The selection grounds remain silent.
The weaker sects do not dare speak.
Only the strongest step forward.
They had waited. Measured. Calculated.
De-Reece was not just another competitor. He did not simply overpower his opponents—he controlled every encounter. He dictated the pace of his battles, revealing only what was necessary, never allowing his full strength to be seen.
To some, this made him dangerous.
To others, it made him valuable.
And now—the real struggle begins.
A man clad in flowing silver robes steps forward. His posture is impeccable, his expression cold, but his voice carries authority.
"De
It is not a question. Not a claim.
A statement.
His robes bear the sigil of Mount Heng, one of the Five Great Orthodox Sects. A sect known for its structured training, rigid hierarchy, and a cultivation method that emphasized absolute mastery over one's foundation before advancing.
They did not recruit lightly.
The representative's gaze does not waver.
"You understand what we offer. Stability. Strength. Discipline."** He folds his arms behind his back. "Join Mount Heng, and you will have access to techniques refined over centuries. A true path to the peak."**
There is no arrogance in his words.
Only certainty.
The sect does not need to persuade. Their name speaks for itself.
They do not need him.
They offer because they see potential.
And if he refuses?
They will simply move on.
Another figure moves.
A representative clad in black and gold armor, a spear resting against his back. His stance is relaxed, but the tension in his frame is undeniable—a warrior, through and through.
The Jin Spear Sect.
A sect that specialized in deadly, efficient spear techniques. Their disciples were known for their overwhelming force on the battlefield, their formations capable of crushing even higher-leveled opponents.
The man's gaze sharpens as he speaks.
"Mount Heng offers control."** He scoffs. "We offer dominance."**
His fingers tap against the shaft of his spear.
"You don't fight like a swordsman. You don't fight like a standard cultivator."** He tilts his head slightly. "But I see it in you—the instinct. The hunger. You belong among warriors, not monks."**
He does not wait for a response.
He does not need to.
Because he knows—his words have weight.
The Orthodox sects speak first.
But the Unorthodox are not silent.
A shadow shifts. A figure barely noticeable steps forward, moving as though he had been there all along—simply waiting.
His robes bear no grand embellishments. No excessive displays of wealth or power. Only dark fabric, flowing lightly in the wind.
The Silent Sword Clan.
A sect known for its stealth, its lethal precision, its mastery of silence.
The man does not introduce himself.
"You are not what they think you are."** His voice is quiet, but it carries.**
"You understand deception. You understand restraint."
His eyes meet De-Reece's.
"You fight like someone who is always prepared for an unseen opponent."
He does not elaborate.
Because he does not need to.
His message is clear—they see what others do not.
And they offer him a place among ghosts.
For a moment, a fourth sect remains silent.
Mount Kunlun.
They have already taken Kaelen.
But they have watched De-Reece.
They know there is something off.
He does not wield a sword openly, yet he carries one.
He moves like a warrior. But not just any warrior.
A swordsman.
They hesitate.
Because if they offer—they are not sure what they are offering for.
And if they wait too long—they will lose the chance.
The selection grounds are no longer just a trial for the competitors.
It is now a battle between sects.
Each representative stands firm, making their claim.
But none of them realize—
De-Reece has already decided.
Because he is not waiting for a sect to choose him.
He will choose.
And the question now is simple.
Which path will he take?
The tension lingers.
The strongest sects have stepped forward. They want him.
But De-Reece?
He does not rush to answer.
Instead, he stands firm, his posture unwavering. He lets the moment stretch, forcing silence upon the selection grounds.
This is not arrogance.
This is control.
By not answering immediately, he shifts the balance of power. The sects now realize they are not selecting him—he is selecting them.
And that?
Changes everything.
Some sect representatives remain stoic. They understand what he is doing. They are willing to wait.
But others?
They begin to reassess.
Mount Heng's representative—**calm, disciplined—**watches with analytical precision. He is not impatient. If De-Reece refuses, Mount Heng will move on without hesitation.
The Jin Spear Sect's warrior narrows his eyes, sensing the shift in dynamic. He does not like being made to wait. But he also knows that a warrior who does not pick his battles wisely is a fool.
The Silent Sword Clan's envoy remains motionless, unbothered. He expected this. Perhaps, in some ways, he respects it.
But Mount Kunlun?
Their hesitation grows.
If they wait too long, they will lose the chance to stake a claim.
And now?
They have to decide if they will take the risk.
The pressure works.
The representative from Mount Kunlun steps forward.
"We have watched your battles. Your style is unconventional, yet… calculated. You understand more than you reveal."
The man studies him, his gaze lingering on the sheathed sword at De-Reece's waist.
"You carry a blade, yet you refuse to use it."
A pause.
A single question lingers in the air, unspoken but undeniable.
Why?
De-Reece says nothing.
Because the longer they question him, the more leverage he gains.
Mount Kunlun's representative does not press further. Instead, he nods.
"We will extend our invitation."
A calculated risk. They do not know what he is.
But they know he is worth having.
The Jin Spear Sect's warrior grins.
"Good."
He crosses his arms, his posture strong and unmoving.
"You know your worth. That's what I like to see."
But then, his tone sharpens.
"But know this—indecision is a weakness. A warrior does not hesitate. If you choose us, you commit to strength. If not?" He shrugs. "Then maybe you were never meant to be one of us."
A challenge.
Not a demand.
A test.
And De-Reece acknowledges it.
Mount Heng's representative remains unbothered.
He does not push.
He does not plead.
Instead, he simply states:
"Greatness is not decided by where you start. It is decided by where you end."
There is no urgency in his voice.
Because Mount Heng does not need to convince anyone.
They have offered. That is enough.
If De-Reece refuses, it will be his loss.
The Silent Sword Clan's envoy does not speak immediately.
But when he does—it is with quiet certainty.
"You will walk a dangerous road."
He does not say which road.
Does not clarify whether it is because of De-Reece's power, his decisions, or the way he makes others uneasy.
And then—he steps back.
Because his message is already clear.
He lets the silence settle.
Then—
He speaks.
"I am not looking for a sect that wants another soldier."
His voice is calm, measured—yet absolute.
"I am looking for a path that will take me to the peak."
He meets their gazes, unshaken.
"Tell me, then—of all your sects, which one has the power to take me there?"
A challenge.
Not of strength.
But of vision.
He is not here to be shaped.
He is here to claim his future.
And now?
The sects must decide—who among them will dare to meet him at the peak?
The air in the selection grounds is heavy with anticipation.
De-Reece does not rush his decision. He has already turned the balance of power in his favor, making it clear that he will not be chosen—he will choose.
And so, as the Mount Kunlun representative steps forward, their hesitation gone, the real negotiation begins.
The Mount Kunlun elder, clad in deep blue robes with silver embroidery, does not waste words.
"You have made your stance clear, De
He pauses, his sharp gaze unwavering.
"So here is ours: Join Mount Kunlun, and you will be granted privileges few outer sect disciples receive."
The murmurs begin among the other sect representatives, but he does not stop.
"You will enter with the status of a Seated Disciple in name." His tone is deliberate. "Prove yourself further, and upon entering the inner sect, that title will be fully yours."
A promise of power. A bargain that no ordinary competitor would receive.
The crowd watches as De-Reece remains silent.
Not in hesitation.
But in deliberation.
He could refuse. He could choose another path.
But he knows the truth—Mount Kunlun is the best stepping stone for now.
And so, after a measured moment, he nods.
"I accept."
The weight of the words settles over the selection grounds.
He does not bow. He does not thank them.
Because this is not a gift.
This is a deal.
One that he will shape to his own advantage.
As the selections continue, Kalia's name is called.
She steps forward, her posture tense yet steady. She has fought, endured, and proven herself—now, she must choose.
And she chooses Mount Kunlun.
Not because of De-Reece. Not because of obligation.
But because she believes in her own strength.
And if this sect will make her stronger—then she will prove that she belongs.
But deep down, she wonders—will their rigid ways truly suit her?
Or will she one day need to forge her own path?
Not long after, Joran steps forward.
But he does not stand before an orthodox sect.
Instead, he walks toward a representative clad in dark crimson robes, his expression unreadable.
A mid-tier unorthodox sect.
Joran does not look back.
Not at Kalia. Not at De-Reece.
But as he walks away, his fists tighten, his shoulders stiff.
This is not the end of his grudge.
It has only just begun.
With the final choices made, the selection is over.
Some competitors celebrate their victories.
Others mourn their losses.
But for De-Reece, Kalia, and Joran—this is only the beginning.
Now, the real journey begins.
Mount Kunlun awaits.
A place of power, of hierarchy, of rules.
And within those rules?
De-Reece will carve his own path.
One step closer to the peak.