The sun dipped low over the jagged cliffs, casting the forest below in shifting shades of orange and shadow. Alex adjusted the satchel on his shoulder, his steps heavy as he approached the gates of the Ashenwood Sect. The towering wooden gates, carved with the sect’s emblem of a flaming ash tree, seemed almost to mock him with their grandeur.

For Alex, this wasn’t the beginning of a grand journey—it was his last chance.

The line of recruits shuffled forward, their chatter filled with excitement and nervous energy. Alex stayed silent, letting the murmur wash over him. These were people with bright futures, some wearing the confidence of minor clan scions, others carrying the quiet determination of gifted wanderers. He had neither.

As the line moved, Alex’s thoughts drifted to the past few years—years of rejection, humiliation, and frustration.

The crystal orb of the Path of Spiritual Purity remained dull, the affinity stones of Elemental Domination stayed lifeless, and the mirrors of the Path of Eclipse reflected nothing but his own disappointment. Each failure was a blow, a nail sealing the coffin of his future.

Even the Path of Martial Mastery, known for rewarding effort, offered him little hope. The elder’s dispassionate words lingered in Alex’s mind: "You’ve passed, but barely. Don’t expect to achieve much."

Though the Path of Martial Mastery required effort over talent, the elder had explained that innate ability still determined how far one could go. For Alex, being allowed into the sect was no triumph—it was pity.

---

“Name?”

The sharp voice jolted Alex back to the present. He blinked, looking up at the senior disciple standing beside the gates. The man’s crimson robes were immaculate, his tone clipped and disinterested.

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“Alex,” he said, his voice hoarse from the journey.

“Age?”

“Seventeen.”

The disciple arched an eyebrow but said nothing. Most recruits were younger, their talent identified early. The fact that Alex was seventeen—several years older than most—only underscored how difficult his journey had been.

The disciple glanced at the scroll in his hand, scribbled something, and waved him through without another glance.

Alex stepped into the courtyard, his heart a mix of anticipation and dread.

---

The Ashenwood Sect was larger than he had imagined. Barracks lined the edges of the central courtyard, their wooden frames old but sturdy. A stone path led toward the main pavilion, where disciples in crimson robes trained in formation.

Despite the sect’s reputation as a lower-tier martial sect, there was an air of purpose here. Even the outer disciples moved with precision, their practice swords flashing in the late afternoon light. Alex couldn’t help but feel the weight of their presence. Each strike, each movement, carried a discipline he felt he lacked.

His gaze lingered on the disciples sparring nearby, their forms precise and their movements fluid. A part of him envied them, not for their talent, but for the confidence they radiated.

He shook his head, tearing his eyes away. I’ll get there. Somehow.

Not long after, the recruits were gathered in the central courtyard. An elder, dressed in flowing robes adorned with ash leaf patterns, stood on the pavilion steps. His gaze swept over them like a blade, cutting through any murmur of conversation.

The Ashenwood Sect does not coddle mediocrity,” the elder began, his voice carrying effortlessly across the crowd. “Our path, the Path of Martial Mastery, demands more than effort—it demands sacrifice. Talent may open doors, but only those with unyielding will survive the trials ahead. The weak will find no sympathy here.”

Alex’s chest tightened at the elder’s words.

“Outer disciples,” the elder continued, his tone sharp, “are at the bottom of this sect for a reason. You will not be coddled, and failure will not be tolerated. Only those who claw their way up will remain. The rest will find the gates they entered through the easiest path forward.”

The elder continued, outlining the sect’s structure: outer disciples at the bottom, inner disciples in the middle, and core disciples—the sect’s elite—at the top. Every disciple’s place was earned through merit and strength.

“There is no room for weakness here,” the elder finished, his gaze lingering on the less confident recruits. “Prove yourselves, or leave.”

---

That night, Alex sat alone outside the barracks assigned to outer disciples. The wooden structure was simple, its walls thin enough to let the murmur of voices seep through.

His legs ached from the day’s journey, but his mind raced with possibilities. He clenched his fists, staring at the stars that dotted the night sky.

The elder’s words echoed in his mind: “Prove yourselves, or leave.”

Would he really be able to do it?

His thoughts drifted to his failures, the crystal orb, the lifeless affinity stones, the empty shadowed mirrors. Each memory was a weight, pulling him further down.

But somewhere deep within, a spark refused to die. Alex clenched his fists tighter.

“I’ll prove it,” he muttered under his breath. “I’ll survive. I’ll grow stronger. I’ll make it.”

For now, hope was enough to keep the weight of failure at bay.