Stillwater doesn't waste time.
By morning, I'm led to the Gathering Fields—a wide terrace carved into the side of a cliff, bordered by still pools that reflect the gray sky above. The scent of lotus ash and frost hangs in the air. Nearly a hundred figures stand scattered across the field—new initiates like me.
Most don't wear masks.
Most glance at me.
And look away quickly.
But before this moment—last night—I made my own preparations.
After the clash outside the trial gate, a robed attendant escorted me through winding corridors and sky‑bridges of pale stone. No words, just gestures. I was given a small chamber near the lowest edge of the outer ring—a room carved directly into the cliffside, humble but private.
Inside, I sat cross‑legged beside a single flickering lantern. I let the ring's warmth settle at my core, guiding only enough power to sharpen my senses without revealing its source. Then I listened—overheard snippets of boasting and whispered rivalries in the halls, enough to map four likely competitors I might face in the trials today.
Only then—after hours of silent study—did I sleep.
And now…
Now, I stand among them.
At the front of the terrace stands a stone platform carved with runes. Keeper Elvare steps onto it, robes billowing in the wind like waves of smoke.
Her voice carries without strain.
"Welcome, chosen. You have passed the Gate of Stillwater, whether by legacy, trial, or token. But entry is not elevation."
Her eyes sweep the gathered crowd.
"This field—and the forested terraces, ruined orchards, the shattered bell tower, and the stables within the warded boundary—will decide your place. Beyond the three obelisks marking our perimeter, your token—and your claim—are forfeit."
A low murmur ripples through the initiates.
Beside her, another Elder rises—his face carved with scars, his aura sharp and still like a sheathed blade.
"Three paths lie before you," he says. "Choose them with your fists, your will, your essence."
He draws three symbols in the air, glowing lines etched into the mist.
**Outer Student. Core Student. Elite Disciple.**
He continues:
> **Outer Students** are the base—laborers of cultivation. You will fetch water, clean scroll vaults, grind stone to pay for each resource you use. Housing is simple, lessons are twice a week, and no personal mentors.
Several flinch. Others nod grimly.
> **Core Students** earn access to Stillwater's central library. You receive one‑on‑one instruction weekly and may compete in minor sect missions and inter‑school exchanges. Privileges are better. Expectations are higher.
Then the third glyph pulses brighter than the rest.
> **Elite Disciples** are the beating core of Stillwater. Chosen few. Personal students of Elders. Given cultivation pills, rare scrolls, inner‑realm training—and the right to travel between small worlds under Stillwater's banner.
Every face tightens at that.
Elite Disciples don't just gain power.
They're given freedom.
And in this world, that means *everything.*
"The challenge is simple," Elvare says, raising her voice so that even the trees beyond the obelisks seem to lean in.
"You each have one mark token."
She lifts a small talisman, shaped like a petal of stone.
"Defend your token for one full day—twenty‑four hours from this dawn. Steal others' within the Gathering Fields, the forest fringe, the orchards, the bell tower, and the stables—all inside our wards. Ten tokens grants Core status. Thirty makes you Elite. Lose your only token… and you become nothing."
She lets the silence settle.
"Begin."
The world erupts.
Some vanish in flashes of windstep techniques.
Others go low, fast, striking at weaklings.
I don't move yet.
My token rests in my palm.
I didn't come here to climb for pride.
But if I'm to survive long enough to prepare for the rival's arrival, I'll need access. Power. Resources. Connections.
So I tuck the token beneath my sleeve, adjust the mask, and vanish into the trees at the edge of the terrace.
Let the others fight like fools under open sky.
I'll choose my targets.
One at a time.
By dusk, I'll have ten.
By dawn, I might take thirty.
I've done worse under worse suns.
And in this second life—I'm not interested in starting low.