The Road to Defying Heaven

Chapter 5 : Testing One’s Edge

The narrow path from Zhuopu Hall stretched outward, leading to the Lingze behind Tianxuan Sect. Though Lingze lay under the protection of the sect, its outskirts were fraught with unpredictable climates. Spiritual herbs and rare plants often thrived there, yet beast tides and bandits also frequently appeared. The sect sent new disciples down the mountain to gather herbs as both training and assessment—to see whether one could remain calm and composed in the face of sudden danger.

That morning, Lin Yuan set out with three senior brothers. Leading was the steady Hu Qingyuan, average in build but with a calm, penetrating gaze. Xiang Lan brought up the rear, arrogance lingering on his face. The group also included Qu Ruoyun, a straightforward female disciple whose blade was sharp and whose eyes glimmered with an unyielding fire. Each carried a light pack, water-repelling incense pouches, and protective talismans, stepping cautiously down the mountain path.

Lin Yuan’s heart was heavier than usual. He knew that the reputation of Zhuopu Hall was still insufficient to command respect, yet Tianxuan Sect’s rules were ironclad: mistakes during training would be documented. The Yun family’s recommendation was merely his entry token; it could not serve as a lifelong shield. He had to establish himself on his own merit.

The mist of Lingze was colder and damper than he had imagined. Tiny dewdrops clung to grass leaves, releasing a faint herbal scent. Following the map, Hu Qingyuan quickly found the required herbs beside a hollowed stone. The group busied themselves with collecting, yet the atmosphere remained tense: nearby, fresh footprints pressed into the damp earth—human or beast, recent. Exchanging glances, Xiang Lan snorted coldly, “Looks like someone came here before us. Not weak, either.”

Qu Ruoyun drew her waist blade, a hint of deadly seriousness in her tone. “Watch out for ambushes.” Her body was honed from martial training, her gaze as sharp as a knife. Lin Yuan’s palms grew slightly sweaty; the black jade over his chest remained warm beneath his clothing, like a lighthouse sensing an approaching storm.

Before they could retreat, a tearing sound cut through the fog. Several black shadows surged forward. The bandit leader’s group was small but vicious—at least two were trained fighters wielding crude weapons, their movements unpredictable. The leader’s grin was feral. “Dogs of Tianxuan Sect! Hand over what you’ve gathered, or we’ll make you pay with the blade.”

Hu Qingyuan’s voice was deep as he ordered the group to stand firm, eyes filled with caution and judgment. He instructed Qu Ruoyun to guard the rear while he and two others engaged the front. Lin Yuan stood to the side, feeling a familiar pre-battle calm: years of meditative inner observation allowed him to align his breathing and steps into a single line before chaos erupted.

The first clash was brief. Hu Qingyuan and the bandit lieutenant exchanged strikes, steel clashing with the mist, mud splattering against nearby trunks. Xiang Lan rushed in recklessly, hoping to intimidate, but was countered by a single blow and staggered back, face flushed with shame. Lin Yuan assessed the situation: the bandits were not top-tier, but they were ruthless; any delay would let their numbers tear a gap in their defense.

He did not draw his sword, yet in his mind, he swiftly arranged a plan: steady his breathing first, then use fists to restrain the enemy. Footwork needed no flourish—only precision. Eyes scanned all directions, mind focused on one point, he stepped into the least predictable positions. A fragment of a fist manual came to him, glimpsed long ago in a corner of the Yun family library—a few broken lines: “Sink strength, guard the center; draw force with the step; let breath follow the fist.” At this critical moment, “sink strength, guard the center” guided his right fist, descending steadily while channeling the small current from his dantian toward the bandit’s chest.

The punch was not earth-shattering, yet it struck with precision at a vital point. The bandit staggered back, chest retreating a step, breath short. Seizing the moment, Hu Qingyuan and Qu Ruoyun advanced together, subduing several of the attackers. The leader, seeing his forces falter, roared and pulled a short crossbow from his back, firing wildly. As the bolts neared Lin Yuan, the jade over his chest flared warm, like a thin thread connecting his dantian to his spine, rapidly spreading outward.

Lin Yuan was forced to employ the mental protection he practiced during daily meditation. It was not simple external force resistance; he transformed the sudden surge of inner power into a thin protective barrier with focused intent and controlled breath. The arrows grazed his shoulder, sparking as they tore through his clothing, yet the energy from his palm nullified the lethal force, leaving only pain and shock. Steadying himself, Lin Yuan raised his arms, deflecting a nearby bandit’s blade, following up with two precise strikes that ultimately drove the enemy back.

The skirmish was brief but intense. Seeing his companions subdued, the bandit leader shouted and fled with his remaining men. Hu Qingyuan sheathed his sword and exhaled heavily. “This was clearly targeted. Someone is monitoring this area.” Qu Ruoyun wiped her blade clean but looked toward Lin Yuan with a spark of curiosity. “That protective move… if not for you, he would have been badly hurt.”

Xiang Lan’s expression was complicated. He said nothing, yet his fingers trembled slightly. For him, being saved in combat by a disciple once ridiculed from Zhuopu Hall was both humiliating and a harsh reality to face.

Returning to the sect, the elders addressed the remaining issues and treated the injured guards. Hu Qingyuan patted Lin Yuan on the shoulder. “You remained remarkably calm. Zhuopu Hall needs disciples like you. Do not underestimate your own progress.” Lin Yuan only lowered his head, a complex emotion rising within him—not mere pride, but a confirmation of his own belief and resolve.

That night, under a moon washed in silver light, Lin Yuan went alone to a quiet pavilion behind the sect. He wished to unravel the chaos of the day, tracing the source of his sudden reaction. Sitting cross-legged, he lightly touched his dantian, reviewing his mental exercises and the fragmentary manual. Thoughts wove intricately, the black jade over his chest warm as if whispering: do not rush; the clue lies deep within your habitual breath.

As he pondered, a faint sound came from a distant side hall. A figure in white appeared silently, moonlight shrouding him like mist. This was the “observer” who had appeared at Zhuopu Hall several times before. He walked calmly to Lin Yuan’s side, his voice measured yet heavy with weight: “You performed well tonight—alert and composed. Do you know that your strike was not purely external power?”

Lin Yuan trembled, wanting to ask his identity, but only nodded. “Not entirely, but the jade… it seemed to give me guidance at a critical moment.”

The man in white did not answer directly but took out a small bamboo slip, inscribed with a few short words: “Meditate and observe, seek the root and source.” He handed it to Lin Yuan, eyes growing deeper. “You have potential and understanding, yet without a stable foundation, it will remain like wildfire without roots. If you wish to transform potential into usable strength, find a place that resonates with you. This can guide you, but the path must be walked alone.”

Though his words were brief, they echoed in Lin Yuan’s mind like a canyon reverberation. Lin Yuan took the bamboo slip, its surface cool, the inscription strong: “Observe? Seek the root and source?” He murmured to himself, recalling the cryptic notes in his family letters regarding his parents and the black jade—phrases like “abnormal bloodline” and “leave a jade for the returning one.”

The man in white nodded slightly and turned to leave. “Those destined will meet again.” His voice faded into the night, yet it left an indelible mark on Lin Yuan’s heart.

From that night onward, Lin Yuan carried a new name in his mind—“Seek the Root.” He knew it was not merely for power, but to unravel the lingering questions pressing on his chest: why had his parents disappeared, what was the origin of the black jade, and why had the Yun family accepted him? Each question was like an unlit ember, now finding direction to ignite.

With morning’s arrival, Tianxuan Sect returned to its usual calm. Xiang Lan’s smirk was less pronounced, Qu Ruoyun watched Lin Yuan closely, and Hu Qingyuan occasionally offered an encouraging glance while handling matters.

Walking across the training grounds, Lin Yuan’s breath was steady as usual. The black jade at his chest was warm, and he folded the bamboo slip carefully, tucking it close. Then, as every day, he sat cross-legged, closed his eyes, and began his daily meditation.

This time, his mind was more focused than ever—not for fame, nor to retaliate against those who scorned him, but to stand firmly for what he vowed to protect.

Spiritual energy flowed gently through his body. Using the bamboo slip as guidance, he silently repeated the white-clothed man’s words—“Seek the root, observe.” The light within the jade echoed in his chest, growing clearer.

The mountain wind stirred, pine needles rustling softly. The first spring dew of Tianxuan Sect quietly soaked his steps and subtly tempered the blade that had yet to be drawn.

Each breath, each heartbeat, reinforced his resolve. The training, the battle, and the guidance of the mysterious observer had merged into a single lesson: strength must be rooted in understanding, patience, and self-mastery.

Lin Yuan opened his eyes slightly, gazing at the horizon, the faint silver light of dawn brushing the mountains. Within him, the sense of a new beginning stirred, as if a path had opened—not only toward cultivating his power, but also toward unraveling the mysteries of his past.