Shadow sat still inside his small stone house, legs folded, sweat beading on his brow. For the past four hours, his entire focus had been inward—circulating his energy, controlling the devouring force of the Heaven-Stealing Sutra, and consuming the power of yet another spirit stone.
The **one hundred and tenth**.
It cracked in his palm. Its Qi faded into his body… and vanished into a silent void within his dantian.
No breakthrough.
Shadow's breath left his lungs in a slow, pained exhale. His skin was clammy. His eyes dark.
> "Still not enough."
He leaned back against the wall, pressing a hand over his chest. His heartbeat was strong. His energy circulated. But the subtle shift that marked a breakthrough to the **Fourth Level of Foundation** simply never came.
He had the cultivation technique. The fighting experience. The energy.
But something was missing.
> "Why…?"
He scanned his body with spiritual sense again—slowly, carefully.
Then it hit him.
His physique.
Even now, it strained to hold the energy he'd taken in. His meridians trembled with effort. His bones vibrated faintly under pressure.
He wasn't overflowing with Qi.
He was **barely holding it together**.
> "I'm weaker than the average cultivator… not in talent, but in body."
> "My foundation is more fragile than theirs."
> "That's why I need more. More energy. More refinement. More time."
He clenched his jaw, frustration digging into his chest like cold iron.
Then he opened his eyes, calm again.
> "So be it."
He retrieved the remaining **spirit stones**—twenty-seven in total—and tucked them into a hidden pouch.
> "I'll use them when the time is right."
---
### **Morning of the Grand Martial Competition**
The sun rose in golden streaks, painting the cliffs and halls of the Verdant Moon Sect in blazing light. Red banners unfurled from towers. Disciples rushed along the walkways in their best robes. Flags bearing the sect's crescent moon emblem fluttered in the breeze.
The **Grand Martial Competition** was more than an event—it was a tradition.
Once every three years, all outer disciples were summoned to **test their strength**, prove their worth, and secure advancement. Only the top ten would be formally recognized and recommended for inner court training.
For many, it was the first—and only—step toward a future beyond mediocrity.
The sect's outer grounds had been transformed overnight. Temporary bridges hung across canyon edges. Stone arenas floated slightly above platform rings inscribed with formation patterns. Rows of seats curved around the central coliseum, built into natural cliffs.
Dozens of elders had already taken their seats on high platforms.
And at the top, at the central pavilion overlooking it all, sat the **Outer Court Director**, Elder Lu Jian, flanked by record keepers and jade-eyed formation masters.
Disciples poured in by the hundreds. Laughter. Cheers. Nervous whispers.
And Shadow… was not among them yet.
---
### **The Garden of Fallen Leaves**
Instead, he stood before a small yard on the far end of the sect's grounds.
A courtyard almost forgotten.
Weeds cracked the stone path. A broken windchime hung from the arch. The tree in the center was leafless, its bark dry. At the base of the tree lay a moss-covered stone with no name—only a sword symbol carved deep into it.
Shadow knelt before it.
No words came.
He simply bowed.
Three times.
The wind picked up, lifting a few dry leaves and scattering them behind him.
> "You said to live freely," he murmured. "To be happy."
> "But today, Master… I fight not for anger. Not for revenge."
He stood slowly, eyes cold with clarity.
> "Today, I take my first step."
> "Into a world that never wanted me."
He turned, and the silence of the courtyard remained behind.
---
### **Arrival at the Arena**
By the time Shadow entered the lower steps of the competition arena, the atmosphere had reached its peak.
Over two thousand disciples sat in rows, organized by ranking and status. Murmurs passed as they saw him approach. Whispers of the rumored duel with Duan Xie. The dead caravan. The monster beast mission completed alone.
But most still remembered only one thing.
The boy with the sealed dantian.
The **waste**.
He ignored them all.
At the base of the platform, a scribe checked his name.
> "Outer Disciple Shadow… acknowledged. Late, but present."
A gong rang out across the mountain.
Elder Lu Jian stepped forward to the edge of the high platform. His robes shimmered with golden embroidery. His voice echoed, amplified by spiritual formation.
> "Disciples of Verdant Moon…"
> "Today you gather not as children, but as swords in the making."
> "For three years you have trained. Today, you prove your worth."
> "The top ten shall be named. And from among them, the top three will be granted an opportunity to step beyond our walls—into the realm of inner sect, or into missions of imperial significance."
> "Let your blood speak louder than your names."
> "Let your will sharpen your blades."
Another gong struck.
The first arena glowed.
The matches would begin in groups—twelve dueling stages, rotating hourly, with scores recorded and ranked live by spiritual arrays.
Shadow stood in silence, watching the first group walk forward.
Explosions of Qi followed.
Lightning clashed with fire.
Iron palms struck against blade waves.
Cheers erupted.
Bets formed.
Rivalries awakened.
But Shadow didn't cheer.
He simply breathed.
> "My path begins here."
He stepped forward—into the light.
---