Many believe that from birth, one's soul reveals the path destined for their journey, seen clearly through the form of their innate weapon: a chef’s knife promising mastery of culinary arts, a smith's hammer destined for the forge, a scythe crafted for reaping the bounties of the land, or perhaps a sword destined for the battlefield. Yet, I knew deep within that destiny is but flowing water—changeable and unfixed, a truth acknowledged in whispers but denied in the hearts of far too many.

  For a weapon is not defined merely by steel and edge, nor by shape alone. Have you not heard tales of hammers capable of obliterating mountains, needles that pierce the unseen weaknesses of the strongest foes, or blades so sharp that even clouds dare not block their path? Indeed, the true strength of any weapon lies not in its outward form, but within the spirit and will of the person who grasps it.

  I truly believe the sword’s true essence is born not from the soul destined by the heavens but by the heart of its wielder. Only those with hearts strong enough to defy the heavens themselves can reshape the destiny their souls once foretold.

  Today marks the first step of my defiance against heaven itself.

  "Mortals who dare to walk the path of cultivation, hear my words!”

  A booming voice echoed from atop the majestic Golden Ascension Gate—a towering structure etched with intricate golden patterns, standing as mighty and unyielding as a mountain. It was a curious sight: an enormous gate standing alone and unsupported, planted firmly at the heart of the boundless expanse known as the Plain of Ascension. But what was truly fascinating was that the gate itself took the shape of the edge of a massive, majestic, and divine sword. From where I stood, the speaker appeared only as a distant silhouette, yet his commanding voice reached millions across the vast landscape.

  “Many among you were born with paths clearly set by your soul's weapon—a quill destined for scholarly writings, an axe intended to fell simple trees, a needle meant merely for stitching garments, or perhaps a spear crafted only for mundane hunting. Yet you dare now to walk the path of cultivation, transcending these ordinary roles preordained by the heavens. That quill may inscribe talismans powerful enough to shackle gods, the axe could cleave mountains in a single strike, the needle may pierce barriers between realms, and the spear could hunt celestial beasts.“

  A wave of enthusiasm surged through the millions gathered on the Plain of Ascension. Faces brightened with hunger and ambition, eyes gleamed with the burning desire for power, wealth, eternal life—anything and everything humans have sought since time immemorial. And I, too, felt this deep yearning, unable to deny the greed and envy swelling within me.

  My life had been one of quiet endurance—mocked, belittled, and stepped upon, always retreating from confrontation, living each day at the mercy of those stronger souls who sought weaker prey. And there had never been one weaker than myself. Yet all this patience, all this silent suffering, had been for precisely this moment. Today marked the chance that appeared only once every decade, the day when the Golden Ascension Gate would finally open its doors, granting passage only to those worthy enough to step onto the exalted path of cultivation.

  "HOWEVER!"

  His voice shattered the mounting excitement, plunging the Plain into immediate silence. Hopeful smiles froze into tense apprehension. "Do not be so quick to dream! Cultivation is no mere path you choose—it is granted by the heavens themselves! Today, the gates will reveal your fate. Whether you ascend as chosen ones or return to your mundane existence, remember this: your desires matter not to the heavens. Accept your fate, mortals, for mere life itself is mercy enough for the likes of you!"

  Upon hearing his words, numerous faces twisted with apprehension, anger simmering visibly beneath their outward restraint, desperately wishing to confront him yet knowing they could not. I, however, felt differently. Though I rejected his claim—that the heavens dictated our paths—I could not dismiss the overwhelming confidence he exuded. His tone, his mannerisms, and his speech all radiated undeniable power. This man knew we posed no threat; even if every soul among the millions gathered today joined forces against him, none would even scratch him. For all we knew, he might be the weakest cultivator in existence. But in this moment, his true nature mattered little. All that mattered was the terrifying realization that, if he wished it, he could obliterate us all in an instant. Such was the difference between a mortal and a cultivator.

  Then, he stepped forward, his feet leaving the solid platform atop the gate’s edge, and walked calmly into thin air. He fell swiftly toward the ground, plummeting so rapidly that any mortal would surely have been crushed upon impact.

  Yet, defying all logic, his descent slowed gracefully, as though carried gently downward by invisible hands. He touched the ground with an elegance that matched his aura, posture upright and dignified, arms clasped behind his back, his head held high in serene confidence.

  His pure white robe bulged softly around him, pristine and flawless. At his waist was a jade-like sword, beautiful and impeccably matching his appearance—could this be his soul weapon?

  His long, straight dark hair cascaded down his back, stopping just short of brushing the earth beneath, unblemished like his snow-white skin that bore no scars or signs of aging. He seemed the very embodiment of cultivation itself—perfect, untouchable, infinitely powerful.

  "The Golden Gate shall open shortly," he announced, voice calm yet resonating with authority. "There is but one simple step to enter the world of cultivation. Step forward through the gate’s threshold—those favored by the heavens will pass through effortlessly, guided by divine grace. Those unworthy, however, shall find their steps halted, unable to pass, clearly receiving the merciful message that they are not qualified to join our esteemed ranks. Accept this judgment graciously and cherish the life you have been granted in the mortal realm."

  Instantly, the earth beneath us trembled violently, sending most sprawling onto the grass, clutching desperately at anything within reach to steady themselves. The massive Golden Ascension Gate began to move, its doors groaning open slowly, deliberately. Though there had been nothing visible behind or in front of the gate moments ago, as it parted, a golden radiance burst forth—brilliant, yet curiously gentle, drawing our eyes to it without causing discomfort. The mesmerizing light swirled in a captivating, vortex-like motion, like golden threads woven into an intricate dance, revealing a world beyond that awaited only the truly worthy.

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  The cultivator stepped closer to the golden vortex, standing confidently at the very center of the open gate. "The gate will remain open until midnight," he declared firmly. "You have until then to test your fate. The entrance is wide enough for hundreds of thousands at once—ample time for each of you to approach and discover your destiny."

  Upon finalizing his words, the roars of countless wishful dreamers surged through the Plain of Ascension, a thunderous chorus filled with eagerness, and wild ambition. Those closest to the gate immediately surged forward in a frenzied sprint, desperately chasing the promise of their unknown fate. I stood in the heart of the tumultuous mass—not close enough to rush directly through, yet far enough away that I was forced to witness the cruel selection unfold ahead.

  Thousands charged into the dazzling golden vortex; many disappeared instantly upon touching its radiant surface, crossing into the realm beyond. But far more slammed harshly against the brilliant wall of golden light, their dreams brutally halted. Faces filled with disbelief, shock, and horror pressed desperately against the unyielding barrier.

  "Please, no! Let me through! I've waited ten years for this!"

  "No... this can't be it! Heaven, do not forsake me like this!"

  Cries of desperation and denial rose from those who found themselves rejected. Some sank to their knees, pounding fists uselessly against the golden wall as tears streamed down their faces, their voices breaking into frantic sobs.

  "This isn't fair! I've worked so hard—I refuse to accept this fate!"

  "Why?! Heaven, tell me why you chose them and not me!"

  Soul weapons materialized in trembling hands—a myriad of daggers, axes, bows, staves—slashing, pounding, and battering helplessly against the barrier, leaving not the slightest scratch. The golden vortex remained indifferent, an impartial judge silent to their pleas, uncaring of their struggles, merciless in its verdict.

  Yet no cheers of triumph echoed here. Those victorious voices were reserved for the fortunate few, audible only beyond the gate. In this plain, the heavens had left behind nothing but wails of despair, the bitter cries of limits exposed, dreams shattered, and hopes extinguished.

  Age, gender, wealth—none of these distinctions mattered here. Heaven had decreed clearly: the only thing that mattered was destiny, the path written from the moment our souls first took form.

  As I stood in place, watching countless dreams shatter before me, an icy chill tightened around my heart. Soon, it would be my turn to test this so-called fate ordained by the heavens. Was I deemed worthy in their eyes?

  Of course not—I knew all too well the life destined for me was one of insignificance, humiliation, and unworthiness. It was as if the heavens themselves had taken particular care to ensure my existence would forever remain beneath everyone else’s feet, trampled and forgotten. This wasn’t speculation born from uncertainty; rather, it was a bitter truth I had aknowledge since the first moment I became aware of my being—and of my soul weapon, the cruelest joke of them all.

  Hours passed, and the sea of people slowly dwindled. Many had vanished beyond the golden veil, blessed by fate, while countless others remained, weeping bitter tears and surrendering to their mundane existences. The rejected began quietly drifting away from the Plain of Ascension, their dreams shattered, their lives unchanged.

  Through all of this, the cultivator remained steadfast and unmoving, utterly untouched by boredom or frustration. People crawled toward him, begging pitifully, clutching his robe in despair, pleading desperately for another chance. Yet he neither scorned nor acknowledged them; his eyes never once reflected disgust or pity. Instead, he stood silently, calm and indifferent, as though he saw nothing but ghosts—fleeting shadows not worthy of his attention.

  Did he understand our suffering? Or were we truly beneath his gaze, invisible in his eyes?

  Finally, it was my turn. The vast golden gate now stood directly before me, grand and imposing, yet strangely inviting. The golden vortex swirled hypnotically, the glow gentle yet somehow deeply alluring. My breath quickened, and my heartbeat drummed urgently against my chest. I felt as if the golden light itself had locked onto me, whispering my name, beckoning me closer.

  I took a single step forward, knowing that in mere moments, the answer to my fate would be laid bare.

  The hum of the vortex grew louder as I approached, yet it was rhythmic and strangely soothing—a melody rather than the chaotic, unpredictable roar of wind or energy. At my sides, both left and right, I glimpsed the frantic movements of others; some wore triumphant smiles as they effortlessly passed through. Many others, however, slammed into the unyielding barrier with desperate momentum, the sickening sound of breaking bones and splattering blood echoing sharply around me. Crimson droplets flew toward my feet as broken noses, shattered jaws, and mangled faces painted a gruesome testament to their misguided hope—that running faster toward their dreams would somehow force the heavens to yield position for them.

  Yet none of their suffering halted my steps. I could neither slow nor hurry my pace, for this moment felt beyond my control. I stepped forward again, heart pounding in a strange symphony with the gate’s melodic hum, wondering if I would soon vanish into the unknown—or collide against the cruel barrier of heaven’s judgment.

  I stretched my hand forward toward the golden light. The closer I drew, the more the air seemed to vibrate around me—resonating deep into my bones and syncing with the rapid, erratic pounding of my heart.

  Inches. That’s all that remained. I moved my arm at a steady, natural pace, but the world around me felt like it had slowed to a crawl. Time stretched as my fingers crept forward—inch by inch—closer and closer to that swirling, divine light. I could see every detail of the vortex now, every delicate thread of golden energy weaving together.

  My palm trembled, knowing that what came next was the final push.

  In that instant, all sound fell away. The world held its breath.

  And the heavens revealed their answer.

  “…”

  I had closed my eyes the very moment my hand reached forward. Was it instinct? A shield against the truth I feared? Most likely. I didn’t want to see it. I couldn’t bear to witness my own failure, to confirm the fate I had long suspected was waiting for me.

  So I kept my eyes shut, clinging to the comfort of darkness—because facing the brilliance I could not grasp was far more painful than pretending it wasn’t there at all.

  “Heavens! Please—give me another chance!”

  “Master Cultivator, I beg you! I am worthy! Just... let me through!”

  But no matter how tightly I shut them, the world around me made its answer known. The thunder of footsteps behind me—the next wave of hopefuls rushing forward. The wet smacks of bodies colliding with rejection. The quiet sobs of those who knew it was over before they even tried.

  And amid it all… I stood still.

  I slowly opened my eyes.

  There it was, plain and undeniable—my palm resting against the surface of the golden light. Still. Motionless. Refused.

  The barrier had not yielded. The divine radiance was warm to the touch, gentle even, but utterly unmovable. I couldn’t pass through.

  The heavens had spoken.