Within the sprawling confines of the Phoenix Feather Sect, where the aura of the Disciple Selection Examination held sway, an extraordinary saga unfolded across three grueling days.
These trials, forged in the crucible of hardship, were cunningly designed to separate the wheat from the chaff, to expose the true mettle of those who dared to venture.
Amongst the contenders, a single figure had already ascended, his name echoing through the hallowed halls: Ethan, a young prodigy whose meteoric rise defied all expectations.
With an iron grip, he seized the apex of the first two trials, carving his dominance into the very fabric of their collective consciousness. It appeared, to the amazement of all who beheld him, that no force in the heavens or on earth could thwart his relentless march towards claiming the ultimate prize—the coveted first place in the entirety of the examination, with all its bountiful rewards.
Yet, amidst the clamor of aspirations and the palpable hunger for triumph, an enigmatic figure lurked in the shadows, harboring a desperate desire to halt Ethan's inexorable climb. His name was Arthur, a prodigious soul who had secured second position in the initial trials.
Though the prescribed age for sect entry was fifteen, Arthur had bided his time, patiently waiting for the opportune moment to unveil his exceptional abilities.
For an entire year, he concealed his formidable potential, sacrificing the allure of early acclaim for the chance to seize the fabled first rank and the spoils that accompanied it.
As the momentous day of reckoning drew near, Arthur sensed an auspicious void—a dearth of renowned prodigies from esteemed families stepping forth to claim their destinies.
Yet, cruel fate, ever capricious, had betrayed him, as an inconspicuous upstart emerged from the shadows, surpassing Arthur's own prodigious talents. A year of relentless toil, wasted, vanquished by the progeny of an inconsequential mortal. The tempest of Arthur's fury, once kindled, threatened to engulf all reason and sanity.
And so, driven to desperation, Arthur ventured into the abyss of his own depths, devising a plan that could, perhaps, shatter Ethan's spirit and end his inexorable march.
Dispatching a contingent of skilled martial artists to Ethan's humble abode, he issued a grim directive: cripple the interloper's legs, strip him of his ability to stand and fight.
With determination etched upon their faces, these shadowed assassins descended upon their unsuspecting prey. In the cloak of night, they struck with relentless precision, shattering bone and sinew, leaving Ethan a mere shell of his former self, his body robbed of the strength needed to partake in the pivotal final trial.
.....
Three moons had waxed and waned since the harrowing Disciple Selection Examination, its memory lingering like a relentless specter in James' weary mind. He trudged homeward with exhaustion weighing him down, each step a laborious task as if the simple act of walking had become an insurmountable burden. Having toiled for fifteen grueling hours in the unforgiving depths of the mine, he approached his dwelling with a sluggish gait.
Upon reaching the threshold, James straightened his stooped frame, summoning a facade of confidence that concealed the weariness etched upon his weathered countenance. With painstaking slowness, he turned the doorknob, permitting the door to creak open, as if even the inanimate objects conspired to prolong his torment.
Nestled upon the bed, like a wounded bird unable to take flight, lay his son, Ethan. One of his limbs lay broken, a cruel shackle that shackled his spirit, rendering him a captive within his own flesh. James approached the bedside, his footsteps laden with trepidation, and observed the vacant stare that had claimed Ethan's visage. Even when James drew near, his son remained lost in the recesses of his own tortured thoughts, oblivious to the paternal presence.
"Ethan, my boy, what's been weighing on your mind?" James asked softly, his voice laced with concern.
Ethan remained silent, his eyes fixed on the floor. James could see the turmoil within his son and decided to press on gently. "Don't you worry, Ethan. Like I've said, before that next exam rolls around, I swear on my life, I'll get my hands on the Renewal Blossom to mend your leg. And once that leg's healed, nothing and no one can stand in your way of becoming the martial artist you were meant to be. No one."
The room remained quiet, the tension thickening the air. James, undeterred, continued, "Listen, Ethan. This setback is just a small bump in the road. Life will throw bigger challenges at you, ones that may seem insurmountable. But you mustn't lose hope, my son. I believe in you..." Before James could finish his sentence, Ethan erupted, his voice filled with frustration and pain. "STOP! Just stop it, Dad! I don't want to be a martial artist anymore. Can't you understand?"
James, taken aback by the sudden outburst, didn't budge an inch. He stayed right there, sitting by Ethan's side.
"Please, son, don't let anger consume you. It's only gonna make things worse. Just rest, and I'll take care of everything for you," James said, his voice laden with genuine concern.
Silence.
As James started to leave, Ethan's voice sliced through the stillness like a blade. "Dad... don't do it. Please, I don't want you exerting yourself for me. No need to push yourself so forcefully. And don't pretend, Dad. I can see right through you."
James remained silent, the weight of unspoken words hanging heavy in the air.
"I'm sorry, Dad, for yelling at you. But damn it, please don't kill yourself over this. I can't bear to watch you suffer anymore. I... I can't," Ethan started sobbing, tears cascading down his face. "Please, Dad, please understand that even if you fix my leg before the next exam, there's no way in hell I'll make the cut after being stuck in this bed for six long months."
Witnessing his son's anguish, James finally lost his composure. He hugged his son, and he too started crying, both drowning in a sea of regret and helplessness. "Forgive me, son. Forgive your weak, pitiful old man. I couldn't even keep you safe. So, please... just let me do what I can. Please..."
James's sobs eventually subsided, but Ethan's cries persisted, like a relentless storm hammering against their fragile existence. The sounds echoed through the cramped room, suffocating the air with raw anguish. James, his tear-stained face etched with shadows, gazed at his son with a mixture of awe and shame, the two emotions intertwining like the branches of a twisted tree.
In the dim light, James watched as his son's eyes fluttered and closed, finally succumbing to the exhaustion that plagued them both. Ethan's small frame, a mere reflection of James's own insecurities, lay peacefully on the bed. A weight settled upon James's heart, a heavy burden that no amount of tears could wash away.
The room seemed to shrink around him, its walls closing in as if to smother him in his helplessness. His eyes traced the cracks in the paint, following their jagged paths like the scars of his own failures. How had it come to this?
Never before had he felt such a damning indictment of his own weaknesses. His son, a testament to strength and talent, had left the young masters of renowned martial families in his dust, a mere speck in the rearview mirror of Ethan's rising star. James, a man bereft of those very qualities, could only utter words of praise for the boy who shared his blood, his very essence. But what good were empty praises when he couldn't even keep his own flesh and blood safe until he joined the revered sect?
A solemn vow formed in the depths of James's heart, mingling with the bitter taste of regret. Even if it meant the ultimate sacrifice, he would ensure that his son became the martial artist he truly deserved to be. This newfound determination clawed its way through his veins, an untamed beast demanding to be unleashed upon the world.
It was then, in that charged moment, that James's gaze fell upon his wife standing at the door of the house, her eyes swollen with the weight of their shared sorrow. As if guided by some unspoken agreement, James rose from his place on the worn wooden bed, a silent understanding passing between them. They ventured outside, their footsteps soft as whispers, so as not to disturb their slumbering son, lost in the oblivion of innocence.
"How much did they give us?" James murmured, his voice trembling with a mixture of desperation and resignation.
For three grueling months, they had toiled ceaselessly, their hands calloused and their spirits worn. The weight of their collective labor had increased twofold, their sweat and blood seeping into every waking moment. And yet, the cruel mistress of arithmetic had revealed the truth in all its merciless glory. Even with loans from relatives, friends, and moneylenders, their pitiful savings amounted to a mere 2,500 gold coins. A paltry sum in the face of the insurmountable mountain that stood before them.
Renewal Blossom, a tantalizing marvel whispered of in hushed tones, possessed the power to mend the shattered limbs of mortals and martial artists alike. A miraculous herb with the ability to erase the scars of misfortune within a mere twenty-four hours, leaving no trace of its healing touch. But such miracles came at a staggering price—a sum of 10,000 gold coins. A price that mocked James's meager existence, a lifetime of earnings for those condemned to tread the path of ordinary men.
Time surged forward like a merciless river, its currents dragging James deeper into the unfathomable chasm of his despair. Three months vanished in the blink of an eye, swallowed by the insatiable maw of the relentless clock, leaving behind nothing but the acrid taste of broken promises. The world had a way of playing tricks on a man's mind, turning dreams to dust and hope to ashes.
In his trembling hands, a paltry collection of 5,000 gold coins mocked him, glimmering with false allure, like a siren's song luring him towards his downfall. The metallic clink of the coins echoed in the hollow chambers of his soul, a cacophony of disappointment and regret. But it was the specter of the Disciple Selection Examination that haunted him most.
He stood on the threshold of the mine, his face etched with determination, a mask of resolve that masked the turmoil raging beneath. It was here, in the belly of the earth, that he would make his final stand.
James had long accepted the bitter truth, the realization that the lofty goal of amassing the remaining 5,000 gold coins lay beyond his reach. The once-overflowing well of borrowed favors had run dry, leaving him parched and desperate. His weary body, accustomed to years of toil in the bowels of the mine, rebelled against his ambitions, whispering words of caution and self-preservation.
Yet, in the darkest recesses of his mind, a dangerous idea took root—a desperate gamble that promised swift resolution to his financial woes. To steal a spirit stone from the very mine that had been his workplace for over a decade. The concept repulsed him to the core, a visceral rejection of everything he held dear. But the inexorable march of circumstances had painted him into a corner, leaving him with no choice but to dance with the devil.
With trembling steps, James descended into the depths, his heart a pendulum of conflicting emotions. Each footfall echoed through the ancient tunnels, a hollow reminder of his descent into darkness. Shadows danced on the walls, casting elongated forms that seemed to taunt his faltering resolve. But he pressed on, his fingers clenching and unclenching in silent prayer.
The weight of guilt settled heavy upon his shoulders, a constant companion as he navigated the labyrinthine maze of corridors. The mine, once a sanctuary of honest labor, had become a treacherous labyrinth of his own making. And in the depths of that darkness, James confronted the frailty of his mortal coil, the vulnerability that had led him to this desperate act.
But there, in the recesses of his consciousness, flickered a glimmer of hope—a dim light amidst the encroaching shadows. If he could succeed, if he could secure the necessary funds, his son would be granted a future far brighter than James himself could ever dream. A chance to ascend the ranks, to wield the power that had eluded his father's grasp. It was a small flame, delicate and fragile, but it burned with a ferocity that defied the odds.
So, with trepidation as his only companion, James continued his clandestine journey, his fate hanging in the balance. The spirit stone awaited, a coveted prize that held both salvation and damnation. And as he stepped deeper into the mine's belly, he whispered a desperate prayer, begging for forgiveness and the strength to endure the consequences of his choices.