The gray puppet stood silently, its smooth, slender form illuminated by the faint glow of the floating screens. Its azul eyes flickered softly as it observed the candidates battling through the trials. Though motionless, the puppet's gaze was sharp, dissecting every movement, every strike, every flaw with meticulous precision.
The tower, winter realm, and creatures, like the puppet, was a creation of its creator—an experiment, a whim made tangible. It tested, pushed, and rewarded. Injury, exhaustion, failure—all were possibilities, but death and crippling injuries were not. The candidates would be expelled long before they reached the point of no return. For those who impressed the puppet, a suitable technique awaited, aligned with their emerging Dao.
The puppet's eyes shifted to the red-haired man, noting the force behind his wild, unrefined strikes with his large saber. His reliance on brute strength was evident, and his movements lacked finesse, but the Lesser Dao of Heaviness began to show in his actions. Commendable, if simplistic.
The knife-wielding woman moved differently. Her strikes were deliberate and efficient, every motion calculated for maximum impact. Her actions reflected dual alignments—Feather and Breeze—giving her strikes a deadly elegance. Though precise, her tactical detachment left her predictable when faced with chaos.
The two other women fought separately, their performances capable but uninspired. Their hesitation under pressure revealed a reliance on the red-haired man that marked their potential as limited. Neither showed the beginnings of a Dao, their movements competent but unremarkable.
Then, the puppet's attention returned to the boy with the staff.
The boy was different. His movements were fluid but unpolished, his strikes deliberate yet carrying minor flaws—a hesitation in transitions, an overcommitment in some swings. The puppet tilted its head slightly, watching his rhythm. He fought with the precision of someone trained, yet there was no refinement from formal instruction. His experience was raw, born from necessity rather than mastery.
But it was the desperation in his strikes that set him apart. Unlike the others, the boy fought as though failure meant death. His bloodied and battered frame, his intense focus—everything about him spoke of someone who believed this trial to be a matter of survival.
The puppet observed his ignorance with detached curiosity. It had seen cases like this before, when the cultivation assistance system withheld translations. The language etched along the entrances, universal to the cultivation world, had not been understood by the boy. He didn't realize the trial was not life or death and had unknowingly chosen the hardest path.
Its glowing eyes flickered faintly as it noticed something more. The boy's strikes carried the Lesser Dao of Force, but as the trial progressed, his movements began to shift. His strikes grew heavier, imbued with an inevitability that extended beyond mere physical force. The puppet recognized the change immediately.
The Dao of Force was transforming.
The strikes became something more—a Will Dao of Inevitable. Rare, but not unheard of. The puppet tilted its head, considering. The boy was young to manifest a Will Dao, but the certainty in his strikes was undeniable. The inevitability of collapse, the unrelenting truth of dominance—it all pointed to the emergence of this rare path.
The puppet wondered briefly if the boy was a reincarnation. Such an achievement at his level would suggest a soul that had lived before, a cultivator reborn. But as it continued to watch, it dismissed the notion. The boy's movements, though effective, were unrefined, and his ignorance of the trial's nature spoke volumes. A reincarnated soul would not be so unaware, nor would they carry the desperation of one who believed failure here meant death.
But then, the puppet noticed a shift.
The boy's strikes faltered, his body trembling with exhaustion. His spiritual energy had run dry, but instead of collapsing, he pushed further. His strikes grew erratic, his movements slower. Yet, his focus sharpened unnaturally.
The puppet's glowing azul eyes narrowed. The boy wasn't just channeling inevitability anymore—he was attempting to comprehend something deeper. His Will Dao was evolving further, beyond what his foundation or soul could bear. He was reaching toward the very concept of will itself, trying to grasp a truth he wasn't ready to hold.
The signs were clear: his soul was too weak to sustain this level of comprehension. His strikes carried weight, but they were unraveling him, piece by fragile piece. If he continued, he would lose himself entirely—body, mind, and soul.
The puppet moved instantly.
It appeared behind the boy without a sound, its motion precise and effortless. As the boy swung his staff one last time, his body trembling on the brink of collapse, the puppet extended a smooth, humanoid hand and placed it gently on his back.
The boy crumpled, unconscious before he hit the ground. His staff clattered to the floor beside him as his breathing steadied in deep, unnatural sleep.
The puppet straightened, its glowing azul eyes fixed on the boy's still form. A Will Dao of Inevitable. Will Dao was rare, but not unprecedented. But to attempt to comprehend will at this stage? Reckless. He wasn't ready—not yet.
The creator would undoubtedly find this one curious if he had been present.
The puppet missed its creator very much.