CHAPTER 14

  Within Heavenly Sword Sect, the Outer Sect was not a place of loud contention.

  Disciples of the same cohort knew one another by face and name. When taking on major missions, they formed teams and divided responsibilities clearly: those skilled in formations handled deployment, those swift in movement scouted ahead, those with abundant Spiritual Power guarded the rear. If one faltered, another would pull them back; if one was wounded, another would hold the line for a breath. Success and failure still occurred, but rarely because of internal rivalry.

  Competition existed here, but it was mostly quiet, with each person urging themselves forward rather than stepping over another to advance. Everyone understood that the path of cultivation did not rely on a single victory, but on years walked together.

  Because of this, when there was someone who had almost never appeared in those formations, never stood in major missions, never left a mark in moments of life and death, it was difficult not to look at him differently.

  That person was Yang Feng.

  During his year in the Outer Sect, he had never accepted Tier Three or Tier Four missions, nor joined sect-level battle groups. He chose only low-tier individual tasks, most involving mortals: escorting caravans through small towns, handling low-rank beasts, repairing formations in distant villages. He rarely appeared in the mission plaza, and even more rarely stood within teams that others remembered by name.

  So when the list of disciples who had broken through to Foundation — those eligible for Inner Sect evaluation — was posted before the Council Hall, quite a few gazes paused.

  His name was there, among names long familiar with the Ninefold Tower and high-risk missions, disciples who had remained in the Outer Sect for years, with clear achievements and recognized sword techniques.

  No one shouted.

  The Outer Sect was rarely loud.

  But when eyes stopped at that name, the rhythm of the air shifted slightly, like the surface of a lake touched by a small stone. Not yet rippling, but no longer flat.

  Yang Feng.

  Only one year in the Outer Sect.

  No reputation from major missions.

  No distinction in swordsmanship.

  And yet he had broken through to Foundation.

  Still, he was qualified for Inner Sect evaluation

  The news spread quickly.

  From the plaza to the mission halls, from the Ninefold Tower to the Outer Sect dwellings, disciples gathered before the Council Hall in increasing numbers. Gray robes layered over one another like a silent but surging tide filling every corner.

  Before half a day had passed, Yang Feng’s name had become the most discussed topic.

  Not because of a shocking sword strike.

  Not because of notable merit.

  But because of the final line inscribed clearly beneath his name.

  Foundation type: Mortal.

  A brief silence settled.

  Then the murmurs began to rise.

  “Mortal Foundation?”

  A disciple from the same cohort spoke openly, not bothering to hide the disdain in his voice.

  “How can our sect have someone this foolish?”

  “He doesn’t deserve the Inner Sect.”

  “There must be something wrong with this list.”

  The words were not shouted, but they spread like wind slipping through cracks in stone, brushing against clusters of disciples gathered before the Council Hall. Suspicion turned to ridicule; ridicule hardened into resentment, as though the presence of a Mortal Foundation on the Inner Sect evaluation list had disturbed an order they had long taken for granted.

  Amid those overlapping voices, Ou Bakang stood quietly.

  He studied the list for a long time. His gaze did not waver. He did not sneer, nor did he show the dissatisfaction others displayed. Then, without a word, he turned and left.

  Not many in the Outer Sect still remembered the path of that sword from last year.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Ou Bakang was one of them.

  But now, with the words “Mortal Foundation” laid bare beneath that name, there was only cold regret in his eyes.

  Yang Feng…

  You chose the weakest path.

  Yang Feng returned from the western mountain range.

  The basket of herbs on his back still carried the scent of wild grass and damp soil. The token in his hand glowed faintly, recording the mission’s completion. He had just replaced spiritual medicine for an old farmer whose calf had been torn by a beast, and gathered a few rare herbs for the Healing Pavilion — a low-tier mission, hardly worth mentioning.

  He did not know that while he was away, his name had been spoken more than anyone else’s.

  On the stone path leading back toward the mission Hall, he walked as usual, neither fast nor slow. Spiritual Qi around him remained steady; his breathing even. In his mind, he calculated how many contribution points he would receive, whether it would be enough to purchase another bottle of Qi Recovery Elixir.

  Then the sound of people reached him.

  Not ordinary conversation.

  But something thicker. Denser.

  Like layers of people pressed together in one place.

  Yang Feng frowned slightly.

  Ahead, the Council Hall was far more crowded than usual.

  Much more.

  He paused for a breath.

  Gray-robed figures clustered together, backs facing him. It was not noisy like a marketplace, yet neither was it the usual calm of the Outer Sect. The air felt heavy, like humidity before a storm, so thick that even a small sound might split the sky.

  Someone turned.

  Then another.

  Their gazes landed on him.

  They did not avoid him.

  They did not greet him.

  They simply looked.

  A low voice rose from somewhere in the crowd.

  “It’s him.”

  The scattered whispers halted at once. The disciples in front parted naturally, revealing an open space before the stone steps of the Council Hall.

  Yang Feng stepped forward.

  His gaze swept across the list inscribed upon the spirit jade and saw his own name.

  || Yang Feng.

  || Realm: Foundation.

  || Foundation type: Mortal.

  He looked only briefly.

  Then withdrew his gaze.

  Behind him, the murmuring resumed — this time no longer restrained.

  “It really is Mortal Foundation.”

  “One year and already rushed to break through.”

  “Avoiding lightning tribulation, avoiding the Heavenly Dao… and you call that Foundation?”

  “Anyone can choose the easy path.”

  “How can the sect allow someone like this into the Inner Sect?”

  The words were not shouted.

  They were spoken just loud enough for him to hear.

  Just loud enough for everyone to hear.

  Just loud enough that the contempt required no concealment.

  Yang Feng did not turn around.

  He only tightened his grip slightly on the token in his hand.

  A figure stepped forward and blocked his path.

  “Yang Feng.”

  The voice was not loud, but it was clear.

  The crowd fell silent.

  The man stepped into the open space.

  Tall and lean. Gray Outer Sect robes, neat and unwrinkled. Late-stage Qi Refinement aura, steady as still water. A sword hung at his waist — not ornate, but worn by years of sharpening.

  Han Dengling.

  Someone behind murmured quietly,

  “Senior Brother Han…”

  After six years in the Outer Sect, Han Dengling was one of the few remaining from the cohort before Yang Feng. His ability was anything but simple.

  He had mastered the first five forms of the Heavenly Sword Art.

  A thin strand of sword qi had already taken shape.

  He had refused a Mid-Grade Foundation Elixir.

  He pursued only the Heavenly Dao.

  Han Dengling looked at Yang Feng.

  No anger.

  No mockery.

  Only a direct gaze.

  “I have no objection to the list.” he said.

  “But I want to know one thing.”

  The air tightened.

  “You chose the Mortal path..”

  “You rejected lightning tribulation.”

  “You gave up the path of the Heavenly Dao.”

  His eyes locked onto Yang Feng’s.

  “What makes you worthy?”

  The crowd did not interrupt.

  That was the question they wanted answered.

  No one laughed.

  No one jeered.

  They simply waited.

  Suddenly, someone from behind added sharply:

  “You’ve never stood in a life-and-death formation.”

  “You’ve never taken a Tier Three mission.”

  “Do you even understand what the Inner Sect is?”

  “Or are you just afraid to die, choosing the easy road?”

  Each word struck like stones against water.

  The air around Yang Feng felt as though it were boiling.

  He remained silent for a long moment.

  Then he slid the token into his sleeve.

  “Senior Brother.

  What do you truly want?”

  His voice was neither loud nor angry.

  He simply did not wish to explain.

  Han Dengling frowned slightly.

  “It’s simple.”

  “I want to spar with you.”

  “Openly.”

  “No personal grudge.”

  “Just to see whether Mortal Foundation deserves to stand on that list.”

  The open space seemed to widen.

  Wind swept across the steps of the Council Hall.

  No one spoke.

  Yang Feng looked at him.

  His gaze did not avoid his.

  “Alright.”

  One word.

  The crowd stirred.

  Some stepped back.

  Some leaned forward.

  An empty ring slowly formed within the mission plaza.

  Han Dengling placed his hand upon the hilt of his sword.

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Before the Outer Sect plaza.”

  “Let everyone see clearly.”

  He paused.

  “Do you dare?”

  Yang Feng looked straight at him.

  “There’s no need to wait until tomorrow.”

  A sudden gust swept across the plaza.

  Dust lifted from the stone ground. Gray robes shifted. His hair stirred in the fading light. The Spiritual Qi around him trembled slightly — not explosive, not ostentatious, merely gathering quietly toward a single point.

  His gaze did not change.

  “Right now.”

  ---