Chapter Four: Ruthless
730 Words
The stone stair was steep and uneven, sheer dangers pressing close on either side—one careless step and you would slip into the void.
Before half a day had passed, Wang Lin felt as though lead had been poured into his legs. Sweat streamed; his breath came ragged, each step a labor. From the foot of the mountain the stair had seemed short, yet upon it the path appeared endless, and from the depths of the heart there welled a helpless despair.
A dozen sturdy youths climbed ahead of him, all panting, all inching upward. Thus far, not one had yielded.
Wang Lin clenched his jaw and kept on. He knew this was his last chance. His parents’ hopeful gaze hovered unceasingly in his mind. Just then, a youth behind him stumbled; his foot slipped, and he pitched away from the stair with a cry of terror.
“I forfeit—help!”
All feet halted as one; heads turned downward. A streak of black light flashed. From nowhere a Hengyue disciple darted out, caught the falling youth in midair, and alighted lightly at the mountain’s base.
Wang Lin’s face had gone pale. He said nothing, and climbed on with care. Time flew. Two days later the dozen boys before him were nowhere to be seen.
How many of his fellows had given up, Wang Lin did not know. He only knew that he could not. Though blisters had risen and burst upon his feet and palms, and needle-pricks of pain stabbed from every raw place, he still hauled himself up, hand over hand.
“A child’s heart is firm—yet the Great Way is unfeeling. Futile, all futile…” The sigh drifted from the peak. The black-robed middle-aged man did not so much as look upon the youths; with a flick of the sleeve, he was gone.
On the third day, in the Sword-Spirit Pavilion, eleven youths—including Wang Lin—stood to the side, faces bloodless. Wang Lin’s bodily injuries had mended, but the wound in his heart gaped wider; a gnawing, needling pain kept eating at his spirit.
This sword-spirit trial was not overseen by the black-robed examiner but by a white-robed youth—his face, like the others’, cold as ice, his gaze upon them as upon ants, without a trace of feeling.
“This is the final test. Whoever can enter that room passes.” His words were few; impatience showed plain upon his face.
Wang Lin looked where he pointed: an utterly ordinary house, its central door standing open. Within, ranks of ancient swords of varying length lay arrayed.
The boys went in turn. The first had barely come within five zhang (about sixteen meters) of the threshold when his features twisted in strain and an unseen force shoved him back several zhang.
“Not qualified. Next,” the youth said blandly.
Wang Lin was seventh. The six before him had all been stopped at the five-zhang mark. He gave a bitter smile, gathered the dregs of hope, and stepped forward.
Five zhang—he passed it easily. He blinked, stunned; hope surged up, his mouth went dry, his heart thudded. He took another zhang—and still felt nothing amiss.
The youth gave a soft “Hm?” Interest flickered in his eyes; his features eased. “Don’t hesitate. Keep going. If you can enter the room and win the sword spirit’s acknowledgment, then even if you failed the previous two trials, you will still be taken as a true disciple.”
Envy showed on the other ten faces, and beneath the envy, a deep, dark jealousy.
Nerves taut, Wang Lin felt once more the weight of his parents’ gaze flood his mind. He took another step. Now three zhang from the door. Uneasy, he pressed on—
—and at that instant a great force surged up, slamming into him. His body flew backward beyond his control; only after retreating more than ten zhang did he come to a halt.
The watching youths let scorn show in their eyes. To them, Wang Lin ought to fail as they had; no other outcome was possible.
Wang Lin gave a wry laugh. The tear in his heart ripped wider. His parents’ expectant eyes faded from his mind.
The white-robed youth’s expression cooled once more. “Not qualified. Next.”
- Writer
