A Song For The Ages

The trials left behind by the ancient dynasty weren't the same for everyone. Instead, each test adjusted based on the person entering it, responding to their strengths, flaws, and intentions. Deep within the ruins, many hidden chambers glowed faintly with ancient energy, carrying echoes of a lost era. The disciples and warriors who had come with Feiyin each found themselves in a trial tailored to them, shaped by their nature, revealing pieces of the past, fragments of power, or subtle warnings.

Ba Shanyue found himself in a stone arena, the air around him thick with pressure. At first glance, it seemed like a trial of strength, but when he took a step forward, the ground beneath his feet shifted. A crushing weight settled on his body, the gravity around him amplified severalfold.

He grunted, the tension pressing against his bones and muscles.

Then the traps began. Arrows shot from hidden crevices. Snares twisted toward his legs. Each step forward required not just strength, but awareness. Ba Shanyue moved with grit and instinct, ducking low, rolling aside, slamming his fists into pressure plates and using his body to absorb shock.

With every minute, the gravity grew stronger, and the formations more complex. Sigils shimmered in the stone, reshaping the terrain. He had no weapon, only his body, but that was enough. Muscles bulged with essence qi-fueled power, veins pulsed with every ounce of strength he could command.

The formation seemed endless. He pressed forward anyway.

Hours passed. Sweat pooled along his brow, his shoulders ached, and yet he endured. This was more than a physical test, it was a tempering of body and mind. Every movement taught him something. Every trap sharpened his reflexes. Every layer of gravity shaped his resilience.

And then, after what felt like an eternity, the pressure began to fade.

He emerged from the formation limping, covered in scrapes and bruises, but his eyes were clear. His breath came deep and calm. He had not just survived, but learned.

Jue Qingling stood at the edge of a quiet glade bathed in soft light. Her spirit beast, Fenlan, stood beside her, antlers glimmering with soft radiance. Around them, the air was heavy with the scent of rot. Trees wilted, their bark darkened, and leaves crumbled like ash.

A plague was spreading through the glade's plant life, twisting roots and turning sap into poison. Jue Qingling touched the ground, channeling her wood-infused essence qi. Her energy sank deep into the roots, seeking balance, seeking restoration.

She moved carefully, slowly, breathing with the trees, listening with her senses, letting her qi spread through the infected flora. Fenlan stepped forward and released a subtle light pulse, further helping stabilize the essence of the surrounding woods.

Love what you're reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

As she worked, a realization took root in her heart. She wasn't simply healing with essence. She was understanding. Every sapling, every root responded not just to power, but to care. She began to see patterns in the decay, understand the rhythm of the land. Her wood qi responded in kind, growing more refined, more precise.

Something shifted within her, not quite Intent, but close. A threshold. A moment of harmony.

And the glade responded. The withered trees began to mend, and the rot slowly receded.

She exhaled softly, eyes narrowing. There was more to her path than she had imagined.

Ruan Lianhua walked a road paved in crimson glass. There was no sky, only a veil of endless twilight. Around her, figures from her past appeared, elders and disciples from the Saint Blood Branch, victims of her blades, enemies and allies alike.

"You were forged in blood."

The voice came from within. Or perhaps from the path itself.

She saw herself kneeling as a child, soaked in gore. The twisted smile of her father, her master. The sharp pain of a ritual gone wrong. The indifferent gaze of her grandfather, the Sect Master, who always remained distant.

But the trial did not seek to make her relive pain. It sought to understand her resolve.

At the end of the path stood a mirror. In it, her reflection wept. But she did not.

"I am what you made me," she whispered, not to the mirror, but to herself.

The mirror shattered, and from its shards rose a spectral blade, crimson like her branch's mark. A weapon made to kill, shaped by legacy and pain, but discarded.

Hu Zhao stood before a battlefield that did not move. Corpses frozen mid-motion. Soldiers, beasts, puppets, all still, all broken.

His second-in-command, Commander Wei, stood beside him, both of them summoned together by the trial.

"What is this place?" Wei muttered.

Hu Zhao grunted, scratching at the side of his unshaven jaw. "Looks like a war gone to shit. But someone wants us to learn from it."

He stomped ahead, kicking aside a cracked helm. His gaze moved over the fallen soldiers and shattered formations with a veteran's eye, noting how the front line had buckled, how the cavalry had been misused.

"They wasted the damn horses in the valley," he said, "Should've held the ridge, made the bastards bleed uphill."

As he barked out commands like he would to raw recruits, the field began to shimmer. The frozen soldiers twitched, then moved, following his imagined orders. The battle changed. This time, the defense held. The enemy faltered.

When the dust cleared, a scroll descended before him, glowing with softly pulsing sigils. Hu Zhao reached for it with a grunt, snatching it from the air.

"Hah," he muttered. "Old bastards knew what they were doing after all."

The trials neared their end.

Many had fallen, some succeeded, and others remained locked in their struggles, unaware of how little time they had left. The ruin's power flickered more often now, as if the ancient mechanisms were counting down their final tests.

Deep within the layered spaces of the trials, somewhere in the stillness, Feiyin opened his eyes.