With the brightest talents already claimed, the recruitment process continued with fewer surprises. The atmosphere had shifted; the tension had dulled into routine. Unlike the spectacle that had accompanied the top three, the following recruits were handled swiftly and efficiently.

  Still, none of this was surprising.

  These were the top 5,000 among us, no less worthy. Their rankings might have been lower, but their potential had clearly been recognized, and the sects extended offers accordingly. Most were approached by two or three sects. Some only received one offer. Men, of course, had a maximum of four options—the Emei Sect made no offers to them.

  As the numbers climbed and the rankings fell, the volume of sect invitations began to thin. The moment we reached the 40,000th ranked individual, something unspoken finally made itself known.

  The offers stopped entirely.

  For the first time since the selection began, a name was called, and not a single sect stepped forward.

  A tense hush settled over the room.

  The cultivator who had stepped forward stood stiffly in place, clearly waiting, hoping for a delayed reaction. There was none.

  Then, the announcer, calm and prepared, finally addressed the room.

  “For those who receive no sect invitations, do not despair,” the announcer said, raising his hand toward the figure holding the plain white banner. “You are not discarded. You are not abandoned. You are simply… Unbound.”

  The word echoed across the chamber.

  Unbound?

  “These individuals will be assigned to the Hall of Unbound Aspirants,” he continued. “You will not be granted a master, nor will you walk beneath any sect’s banner. Instead, you will cultivate through merit alone—missions, trials, exploration, survival. You’ll receive basic manuals, low-grade pills, and minimal housing. Everything else must be earned.”

  Whispers stirred through the crowd—some laced with pity, others with thinly veiled amusement, especially from those standing proudly beneath their sect banners.

  “Your journey will be harder,” the announcer said, without cruelty, just direct. “But not impossible. Those who rise from the Hall do so with strength forged entirely through their own efforts. Sect disciples are shaped by guidance and privilege. But you… you will carve your path alone.”

  As he spoke, I understood the truth behind the polished words. He dressed it in honor, painted it as a noble struggle—but beneath that veneer, it was clear. This wasn’t a second chance. It was a system that needed laborers. Cultivators to shoulder the burdens others would not touch—grinding endlessly, all in the name of “earning merit.”

  My throat tightened.

  So this was what the white banner meant. A symbol not of freedom, but of rejection. A place for the leftovers—those chosen by fate, but not by the ones who claimed to serve it.

  The Unbound weren’t free. They were tethered by hope and desperation, clinging to the belief that if they pushed hard enough, endured long enough, they might one day rise to stand among the strong.

  But while they clawed forward through the daily struggles alone, the others soared—lifted by sects that guided, protected, and empowered them.

  That’s what it sounded like to me.

  Anxiety spiked in the air. The hopeful spark that once shone in the eyes of the remaining candidates had dimmed into dread. They knew, just as I did, that the odds were now stacked mercilessly against us. Those without sect invitations had begun to accept their fates. Others were less graceful, their voices rising in desperation, begging the elders to reconsider.

  “Please! Look again, just one more chance!”

  “I can prove it myself! Please reconsider!”

  “I’ll serve with double the loyalty, just let me in!”

  But the elders did not so much as flinch. They had seen enough. Judged enough.

  Even those among the audience of cultivators, once observant and curious, had now grown cold and distant, whispering among themselves or watching with bored eyes. To them, the spectacle was over. The talented had already been chosen. What remained was formality.

  Then, finally came my turn.

  The announcer's voice echoed crisply across the chamber: “Rank 83,291, Step forward.”

  There was no cheer. No curiosity. Just silence—and the shifting sound of bored yawns and tired gazes.

  I felt their indifference like a weight pressing against my chest. The final climber. The last to arrive. A waste of time, in their eyes.

  Somewhere in the crowd, I even heard one murmur:

  “Oh, he’s the last one? Just end this already.”

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  “He should’ve stayed where he was. Climbing this late just means you're weak and stubborn.”

  “Does he seriously think anyone’s going to offer him anything at this point?”

  But I had come this far. I couldn’t stop now.

  I stepped forward into the central circle. The Heavenly Archive loomed above, tomes floating in stillness. So many had descended already… but they showed no sign of thinning. For every book that had found an owner, ten more still hovered.

  Surely… one was meant for me.

  I took a slow breath. Then, with a quiet whisper to myself, I manifested it.

  The Fate-Defying Sword.

  Light sparked, gathering in my palm… and there it appeared. The rusted blade. The jagged edge. The frayed, unraveling grip. Cracks streaked along the surface like the veins of a dying tree. A weapon that looked more like it belonged in a junk pile than the hands of a cultivator.

  A hush fell over the chamber—then broke into ripples of laughter.

  "By the heavens, what is that thing?"

  "Did he pull it out of a grave?"

  The cultivators in the stands scoffed, shaking their heads. The elders didn’t even raise their eyes. One of them even sighed.

  I waited.

  And waited.

  And waited…

  Seconds stretched into minutes, minutes into what felt like an eternity. No light came. No fluttering tome found its way toward me. Just stillness. Just silence.

  The chamber began to murmur once more, not in awe—but in confusion.

  And for a moment… I thought that this was it. That I had pushed through the heavens, only to arrive where I had always belonged—nowhere. That perhaps the system had carried me this far only to reveal the punchline of its cruelest joke.

  Because if fate never wanted me here… then perhaps the Archive didn’t either.

  But then—Movement.

  Gasps echoed. Fingers pointed skyward. One cultivator even stood from his seat in disbelief.

  “Up there—look! At the peak of the Archive!”

  A single motion.

  A drifting shape from the highest reaches of the chamber. But it was not a tome radiating promise of cultivation method.

  No… It was a single piece of paper. One page.

  It descended with agonizing slowness, fluttering in the air as if caught on a nonexistent breeze. Like a leaf falling from a dead tree.

  Laughter erupted from the younger cultivators.

  "That's it? One page?"

  "Maybe it's a receipt! Hahaha, must be all he’s worth!"

  "Even the paper was too embarrassed to descend properly!"

  But this time… even the elders watched. Not because they expected greatness. But because even mockery this profound had become interesting.

  I stood there, stunned, until the paper gently came to rest in my open hand.

  It felt weightless—thin as hope. And yet, the moment my fingers closed around it, soft golden words began to burn across its surface. A familiar chime echoed in my ears, and then, before me, a sigil of light shimmered into view—visible only to me, echoing the same message:

  [Fate-Defying Ledger]

  Currency not of gold, nor spirit stones, nor Qi refined,

  But earned through defiance, in silence and grind.

  Where others walk roads the heavens have paved,

  You walk the cracks—the broken, the frayed.

  Every blow struck. Every tear left unseen,

  Shall be tallied and traded for power unseen.

  —The shop opens only to the coin of struggle.

  Spend wisely, defier of fate.

  The air around me grew still.

  A second chime followed. Louder and deeper.

  [The Fate-Defying Sword has awakened its second ability: Fate-Defying Ledger]

  I stared, unmoving, as the laughter around me swelled—but I no longer heard it. While they saw humiliation, I saw something else entirely. Not a cultivation method, rather a new strength. Another chance to defy fate.

  Before I had the chance to dig deeper at the strange interface, the announcer’s voice rang across the hall with cold finality.

  “If there are any among the respected sect elders who wish to extend an invitation to this candidate… now is the time to do so.”

  A silence followed—sharp and suffocating.

  None stood. None spoke.

  They simply rose from their seats in practiced unison, not even casting a glance in my direction. Their collective silence screamed louder than any insult. And in it, I understood: I wasn’t worth even a rejection.

  I didn’t exist in their world.

  Yet, where they preserved their pride through absence, the cultivators seated in the surrounding galleries did not share that restraint.

  Raw and unfiltered laughter erupted.

  “What was that? A cultivation pamphlet? Not even a full book?”

  “Hey! Maybe if you collect four more pages, you can actually learn how to stand!”

  “Hahaha, he should’ve just tripped on the stairs and saved us the wait!”

  Their cruelty was creative. As if mocking me gave them social merit of their own.

  The announcer tried to maintain composure, though even he avoided meeting my gaze.

  “Candidate… please make your way to the white banner.”

  The very mention of that banner earned more sneers from the crowd, many of whom had already walked there themselves.

  But unlike me, they seemed pleased to see someone they believed stood beneath them.

  I walked past them in silence, toward the plain, unmarked white banner. I could feel their eyes on me.

  “Even the heavens must’ve turned their backs on that one.”

  "I thought the last-ranked one would be pitiful, but this is just sad."

  “In what way was he worthy enough to be chosen by the heavens.”

  Every word scraped like glass against my back. But I kept walking.

  And when I reached the banner, surrounded by the cast-offs and forgotten, the announcer’s voice rang out one final time.

  “This concludes the recruitment phase. All chosen aspirants, please follow the bearer of your respective banners. Each of you will now be guided to your designated paths. Cultivation awaits.”

  The sects departed. The elite vanished through their radiant exits.

  And the rest of us were led into the shadows.