CHAPTER 21 — Measured in Blood and Time
The center of the pavilion ground filled with quiet inevitability.
Stone pylons rose from the earth like ancient sentinels, their surfaces etched with formation lines that pulsed faintly as contenders approached. Each pylon responded only when touched—cold, impartial, and utterly uninterested in intention.
The first contender stepped forward.
The measuring pylon reacted instantly—light rising along its surface in thin, uneven threads. Symbols flared, wavered, then stabilized.
"Initial Mortal Realm," the pavilion attendant announced.
No surprise followed.
The next contender.
Then another.
Again and again, the artifact responded the same way—faint illumination, shallow resonance, power barely brushing the lower threshold.
Initial Mortal Realm.
Initial Mortal Realm.
Initial Mortal Realm.
Some faces tightened in disappointment. Others exhaled in relief. A few nodded grimly, as if they had already known.
Time passed.
Then the glow deepened.
When the artifact flared brighter—more stable, more cohesive—the announcement changed.
"Intermediate Mortal Realm."
That drew attention.
Not gasps, but glances. Quiet reassessments. A few contenders straightened their backs. Others lowered their eyes.
Still, they were few.
A notable minority. Nothing more.
Then came the first real pause.
The artifact pulsed—not violently, not dramatically—but with a weight that lingered. The inscriptions did not flicker. They locked.
The light climbed higher.
"Peak Mortal Realm."
The pavilion stirred.
Heads lifted. Murmurs spread, restrained but unmistakable.
One.
Then another.
Each time the announcement came, the same measured tone. No praise. No emphasis. Yet each confirmation carried more weight than the last.
By the time the count reached ten, even the elders were watching carefully.
Fifteen.
That was all.
When the final contender stepped away and the artifact dimmed, the pavilion grounds settled into an uneasy stillness.
Only fifteen cultivators—out of hundreds—had reached Peak Mortal Realm.
No more.
No less.
Ren stepped forward when his turn came—one of the fifteen.
No hesitation.
No eagerness.
The moment his hand touched the pylon, the array reacted.
Not explosively.
Not weakly.
The light rose smoothly, as if following a predetermined path. No fluctuation. No resistance. The inscriptions aligned with almost unsettling precision.
The glow reached the upper threshold of Mortal Realm.
And stopped.
Perfectly.
"Peak Mortal Realm," the attendant announced.
Nothing more.
Ren withdrew his hand and stepped aside.
He showed no reaction.
No satisfaction.
No tension released.
He did not look toward the elders. Did not glance at the artifact again. To anyone watching, it was exactly what one would expect from a cultivator who had simply confirmed what he already knew.
But on the elevated platform—
One elder's brow furrowed.
Another tilted his head slightly.
The First Elder's gaze sharpened.
Not because of the result.
But because of the lack of excess.
No residue clung to Ren's aura. No instability followed him away from the pylon. It was as if his power had never been tested at all—only acknowledged.
"Clean," one elder murmured.
"Too clean," another replied.
Below, Ren returned to his place among the contenders.
One of fifteen.
Indistinguishable in rank.
And yet—quietly marked.
At his side, the fox remained seated, tail tucked neatly around its paws, eyes half-lidded as if bored by the proceedings. To any observer, it was nothing more than a well-trained companion beast.
The pylons dimmed.
___
Once the final name was recorded, pavilion attendants moved swiftly.
Stone markers embedded around the evaluation ground lit up one after another, their inscriptions shifting to display numbers and symbols. Contenders were directed outward, guided not by voice but by formation arrays that gently—but firmly—pulled their auras into alignment.
Rank determined everything.
Initial Mortal Realm cultivators were guided toward the outer rings, where the ground bore older scars and reinforcement formations were denser—built for endurance rather than spectacle.
Intermediate Mortal Realm contenders were gathered closer to the center, fewer in number, their spacing wider. Their eyes were sharper now. Calculating.
The fifteen at Peak Mortal Realm were separated last.
No announcement marked the distinction.
They simply felt the pull change.
Ren followed the pressure without resistance, stepping into a smaller formation circle where fourteen others stood in silence. Some glanced at one another, gauging. Others stared straight ahead, already rehearsing survival.
Five per group.
Three groups total.
Ren was placed in the last.
No explanation given.
From the stone platform above, the elders observed the divisions without comment. Group balance was not about fairness—it was about observation. About seeing who stabilized under pressure, and who collapsed when responsibility was shared.
Below, tension thickened.
Because everyone understood one thing now:
They would not be tested alone.
___
The First Elder stepped forward once more.
The pavilion quieted instantly.
"The evaluation phase is complete," he said. "What follows is the first true filter."
His gaze swept the divided formations.
"You will be tested in groups of five," he continued. "Each group will face a magical beast ranked one stage higher than your group's confirmed Realm."
A stir rippled through the crowd—subtle, but unmistakable.
"Initial Mortal Realm groups will face Level One intermediate stage beasts," the First Elder said evenly.
"Intermediate Mortal Realm groups—Level One peak stage beasts."
"Peak Mortal Realm groups—Level Two initial stage beasts."
He paused deliberately.
"Survival is not optional."
The words settled like weight.
"A group will be considered successful if the beast is slain, forced to retreat, or if the group survives for half an hour under sustained engagement."
Some faces paled.
Others hardened.
"You are expected to fight," the First Elder continued. "You are expected to protect one another. Coordination matters as much as strength."
His voice cooled.
"Any contender who abandons their group, refuses engagement, or attempts to flee will be immediately disqualified."
No ambiguity remained.
"However," he added, eyes narrowing slightly, "exceptional individual performance will be noted—even if the group fails."
That single sentence reignited hope in some, and fear in others.
The First Elder stepped back.
"The test will proceed group by group," he said. "Observers will intervene only to prevent death—not failure."
___
Formation arrays flared to life around the testing ground.
Stone gates along the far edge of the training grounds groaned open.
Beyond them lay the arena.
The ground was uneven, scarred by countless past trials. Suppression arrays were carved deep into the stone—not to protect contenders, but to prevent excessive destruction. Pain would remain. Injury would remain. Death, if it occurred, would be… instructional.
Low growls rolled from within.
The first group—five Initial Mortal Realm cultivators—was called forward.
They entered together, but their steps were uneven. Some walked too quickly, others too slowly. Their formation existed only because they stood close—not because they understood one another.
Their opponent emerged fully.
A Level 1 Intermediate-stage beast, massive shoulders rippling as it moved. Its hide was thick, layered with old scars that spoke of previous battles survived—not won cleanly, but endured.
The signal was given.
Chaos followed almost immediately.
One cultivator charged too early. Another hesitated to support. Their formation collapsed into individual reactions rather than collective movement.
The beast exploited it ruthlessly.
Half an hour later, the barrier flared.
They had survived.
Barely.
Two were wounded badly enough to require assistance. One was unconscious. Their victory earned no applause—only a mark beside their names.
The second Initial Mortal group fared worse.
They hesitated from the beginning.
When the beast roared, one contender's resolve shattered. He turned and ran.
The barrier ignited instantly.
"Disqualified," the First Elder said, voice carrying without effort.
The fight ended not with blood—but with shame.
Groups continued.
Some adapted mid-fight. Some learned too slowly. Many failed without ever understanding why.
The ground was cleaned after each bout.
Blood washed away. Fear did not.
When the Intermediate Mortal Realm groups were called, the atmosphere changed.
These cultivators moved with intention. They formed real formations. They communicated—sometimes with words, sometimes with nothing more than a glance.
Still, the beasts did not relent.
A Level 1 peak-stage beast punished hesitation mercilessly.
One Intermediate group lasted nearly the full duration through discipline alone, rotating positions methodically as injuries mounted. Another collapsed when their core fighter was knocked aside early, their remaining members unable to adapt.
Then came the Peak Mortal Realm.
The first Peak group stepped into the arena.
Their opponent was heavier. Faster. Smarter.
A Level 2 Initial-stage beast, its presence pressing down like a physical weight.
The fight was relentless.
They worked together seamlessly—shield coverage precise, attacks measured, retreats executed without panic. Still, the beast forced them back again and again.
Minutes dragged into agony.
When the half-hour signal finally sounded, all five remained standing.
None stood straight.
Armor was shattered. Blood soaked the earth. One cultivator collapsed the moment the barrier flared.
They had passed.
Not gloriously.
But unquestionably.
No one argued the result.
Relief swept through the spectators.
Then the second Peak group was called.
From the beginning, their coordination felt… assumed.
They trusted strength instead of structure.
When pressure mounted, cracks appeared.
One faltered.
Another failed to cover.
The beast surged.
Panic spread.
What followed was not a fight—it was survival stripped of dignity.
They failed before twenty minutes passed.
As the survivors were dragged from the arena, the First Elder's gaze paused briefly on a single spear-wielder who had held the line alone after the rest broke.
A Pavilion worker quietly marked his name.
Extraordinary performance did not erase collective failure.
But it was never ignored.
Silence settled over the grounds.
Only one group remained.
Five cultivators.
The last Peak Mortal Realm group.
The First Elder straightened, hands clasped behind his back.
"Final group," he announced. "Step forward."
Ren rose smoothly.
Behind him, the fox did not move—its eyes sharp now, fully open, attention locked on the arena.
Ren walked toward the gate.
One cultivator among four others.
But the weight in the air had changed.
This was no longer about survival alone.
This was where Stonewake Pavilion decided who would be remembered.
___
Chapter End