The gates of the Golden Sparrow Guild rose before him like an ancient sentinel that had watched generations come and go without ever needing to remember them.
Lu Mao slowed as he approached, though he could not have said when or why his pace had changed. It was not hesitation, nor was it caution born of fear. Rather, the presence of the place itself seemed to press upon him, urging restraint in a way that did not require thought.
The stone pillars flanking the entrance were immense, their surfaces marked by time and weather. Wind had carved faint lines across them, rain had worn away sharper edges, and yet the deeper engravings remained—patterns twisting upon themselves like forgotten script. They were no longer clear enough to read, yet they carried a weight that did not depend on understanding.
As Lu Mao stepped beneath their shadow, he felt it.
A faint tremor passed upward through the soles of his feet, subtle yet unmistakable. It was not a physical vibration alone, but something deeper, as though the ground itself held a slow and steady pulse. The sensation climbed into his body and settled behind his ribs, neither painful nor pleasant, but impossible to ignore.
His fingers tightened slightly around the token he carried.
For a brief moment, he glanced down at it.
A simple piece, unremarkable in appearance, yet it bore the mark granted at the Azure Sky City outpost—the proof that his inner Qi had been acknowledged, that he had been deemed worthy to step forward rather than turned away. It had felt light in his hand when he first received it.
Now, it carried weight.
Two guards stood at the gate, their presence steady and unmoving. Their robes were darker than those of ordinary disciples, the fabric layered and reinforced, marked subtly with the insignia of the Golden Sparrow Guild. Each held a long spear upright, its shaft resting lightly against the ground, yet there was no sense of laxity in their stance.
Their gazes shifted as Lu Mao approached.
Sharp.
Measured.
Not hostile, yet not welcoming either.
He stepped forward without hurry and stopped at a respectful distance, raising the token slightly.
"I've come for the entrance trials," he said, his tone even, neither loud nor subdued.
One of the guards extended his hand.
Lu Mao placed the token into it without hesitation.
The guard examined it briefly, his thumb brushing over its surface as though confirming something beyond what could be seen. His eyes lifted to Lu Mao, studying him for a moment longer before he spoke.
"Name."
"Lu Mao."
The name settled in the air between them.
For a brief instant, nothing followed.
Then the guard gave a small nod, returning the token with the same measured calm.
"You may enter," he said.
Lu Mao accepted the token, his fingers closing around it once more.
"…Understood."
He stepped past them.
The moment he crossed the threshold, the sensation shifted.
He exhaled quietly and allowed it to pass through him rather than resisting it. Years on the streets had taught him when to push against a force—and when to simply let it flow around him.
Behind him, the noise of the outer city lingered faintly. Carts rattled over uneven stone, merchants called out their wares, and somewhere far off, metal struck against metal in a steady rhythm. Yet within the threshold of the Guild, those sounds seemed distant, as though separated by more than mere space.
"Move forward in a straight line."
The command cut through the air with sharp clarity.
Lu Mao's attention shifted at once. A senior disciple walked along the path ahead, his black cloak swaying lightly with each measured step. The garment showed signs of wear—frayed edges and faint tears—but none of it suggested neglect. Each mark spoke of use, of battles faced and survived.
A weapon hung at the man's waist, plain and unadorned, yet positioned with such ease that its purpose needed no display.
"No wandering," the disciple continued, his voice steady and controlled. "No idle talk. Those who fail to follow instructions will not remain here long enough to regret it."
There was no need to raise his voice. It carried regardless, settling over the gathered candidates like a thin layer of frost.
Around Lu Mao, the crowd responded at once. Some lowered their heads, others straightened their posture, and a few who had been whispering quickly fell silent. Even those who looked restless did not dare test the warning.
Lu Mao stepped forward with them, his movements unhurried, his expression calm. His hands rested loosely at his sides, but his awareness had already spread outward.
The flow of Qi in the air was uneven, shaped by the presence of so many individuals. Each person carried it differently. Some radiated it openly, their energy unstable and flickering. Others held it close, controlled and restrained. A few revealed almost nothing at all, their presence quiet enough to slip past notice if one did not look carefully.
Lu Mao's gaze moved through the crowd without drawing attention. A broad-shouldered boy ahead of him stood rigid, his fists clenched tightly as if preparing for a fight that had not yet begun. Not far from him, a girl with twin daggers at her waist walked with measured steps, her breathing slow and deliberate, suggesting training rather than instinct. Toward the back, a thin child shifted nervously, eyes darting from side to side, his Qi fluctuating like a flame in a draft.
Different paths, different strengths.
All drawn here for the same reason.
Lu Mao's lips pressed together faintly, a trace of amusement flickering beneath his calm. The Guild did not lack for variety.
As the line moved forward, fragments of conversation drifted through the air, quiet enough to avoid notice yet clear to anyone who cared to listen.
"…this year's trial will be harsher," someone murmured.
"Why would that be?" another replied, unease creeping into his tone.
"They're no longer looking for numbers. They want those who can survive what's coming."
A brief pause followed before another voice spoke, lower than the rest. "Nightmares have been sighted again near the World Crevice."
The word settled heavily.
Lu Mao's gaze did not shift, but his thoughts sharpened. Nightmares were not tales told to frighten children. They were a reality that even the strongest could not ignore.
"I heard even guild disciples have fallen," the first voice added.
"And worse," a third said hesitantly, "a General-rank Nightmare has appeared."
Silence followed that.
Even those who had not been part of the conversation seemed to feel it, their steps growing slightly heavier.
Lu Mao's fingers flexed once before relaxing again. The stories he had heard in childhood returned to him—not as distant legends, but as something far closer now.
Another whisper rose, more cautious than the rest. "It may be because of the Divine Thunder Convergence. Sixty years remain."
"For cultivators," someone answered quietly, "that is not as long as it sounds."
"The Eternal Dao Shard will appear again."
No one finished that thought. They did not need to.
Lu Mao exhaled slowly. Time was a curious thing. To ordinary people, sixty years was a lifetime. To those who walked the path of cultivation, it was merely a span in which one either rose—or was left behind.
The path beneath their feet began to incline, at first gently, then with greater sharpness. The outer city disappeared entirely behind them, replaced by narrow stone corridors that guided them forward.
Then, without warning, the space opened.
Lu Mao stepped through—and paused.
Before him lay a vast arena, its scale far exceeding anything visible from outside. The circular ground stretched wide, enclosed by towering walls that rose upward until they seemed to narrow into the sky itself. Along those heights stood terraces and balconies, each occupied by figures dressed in the dark robes of the Guild.
They stood in silence.
Watching.
Lu Mao felt their gaze immediately. It was not curiosity, nor simple interest, but something far more measured. They observed as craftsmen might examine raw material, weighing potential without yet deciding its worth.
He steadied his breathing, refusing to let the pressure alter his posture.
At the center of the arena stood a raised platform of white stone, smooth and unmarked save for faint crimson patterns that spread across its surface. They resembled cracks of lightning frozen in place, yet carried a subtle pulse that could be sensed rather than seen.
Figures appeared upon that platform without announcement.
One moment it stood empty, the next it was occupied.
The elders of the Guild took their places quietly. Some bore the signs of age, their faces lined and their movements unhurried. Others appeared young, their expressions calm, their presence restrained yet profound.
The air shifted the moment they settled.
Lu Mao felt it clearly. The space itself seemed to grow heavier, not enough to suppress movement, but enough to remind all present of the difference between them and those who stood above.
He studied them in silence.
This was power—not the kind spoken of in stories, but the kind that reshaped the world simply by existing within it.
"I finally found you."
The voice came from his side.