his posture leaning forward ever so slightly, as if resisting the instinct to leap down and take hold of the youth below.

  When I turned my gaze back toward the second-ranked, the book had already come to rest before him.

  It was simple in design. There were no gilded ornaments or seals, or jeweled embroidery.

  Just a modest brown cover, soft and worn, with a single title I couldn’t make out from this distance. But that simplicity… held weight.

  And the golden hand,still hovering above him,remained motionless, palm out, as though observing him. Testing him. A presence without eyes, yet its gaze could be felt.

  Then the second-ranked raised his own hand, mirroring the gesture in kind—palm out, fingers straight, his thumb resting against the base of his palm. No hesitation, just perfect alignment. And in that moment, it was as though two beings recognized each other’s intention.

  The golden hand shimmered… then dispersed, dissolving into gentle motes of light that faded into the air.

  Before the announcer could even lift his voice to speak, the second-ranked had already stepped forward, no hesitation in his stride.

  With steady movements, he came to a halt, and with quiet dignity, he bowed deeply. First to the grand platform of seated elders above, then to the cultivators seated around in their respective rings.

  It was the same gesture Lan Rou had given moments earlier, but where hers was delicate and cautious, his was anchored.

  When he rose, his voice followed—not loud, not commanding, but with a clarity that cut through the air like the toll of a temple bell.

  “I am Mo Wugang.” He straightened his spine, hands respectfully at his sides.

  “I offer greetings to the honored sects and cultivators. I thank you for bearing witness.”

  A simple introduction. But there was a calm weight behind it, as if his very presence declared that no more needed to be said.

  But before the first elder could even rise to speak, Mo raised his hand calmly—not in arrogance, but with respectful finality.

  He bowed once more, deeper this time, and his voice rang clear through the hall:

  “To the honored elders, allow me to speak plainly before your esteemed offers are given.”

  A hush fell across the chamber.

  He turned his head slightly, but his eyes, sharp and resolute, locked onto a single figure above.

  “My path was chosen long before today. I was raised within temple walls. I was taught the sutras before I knew the taste of meat or the sound of music. My body was honed by form and stance, my spirit refined through stillness and silence. I have learned from the temple… lived for the temple… and so—”

  He pressed a closed fist into his open palm and bowed in Shaolin’s traditional salute.

  “—I will grow for the temple.”

  And with that, he turned to face Elder Bao Rujing, the venerable monk of the Shaolin Sect, and with perfect humility, lowered himself into a kneeling bow.

  “Elder. If you will have me… I request to walk the path of Shaolin.”

  The room was stunned—not because of his choice, but by the decisiveness of it. The way he had silenced not just a hall full of cultivators but sect elders, with a single unbroken conviction.

  He had not waited for a chance to be chosen.

  He had already chosen.

  The elder monk of the Shaolin Sect rose slowly from his seat. His palms came together in a serene gesture, his expression calm but with unmistakable warmth.

  A gentle smile touched his lips as he looked upon Mo Wugang, not merely with pride, but with quiet recognition.

  “Amitabha,” he intoned, voice deep and resonant. “Your conviction honors the teachings you were raised in. To walk one path and never waver from it is no easy thing in this world of endless temptation. Your faith… your discipline… they are the makings of a great pillar for the Shaolin Sect.”

  He raised a hand and gestured to the side of the chamber where the Shaolin banner stood.

  “Go now, disciple. Stand with your sect. When this ceremony ends, we shall speak at length. There is much to discuss about the cultivation method that has chosen you—it is no ordinary text, and your path ahead will require strength, in body and spirit.”

  Mo Wugang pressed his palms together once more, offered a final bow, and rose to his feet.

  Without a word, he turned and walked toward the banner. The crowd parted instinctively, watching as the second-ranked moved with humility and unshakable purpose toward the future he had already chosen.

  And just like that—two prodigies had found their places.

  Only one remained.