The late summer sun beat down on Shanxia Town. The square bustled with villagers shepherding their children into lines. Under the shed overlooking the crowd, green-robed elders pressed gnarled hands to one child after another.

"Ye San." The elder probing Ye San pursed his lips. "120 catties. 17 for the bones." He shook his head and waved the boy on.

Another elder beckoned to a pigtailed girl. ''Lin Si. 103 catties.'' His fingers explored her arms and legs. "18 catties of bone. Mediocre roots." The girl's parents exchanged disappointed looks.

"Xiao Er." This elder nodded in approval, fingers dancing across the boy's frame. "105 catties. 20 for the bones." The boy's father pumped his fist as the elder proclaimed, "Top-notch bone quality."

"Chu Da." The next elder clucked his tongue. "108 catties, 22 for the bones." He delivered his verdict with a sigh. "Adequate, but lacking at the crown." Chu Da's mother dabbed her eyes.

One by one, the village children were weighed and measured. Joyful cries or muffled sobs greeted each judgment on bone quality and potential. All the while, the sun beat down as the elders sang out their decrees.

An Jia squinted against the sun as another green-robed elder finished his examination.

"An Jia. 102 catties. 17 for the bones. Mediocre root bones," the elder proclaimed in a singsong voice.

An Jia's mother squeezed his hand, smiling through her disappointment. "There's always next year," she said.

That night, as An Jia lay on his pallet staring up at the thatched ceiling, his mother's voice drifted from the next room.

"It's a hard life, husband, toiling in the fields year after year," she sighed. "I wish more for our boy than callused hands and sun-browned skin."

His father's gruff voice rumbled in reply. "Wishin' won't plow the fields, wife. We make do."

"If only An Jia had tested better," his mother said wistfully. "He could have joined the Qingyun Sect. Cultivated his skills instead of crops."

An Jia pictured himself wielding mystical arts instead of tools. Never again mucking the pigsty or stooping to harvest rice. His mother was right—a sect life seemed easier.

But his father had a point too. His family needed him here. As sleep claimed him, An Jia dreamed of swords and swirling magic, tantalizing glimpses of what might have been.

The next day, An Jia stood with the other rejected youths, staring numbly as the fortunate ones were led away.

His mother squeezed his shoulder. "Chin up. You'll test better next year." But her eyes were fixed on the disappearing sect disciples, wistful and sad.

An Jia squared his shoulders. He might never join the sect, but he could still make her proud. There was honor in honest work, his father said.

As An Jia took up his hoe, he whispered a promise to the soil. He would cultivate this land to the best of his ability, and find purpose in a simple life. His mother had wished for more, but this was his destiny.

"All top-ranked, come forward," the elder suddenly commanded. "The rest, give your names."

An Jia shuffled into line with the rejects, his dreams of cultivation dashed.

The boy beside him swiped at his reddened eyes. "It's not fair," he whimpered. "My family has land and business. Why can't I support myself instead of toiling for the sect?"

An Jia just shrugged. After two lifetimes of struggle, peaceful farming held appeal.

The boy continued his tirade. "You have nothing, so you don't care if you must serve the sect. But I have prospects!" He burst into fresh tears.

"Don't care," An Jia said again. It was true. He'd scraped by before, and could do so again. Changing jobs, learning skills - anything to survive. But it had led only to death.

Now he craved simplicity - a life without strife. The sect offered that, though cultivation meant conflict. Hadn't he seen enough of that?

No, he would tend the sect fields and live out his days in pastoral bliss. Watching the mountains recede as the magic boat carried them upward, An Jia smiled.

This was his destiny.

Suddenly, the oars splashed as the teenagers rowed in unison, propelling the boat forward. An Jia gripped the side, staring wide-eyed as they picked up speed. The boat rose from the water, defying gravity as it ascended into the clouds.

He rubbed his eyes. How was this possible?

The other teenagers lounged on the deck, yawning. One boy elbowed him. "Sit down already. It's just a Sumeru Yunzhou spell. What did you expect?"

An Jia sank onto the bench, dumbfounded. A fish as large as a whale drifted past, its translucent fins billowing.

"Monster!" he cried, scrambling back.

The boy raised an eyebrow. "You mean the kun fish? Don't you ever look up at the sky?"

An Jia's face grew hot. These kids acted like floating boats and sky fish were normal. He was such an ignorant bumpkin.

The Sumeru Yunzhou glided over jagged peaks, some mere hillocks, others towering mountains. Waterfalls cascaded down sheer cliffs as the boat began its descent.

An Jia peered over the edge. Far below, peaks blanketed the earth like dragon scales, each tiny from this height yet unfathomably huge up close. His hometown could fit on the smallest with room to spare.

Later, a crane's talons clutched the sides of An Jia's basket, whisking him away to a deserted islet. Scrub grass covered the rocky terrain. A small hut crouched beneath swaying bamboo stalks. Baskets brimmed with seeds and tools—everything he needed to transform this wasteland into a garden.

Just two tasks lay before him: Survive alone. And cultivate this spiritual valley from ruin to abundance.

...

The senior disciple's lips pressed into a thin line as he glanced at An Jia. "You may lack the qualifications for cultivation, but our sect's duty is to educate all who reside here. Your purpose is singular—tend the land so our disciples may cultivate in peace."

He motioned to three bamboo slips on the table. "The Naqi Zhan chops firewood." He tapped the first slip. "The Mo Yunjue waters plants." His finger moved to the second. "And Chasing the Wind aids travel." He gestured at the third, then crossed his arms. "Any questions?"

An Jia picked up the slips one by one. Blank. He rubbed his thumb over the smooth surface, brows knitted in confusion.

"There's...no writing. Do they need my blood to reveal words?"

The disciple stiffened, eyes widening. He stared at An Jia as if seeing a ghost.

...