The first light of dawn seeped through the heavy clouds above Evernight Pavilion, painting the sky in muted shades of gray and blue. Aaryan stepped out of his chamber, his breath misting in the cold morning air. The once-quiet sect was now alive with motion.

The stone pathways buzzed with activity as new disciples hurried about, their voices quieter than before. Gone was the eager chatter from their first days—replaced now by unease. Their robes, though still crisp, seemed heavier with tension. Some clutched their identity tokens tightly, fingers white with pressure, as if holding onto their lifeline. Others exchanged wary glances, eyes flickering to the older disciples who moved among them like wolves stalking the herd.

And the older disciples knew it.

They walked with slow, confident strides, their smirks barely concealed as they observed the fresh batch of nervous faces. Some whispered to each other, their words laced with amusement, already picking out which newcomers looked the weakest. Others openly chuckled, cracking their knuckles in anticipation. The unspoken rule had taken effect—resources were no longer guaranteed. If a new disciple couldn’t defend what was theirs, it simply wasn’t theirs to keep.

Aaryan watched as a particularly tall senior, his sleeves loose and fluttering, leaned in toward a trembling new disciple.

"Excited to claim your share?" the older disciple asked, voice smooth, predatory. "I hope you can keep it."

The younger disciple swallowed hard but didn’t reply. He lowered his head and hurried forward, gripping his token even tighter.

Aaryan's expression remained unreadable, but inside, he understood the shift. This was no longer just about progress—it was about survival.

The wind howled across the terrace, whipping at the robes of the gathered disciples. At the mountain’s peak, where the Resource Hall stood like a silent guardian, a vast stone platform stretched out over the cliff’s edge. From here, one could see the sect sprawled below, the valley shrouded in swirling mist, the distant peaks jagged against the morning light.

Overseer Dharun stood at the center, his deep blue robes billowing, the golden insignia of the Evernight Pavilion gleaming on his chest. His presence alone commanded silence. The new disciples, already tense, stood in rows as he surveyed them with sharp, scrutinizing eyes. Before him, long wooden tables held neatly arranged pouches—spirit stones, medicinal herbs, spirit beast meat, and vials of purified essence water. The resources that could determine their survival in the coming days.

Dharun’s voice cut through the wind, steady and cold. “Today marks the start of your second phase in the sect. From this moment on, you are no longer protected.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd. Some of the new disciples tightened their grips on their robes, while others darted nervous glances at the older disciples standing idly near the staircase that led down from the terrace.

Dharun continued, “Your resources will be distributed now. Once you claim them, the first test begins.” His gaze swept over the new disciples, lingering on their paling faces. “Survival is not given—it is earned.”

He gestured to the attendants beside him. “Step forward when your name is called.”

One by one, the new disciples approached, collecting their share. Some moved quickly, clutching their pouches to their chests, eager to leave. Others hesitated, their fingers trembling as they took the resources, eyes flickering toward the staircase.

Aaryan remained still, watching.

The older disciples lingered near the terrace’s only exit, standing in small groups. Some leaned lazily against the stone balustrades, their expressions amused. Others exchanged quiet words, their postures casual—but their eyes were sharp, predatory. They weren’t here for the view.

The moment a new disciple took their pouch and tried to leave, the older disciples shifted, blocking the path.

A heavy silence settled over the terrace.

One of the younger disciples, a boy with nervous eyes, hesitated near the staircase. He tried to step past. A hand shot out, pressing against his chest.

“Going somewhere?” The older disciple’s grin was all teeth.

Dharun didn’t turn. He had seen it but said nothing.

One by one, the new disciples realized—they were trapped.

Aaryan stepped forward when his name was called. He took his pouch with a calm, steady grip, slipping it into his robe. Then, he turned, facing the blocked exit.

As the last disciple received their share , Dharun turned on his heel and strode toward the Resource Hall.

The moment his back was turned, the older disciples moved.

For a moment, the terrace was silent. A breath held. A heartbeat stretching too long.

Then—violence.

Aaryan stood at the edge of the battlefield, arms loose at his sides, eyes sharp and calculating. Fights had erupted in seconds—disciples lunging at one another, some with clear strategies, others with nothing but blind desperation.

The first scream tore through the air as a new disciple was punched in the gut, doubling over, his pouch yanked from his hands before he could even react.

A sickening pop echoed as a leg bent in the wrong direction. The disciple let out an inhuman shriek, his fingers clawing at the stone floor, eyes bulging with shock. He tried to crawl away, dragging his ruined limb, but a boot slammed down on his back, grinding him into the dirt.

Blood spattered the stone as a disciple, too slow to dodge, took an elbow to the nose, the impact breaking cartilage. He staggered back, choking on his own blood before a knee to the ribs sent him crashing onto the ground.

A smaller disciple suddenly flung dirt into his attacker’s eyes, forcing the older disciple to stumble back with a snarl.

Another feigned injury, his body limp—until his opponent turned. In that instant, he lashed out like a cornered animal, driving a hidden blade into the disciple’s thigh. No rules. No honor. Only survival.

Some attacked wildly, fists and legs lashing out in flurries of untrained strikes. Others fought with precision, redirecting blows, using footwork to unbalance their opponents before striking. The scent of sweat and dirt filled the air, mingling with the sharp tang of blood as the first injuries appeared.

A boy, barely fifteen, clawed at the ground as two disciples stomped on his hand, grinding it beneath their heels until he let out a choked scream. Another, more experienced, dodged a heavy punch, slipping behind his opponent and kicking him forward into another fight. The sickening crack of a bone breaking made a few nearby disciples hesitate, but only for a moment.

Aaryan saw it all.

Who attacked first? The arrogant.

Who was attacked first? The weak.

One disciple, a boy no older than sixteen, fell to his knees as a group closed in on him. "Please, I—" His plea ended in a choked gasp as a knee drove into his throat, sending him sprawling. His fingers trembled as he reached for his satchel, but a boot crushed his wrist, snapping it clean.

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Aaryan moved subtly, avoiding the clusters of fights, his posture unremarkable.

He reached into his pouch, pulled out one of the herbs, along with a dagger and let it slip from his grip.

The metallic clang cut through the air A few disciples turned, eyes flickering with interest.

He stepped back, shoulders slightly hunched—just enough to seem uncertain.

Let them believe I was careless.

Let them assume I am not worth their time."

As two disciples lunged for the dropped weapon, Aaryan slipped away, blending into the shifting battlefield. He observed, stepping when he needed to, watching when he didn’t. Some disciples fought in groups, others alone. Some hid. Some hunted.

By the time he reached the outer area where fighting was minimal, his breathing was still calm. He hadn't spent energy fighting. He hadn't taken any hits.

And then there were those who took too much.

He watched as a particularly strong disciple, already hoarding three satchels, was quickly surrounded by five others. Arrogance had made him a target.

"The ones who fight first don’t last long."

Aaryan saw another disciple—a sharp-eyed boy with quick reflexes—grabbing resources, but never too much. He never fully engaged in a fight, only stepping in when he was certain he could win.

"The ones who fight too late get nothing."

There were also those who ran. Hiding in corners, cowering in the shadows, hoping to be ignored.

"The ones who run without a plan will be found."

His eyes traced the landscape.

The center of the terrace, near the lakes, had become a warzone. Disciples fought viciously for resources, their clashes echoing into the night.

The stone pathways leading toward the inner dwellings were no better—the ones who had fled there had only delayed their fights, not avoided them.

But the outer edges? The caves?

"No one is fighting for those."

Aaryan moved. Not out of fear, but because he understood the game.

He adjusted his posture, slumping slightly, making himself appear unremarkable as he walked toward the less desirable dwellings. He passed by several disciples who barely glanced at him—they were too fixated on the ongoing battles.

He chose a small, unlit cave, tucking himself inside. His satchel was still full, untouched.

"No one values what they do not see."

Aaryan ran his fingers over the rough stone wall, feeling the cold surface. This was not a place of comfort. But it was a place where he would be left alone.

And that was enough.

As the night stretched on, the chaos continued.

Aaryan sat in the shadows, still, quiet.

He had seen it before—people who acted too soon, people who acted too late, people who never acted at all.

And he?

He had acted exactly when he needed to.

"At sunrise, the trial ends. One last desperate rush is coming."

He knew the pattern. The weakest would come out now, making one final attempt to steal what they could.

And sure enough—he heard soft footsteps approaching the cave.

A small figure crept inside, moving carefully, scanning the area.

A survivor.

Someone who had failed to claim anything and now had no choice but to steal from those who still had something left.

Aaryan remained still, breathing steady, eyes half-lidded as if asleep.

The intruder's eyes landed on Aaryan’s satchel.

A step closer.

A hand reaching out.

Aaryan’s voice, low and even.

"Touch it, and you’ll regret it."

The intruder froze, his breathing sharp. His eyes flickered between the satchel and Aaryan’s face, calculating the risk.

Aaryan did not move. Did not blink.

“If I move, I validate his courage. If I speak, I give him time to think. But silence? Silence is where doubt festers.”

The tension hung thick in the air—a moment stretched thin by the weight of an unseen threat.

For a moment, neither moved.

The boy’s breath stilled. His fingers hesitated, a flicker of indecision before they curled back.

"I—I have nothing left," he whispered, eyes darting to Aaryan’s unreadable face. "I need it."

Aaryan leaned forward ever so slightly, his voice colder than the night air.

"Then you should have taken it from someone weaker."

The boy’s breath hitched. His fingers twitched. He shifted his weight, but his knees refused to move forward.

Aaryan just watched. Waiting. Measuring.

The boy felt it then—that creeping certainty that no matter what he did, this disciple was not afraid of him.

Then, Aaryan leaned forward just slightly—only enough to make him flinch.

"Do it," Aaryan said, voice soft, daring him.

The boy jerked backward as if burned, his courage collapsing..

Aaryan’s voice, a whisper: "Now run."

the intruder took a sharp breath and fled.

Aaryan exhaled, untouched. He hadn't needed to fight. He only needed to make it clear that he wasn't an easy target.

"Fear can be more effective than strength."

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The first light of dawn bled into the sky, painting Evernight Pavilion in hues of deep violet and cold silver. The surviving disciples stood in silence on the stone terrace, their expressions ranging from exhausted triumph to bitter defeat.

Some leaned against broken pillars, their bodies bruised and bloodied. Others stood hunched, clutching what few resources they had left. Many bore the scars of the long night—cuts from stolen daggers, swollen knuckles from desperate fights, and eyes rimmed with fatigue.

But Aaryan?

He stood at the edge of the group, completely unscathed.

No torn robes. No bruises. No signs of battle. His satchel, still full, hung at his side.

And people noticed.

Eyes flickered toward him—some curious, some resentful. Whispers stirred among the more battered disciples.

How had he walked away untouched?

Aaryan met their gazes with a quiet, unreadable expression. He neither shrank nor asserted himself.

A battered disciple, his eye swollen shut, spat blood onto the stone as he glared at Aaryan. "You—you didn’t fight, did you?" he growled.

"I survived," Aaryan said simply.

"Coward," another muttered, his lip split open, teeth tinged red.

"No," an older disciple Ravi interjected, studying Aaryan with something like curiosity. "He’s just smarter than you." This was the same disciple who had accompanied Varun that Day

Then, the Overseer Dharun arrived.

Dharun stepped forward, his expression unreadable, his presence commanding absolute silence. His eyes swept over the group, assessing each survivor in a single glance.

The moment stretched judgment hanging in the air like a blade poised to drop.

Finally, He spoke.

"What you hold now belongs to you."

"But possessions do not make you strong. Only fools hoard without understanding the cost."

A few disciples stiffened, realizing the meaning behind his words. Those who had fought greedily, taken too much, and then lost everything paled under his gaze.

Dharun's eyes flickered toward the more injured disciples.

"Those who fought without thinking have already shown their weakness."

Some flinched. Some clenched their fists. Others lowered their heads, knowing they had wasted their strength for nothing.

Then, his gaze moved to those who had hidden away in fear, avoiding the conflict entirely.

"Those who hid without a plan have already shown their fear."

A few disciples visibly shrank, their shoulders tightening in shame. They had survived—but not because of any strength of their own.

Finally, the Dharun’s gaze stopped on Aaryan.

A slow pause.

Then—

"And those who failed to understand the nature of control..."

The air grew heavy.

"...will never belong here."

Silence.

Then, He took a step forward, eyes locked onto Aaryan’s.

"Not a single mark on you," Dharun observed, his gaze cutting through the silence like a blade.

Murmurs stirred among the disciples. Suspicious. Resentful. Confused.

"Explain."

The weight of the Dharun’s demand pressed down on him. This was not a compliment. This was a test.

Aaryan met the Dharun’s gaze, his face calm, unreadable.

He could feel the eyes of the other disciples on him—some waiting for him to fail, others hoping for an answer they could exploit.

But he wasn’t interested in proving himself to them.

The truth was simple.

A lesser disciple might stammer, try to justify, or shrink under pressure. Aaryan did none of these.

Instead, he spoke evenly, his voice carrying across the terrace.

"I chose my battles."

Dharun’s eyes narrowed slightly, waiting.

Aaryan continued.

"Fighting is not survival. Survival is not fighting. The ones who fought for everything are barely standing. The ones who ran without a plan lost everything."

He let his words settle. Some disciples tensed, knowing he spoke the truth.

"I did not hide. I did not run. I did not waste my strength on unnecessary conflict."

The murmurs grew louder. Some were angry whispers. Others were thoughtful silences.

Dharun tilted his head slightly, studying him.

A long moment passed.

Then, unexpectedly—he smiled.

It wasn’t a warm expression. It was sharp. Amused. Intrigued.

"Then tell me, disciple—if you understand survival so well, what do you believe strength is?"

Another test.

Aaryan exhaled slowly, considering his words.

He didn’t rush his answer. Didn’t try to impress.

Finally, he said:

"Strength is not about proving something to others. It is about having the power to decide your own fate."

Dharun’s smile deepened.

Some disciples looked confused. Others angry.

One of the stronger disciples—an older boy with a bruised face—scoffed.

"Sounds like an excuse to avoid a fight."

Aaryan barely spared him a glance.

"If I had fought blindly, would I have anything left?"

The boy went silent.

The Dharun nodded, as if entertained.

He turned slightly, addressing the group.

"All of you have survived. But surviving is only the beginning. If you do not grow, you will be discarded like the ones who have already fallen."

He raised a hand, gesturing toward the distant mountains.

"Your true training begins now."

Then, his gaze flickered back to Aaryan.

" Your tongue is sharp, but steel does not yield to words alone.” Dharun mused.

His voice dropped lower, quieter—just enough for Aaryan to hear.

"You can only avoid a blade for so long before you must wield one."

Aaryan inclined his head, his expression unreadable.

"We shall see."

He let out a soft chuckle before turning away.

The first trial was over.

He had survived.

Strategy had kept him alive. But if he wanted to dictate his fate, survival was not enough.

He needed power.