Before Damian could fully process the principal’s words, something invisible slammed down on the courtyard.

  It wasn’t qi in the normal sense. There was no visible glow, no technique pattern, no elemental flare. It was willpower—raw, overwhelming intent—descending like an ocean falling out of the sky.

  Damian’s breath caught.

  His spine compressed as if an unseen hand had grabbed him by the shoulders and forced him toward the earth. His knees bent a fraction, and he felt the stone beneath his feet become impossibly heavy. Every instinct screamed at him to drop, to submit, to make the pressure stop.

  This was what it meant to stand before a Nascent Soul cultivator.

  Not a threat spoken aloud.

  A fact imposed on reality.

  Rage flickered in Damian’s chest, hot and ugly. Envy followed close behind it. A bitter thought tried to surface——and he almost hated himself for thinking it.

  Around him, students began to break.

  The air filled with harsh gasps, strained cries, the sick sound of bodies hitting stone. Some recruits fumbled for artifacts, activating talismans or defensive trinkets with shaking hands. Others forced themselves into stances, faces twisted with effort, trying to turn the pressure into training the way their clans had likely drilled into them for years.

  Damian watched it through narrowed eyes, jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.

  So many of them had been prepared.

  He hadn’t.

  He had no protective artifact for something like this. No inherited technique meant to endure a Nascent Soul’s presence. No safety net beyond his own body and the stubbornness carved into him by years of survival.

  The pressure swallowed him whole.

  For a moment, it felt like drowning without water—his chest tight, his throat closing, his lungs refusing to fully expand. It was as if the world had decided he didn’t deserve to breathe.

  “Stay upright,” he told himself.

  The words weren’t encouragement. They were an order.

  “Just stay up. Do not give in.”

  Sweat ran down his face in fast trails, soaking into the collar of his clothes. His muscles trembled under the strain, veins rising along his forearms as if his body was trying to fight the air itself. His fingers dug into his thighs hard enough to hurt, the pain anchoring him in the present.

  The physical battle was brutal.

  The mental battle was worse.

  Failure whispered at him with a voice that sounded like certainty.

  For a second, fear hit him so sharply his vision blurred.

  Then something steadied.

  Not comfort. Not peace.

  Defiance.

  A low flame in his gut that refused to go out.

  Not here.

  Not like this.

  His breathing became shallow, controlled, more survival than air. His legs shook, but he forced them to hold. He kept his head up even when his neck screamed.

  And then—without warning—the pressure vanished.

  Damian staggered, almost collapsing on instinct alone, but he caught himself. His chest heaved as he sucked air in greedy, desperate gulps. Blood pooled at the corner of his mouth—he’d bitten his lip hard enough to split it.

  His whole body felt bruised from the inside.

  He blinked rapidly and looked around.

  The courtyard was a wreck.

  Most of the recruits lay sprawled on the ground—some unconscious, some shaking, some coughing up red stains onto the stone. Only a small cluster remained standing. Fifty at most, and even among them, few looked steady.

  Damian’s heart hammered.

  He was still upright.

  He had endured.

  Tian Liyang’s voice cut through the aftermath with calm ease, like the trial had been nothing more than a simple demonstration.

  “Well done,” the principal said, the faintest smile touching his lips. “Now, I suppose it’s time to introduce you to some of your teachers.”

  Damian wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. His legs still trembled, but they held. One thought echoed through him, louder than his heartbeat.

  And if he was still here… then he could keep going.

  As the survivors regained their breath, Damian tugged his clothes back into place and rolled his shoulders, trying to shake feeling back into his arms. Nearby, others did the same—some massaging sore muscles, some staring blankly as if their minds hadn’t caught up to what their bodies had just endured.

  Damian’s gaze lifted to the steps of the main hall.

  Three figures stood behind the principal now, quiet and watchful.

  Not assistants.

  Elders.

  The first caught Damian’s attention immediately.

  An older man, perhaps in his fifties, nearly as tall as Damian’s grandfather. Long silver hair tied back into a neat ponytail. And his left arm—

  Damian’s eyes narrowed.

  It wasn’t simply injured. It had been ruined. Scar tissue ran in jagged patterns, the limb permanently twisted, as if something had shattered it and healing had only been able to do so much. A sword hung at the man’s hip, its hilt polished but worn from real use.

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  Recognition struck Damian hard.

  Elder Duan.

  A sword cultivator once destined for greatness until a legendary duel had crippled him. Damian had heard that story whispered like a warning since he was young—how the Immortal Sword had ended Duan’s rise in a single battle and left him alive as proof.

  Damian’s mind flashed to the pale swordsman from the tournament. Long brown hair. Ruthless precision. The same surname as the great family that held power in the city.

  A cold realization crawled up his spine.

  Damian forced his attention away before his thoughts spiraled.

  The second elder looked like he’d been carved out of stone.

  A mountain of a man, broad shoulders, thick arms, scars layered over scars like a history written into skin. His complexion was only slightly lighter than Damian’s, and he radiated physical power in a way that made even standing near him feel like being measured.

  Elder Zhao.

  A renowned body cultivator. Not as famous as Elder Duan, but the kind of man whose reputation was built on surviving what should have killed him.

  Damian’s mind flicked fast.

  For a brief moment, the path felt tempting. Reliable. Direct. A road that fit Damian’s strengths.

  Then his gaze fell on the third elder.

  A woman whose beauty was sharp enough to steal attention even from the others, but whose aura was strangely calming. Long black hair moving softly in the breeze, gentle eyes that held confidence without arrogance.

  Elder Hua Mei.

  A prodigy in artifact crafting. A member of one of the largest artifact clans in the city—so influential that her clan’s business was part of the reason the Blackwoods hadn’t collapsed financially.

  Seeing her here made Damian’s stomach tighten.

  Awe and intimidation, both at once.

  he thought.

  Tian Liyang stepped forward again, voice even.

  “These are your elders,” he said, gesturing to them. “Each of them is Core Formation Realm, one step below Nascent Soul. Over the next year, they will observe you—and recruit students to take under their wings.”

  A murmur rippled through the survivors.

  Damian felt a small, dangerous spark of hope.

  To be chosen by someone like Zhao or Hua Mei would change everything.

  Tian continued. “For those chosen, it will be a rare honor. For those not chosen—do not despair. This sect exists to help all cultivators find their path. Whether you are guided by an elder or walk alone, your journey here will be yours to shape.”

  Then his expression softened slightly, just enough to feel human.

  “As a welcome gift, all new students may select two books from the sect’s library. Use this opportunity wisely. Knowledge will form the foundation of your cultivation.”

  The crowd stirred again—excitement, greed, calculation.

  Damian’s attention sharpened.

  Books weren’t gifts.

  They were leverage.

  Tian clapped his hands once, the sound crisp.

  “Now, rest and recover. Tomorrow, your journey as students of the Eternal Dawn Sect truly begins.”

  As the group dispersed, Damian lingered just long enough to watch the principal and elders turn away. Only when their silhouettes faded into the courtyard’s warm light did he allow the tension in his shoulders to loosen.

  He’d made it.

  An older student—broad-shouldered, easygoing, clearly used to managing fresh recruits—handed Damian an ID token and a brass-colored key, then gave him directions to the male dorm district.

  Damian thanked him with the cheerful persona he’d perfected over the years. Whether it was genuine happiness or just the mask that kept people from looking too closely… even he wasn’t sure anymore.

  Walking through the sect, he quickly realized how enormous it truly was. Buildings sat far apart, spaced to give disciples room to train without interference. He passed distant courtyards and sealed training rooms humming with formation energy. Rumor said the inner disciples had access to private arenas and specialized rooms designed to accelerate cultivation.

  First years wouldn’t see that for a while.

  For recruits like him, there were three districts: male dorms, female dorms, and a third reserved for those with special backing—prodigies from powerful families or students connected to influential clans.

  Damian had neither.

  His path was straightforward.

  The dorm district was surprisingly decent. Quiet apartments with greenery and small trees, warm lantern light flickering against stone paths. Some recruits gathered outside, laughing too loudly to hide nerves. Others limped toward their rooms, faces pale, focused only on rest.

  Damian wasn’t in a hurry to socialize.

  Not tonight.

  The key he’d been given looked ordinary, but when he pressed it against the lock, it pulsed faintly. It didn’t turn until it recognized his qi signature—like a spiritual fingerprint.

  He chuckled.

  Security. Even among first years.

  Inside, the room smelled of fresh wood and new paint. The lights were dim, softer than normal, as if the designers expected meditation more than reading. His bags sat neatly by the desk—already delivered.

  “They brought these in already?” he murmured, amused. “Between trials.”

  He checked his belongings out of habit: his sister’s ring with her artifacts and Immortal Tears, and the ring from his grandfather. Everything was in place.

  Only then did he allow himself to breathe.

  The bathroom was cleaner than he expected, and the shower was qi-powered, warm water washing sweat and dried blood away. When he stepped out, he felt lighter, like the day had peeled something off him.

  He dressed simply—black sweats and a plain white shirt—then sat at the desk.

  He wasn’t done.

  Tomorrow would start his real life here, and he refused to step into it blind.

  From his grandfather’s ring, he pulled out a thick stack of papers—compiled intel on the sect’s elders, instructors, and hidden figures. Some were public. Some were private. Some, according to the notes, preferred not to be noticed at all.

  This wasn’t paranoia.

  This was survival.

  Damian spread the papers across the desk like puzzle pieces. His goal was simple, even if the path wasn’t.

  Find the route with the highest chance of survival.

  He started with the principal.

  Tian Liyang.

  Powerhouse. Nascent Soul. Reputation that could shake a room.

  But as Damian scanned the details, he leaned back with a slow exhale.

  “Elemental specialist,” he muttered. “Core-focused arts…”

  Useless.

  No matter how impressive Tian was, Damian’s flaw made those techniques a dead end.

  He pushed that file aside and looked at the three elders.

  Elder Duan: sword path. Not possible.

  Elder Hua Mei: artifact crafting. Valuable, but Damian didn’t have Kara’s talent or his mother’s refined instinct.

  Elder Zhao: body cultivation.

  The only option that fit.

  Reliable. Respectable.

  But Damian’s brows tightened.

  How far could he really go with just flesh and bone?

  Body cultivation wasn’t weak, but without a rare physique or monstrous talent, a ceiling always came. And he’d already seen recruits today who might shine brighter in Zhao’s eyes.

  Sure, Damian could force himself into Zhao’s notice.

  But forcing attention was dangerous.

  It created enemies early.

  And Damian wasn’t trying to become the sect’s first corpse.

  He sat in the dim lamplight for a few minutes, then reached for the final section: his grandfather’s “hidden gems.”

  The first name made his brow lift.

  Hidden Blade.

  An assassin-type cultivator infamous in his youth. Techniques whispered across cities. Damian doubted a monster like that would ever bother with him, and the shadow path didn’t fit Damian’s temperament anyway.

  Still, he marked it mentally.

  Not for himself.

  For whoever that man chose.

  Those who learned under monsters tended to become monsters.

  Then Damian found the file that made him sit up straighter.

  A librarian.

  Name: Lee.

  At first glance, the man was unremarkable. Older. A Core Realm cultivator—impressive, but not unheard of. No major reputation. No public achievements. No recorded sect origins. No family ties.

  Just… nothing.

  Which made Damian’s instincts flare.

  His grandfather’s notes confirmed it.

  Lee was a demonic cultivator hiding in plain sight.

  No one knew if he was a spy, a fugitive, or someone simply tired of fighting. His techniques were difficult to decipher. But one detail stood out clearly:

  He had ties to demonic sorcery.

  A rare and dangerous path. The other side of soul cultivation. Where soul cultivators refined consciousness and awareness, demonic sorcerers wielded killing intent, ghosts, and the lingering will of the dead.

  Opposites.

  Closely related.

  And both aligned with Damian’s strengths.

  More importantly, demonic paths were filled with methods designed for the “talentless”—techniques created to spit in the face of heaven’s chosen.

  Damian didn’t care about “righteous” or “demonic.”

  In his eyes, the only real difference was the story people told themselves to sleep at night.

  Out of everyone listed, Lee wasn’t just a good option.

  He was the only target worth pursuing.

  Not only because Damian could pressure him if necessary.

  Not only because demonic sorcery might bridge Damian’s flaw.

  But because a man like Lee might hold techniques that didn’t require core formation at all.

  With that realization, the decision settled like a stone locking into place.

  Lee was his priority.

  The one he would observe first.

  The one he would approach—carefully.

  And tomorrow, he would choose his library books with that path in mind.

  A smirk tugged at his lips.

  He rubbed his tired eyes and pushed away from the desk.

  Tomorrow would be the true beginning of his journey.

  And tonight?

  He needed his beauty sleep.