The murmurs settle as a wave of pressure washes over the gathered competitors. The once-scattered groups of disciples, rogue cultivators, and independent warriors turn as one toward the elevated platform at the heart of the selection grounds.
A figure stands there—a man clad in dark crimson robes, an elder of considerable stature. His presence alone commands silence.
Behind him, banners of the presiding sects flutter in the wind, their symbols representing the powerhouses overseeing the selection. Mount Hua, Mount Kunlun, Wudang, Shaolin, and others—the great orthodox sects, standing as the gatekeepers of the next generation.
The elder's gaze sweeps over the crowd, assessing, measuring.
Then, he speaks.
"Welcome, challengers. From this moment forward, you are no longer nameless wanderers."
"You are contenders."
The weight of his voice settles into the bones of every cultivator present.
The elder raises a hand. Behind him, massive stone tablets rise from the ground, etched with ancient script.
For a long moment, no one speaks.
Then, one of the tablets glows, characters burning into existence with golden light.
The elder smirks. "Let fate decide your first trial."
A pulse of qi erupts from the tablets—a forceful surge that makes even the strongest among the competitors brace themselves.
The golden script shifts, rearranging.
Then, it settles.
The elder reads the inscription aloud:
"Survive and Advance."
The moment the words leave his lips, the ground trembles.
A deep, resounding crack echoes through the selection grounds.
Beneath their feet, the very earth shifts.
The once-stable courtyard fractures into sections, splitting apart, separating the competitors into distinct areas. Some find themselves on raised platforms, others in crumbling terrain, some stranded on floating stone islands suspended by an unknown force.
De-Reece remains still, unfazed as the land shifts beneath him.
He takes in his surroundings.
A battlefield has been created.
The elder's voice rings out once more.
"The first trial is simple—survive."
"Last until the time runs out, and you will advance."
The corners of De-Reece's lips lift slightly.
Simple.
But nothing is ever that easy.
As the stone tablets shift, revealing the trial's decree, the watching sect representatives do not remain idle.
Though the great orthodox sects—**Mount Hua, Mount Kunlun, Wudang, Shaolin, and others—**stand at the forefront, they are not the only ones overseeing the selection.
From the elevated observation pavilions, the unorthodox sects watch with equal interest.
The Tang Sect representatives sit cloaked in deep indigo robes, their expressions unreadable beneath shadowed hoods. Their eyes scan the competitors with surgical precision, seeking those who might possess the cunning to wield their famed poisons and hidden weapons.
Nearby, the Explosive Blade Sect envoys sit with arms crossed, their presence almost crackling with restrained aggression. A single duel means little to them—they watch for those who dominate battlefields.
The Jin Spear Sect observers stand at attention, their sharp gazes measuring stance, footwork, and formation control. A single misstep is enough for them to discard a contender from their interest.
Further to the side, the Silent Sword Clan's envoys stand apart from the others, their movements eerily precise, their presence almost invisible despite being in plain sight.Their eyes do not linger long on those who rely on brute force alone.
And then there are the neutral factions.
The Beast Sect's emissaries watch from a raised wooden platform, their garments bearing the distinct markings of their bonded spirit beasts. Their interest is clear—they look for those who walk the path of symbiosis with the wild.
The Beggar Clan, though unassuming in their tattered robes, has sent its own envoys. Unlike the rest, they do not sit within the reserved sections. Instead, they are among the crowd, listening, watching, blending in as they always do.
At the furthest end, the alchemy and forging clans have gathered, their sharp, discerning eyes observing not just the fighters, but those who carry artifacts, use refined pills, and display knowledge beyond combat.
This is not just a battle for a place in the sects.
This is a battlefield of rival ideals.
Each force watches, waiting to see who will rise.
And who will fall.
The ground trembles once more, and the battlefield splinters.
The competitors scatter, some by force, others by choice.
De-Reece lands on a floating stone platform, its jagged edges barely stable underfoot. He adjusts his footing, taking in the battlefield. Each competitor has been separated into their own treacherous terrain.
Some stand on shifting sands. Others on crumbling stone bridges. Some have been placed near jagged cliffs, where one wrong step means elimination.
Survive and Advance.
The rules are simple.
But the path forward is anything but.
He does not move immediately.
He watches.
Some competitors begin fighting instantly, eager to establish dominance. Others attempt to retreat, only to realize there is nowhere to run.
A competitor in the distance is taken down in an instant, his body flung off his platform, disqualified before he even had a chance to react.
This is not a battlefield.
This is a culling.
De-Reece exhales slowly.
He will not be the prey.
But he will choose his moment.
The air hums with suppressed tension as competitors navigate their fractured terrain. Some have already engaged in fierce skirmishes, clashing atop unstable ground, while others—like De-Reece—remain still, observing, waiting for the opportune moment to act.
Then, the battlefield shifts again.
A deep, resonating crack echoes across the selection grounds, louder than before.
De-Reece immediately shifts his weight, sensing the change before it happens.
The floating platform beneath him trembles.
Then—it moves.
One moment, he stands on solid stone.
The next, his entire battlefield begins to rise.
All across the selection grounds, platforms and sections of terrain shift, some ascending into the air, others sinking into unseen depths.
Some competitors lose their footing entirely—a single misstep sending them plummeting out of the trial, eliminated instantly.
This is no longer just a test of strength.
This is a test of control.
De-Reece remains steady, watching as his surroundings reshape, turning the battlefield into an ever-changing maze of death.
The once-scattered competitors now find themselves forced into new, unavoidable confrontations.
And then—it happens.
A new danger emerges.
A sharp whistle cuts through the air, piercing and unnatural.
At first, it seems like nothing.
Then, shadows begin to move.
The remnants of the battlefield itself—fallen stone, broken pillars, abandoned terrain—begin to shift.
No.
They begin to rise.
Then—they attack.
This is no ordinary test.
The trial is not just about outlasting other competitors.
It is about surviving something else entirely.
The very ground becomes an enemy.
From the rubble, humanoid figures take shape—warriors sculpted from earth and qi, their movements slow but unrelenting.
At first, only a few emerge.
Then, dozens.
They do not belong to any sect.
They do not fight for dominance.
They exist for one purpose.
To eliminate the weak.
The trial has begun in full.
And survival just became even harder.