The walk back to Willow Creek Village took longer than the walk to the Han Xu Sect.
Not because the distance had changed. The road was the same road, the same packed earth marked by the same stones embedded in the path. The sun followed the same arc across the sky it had followed that morning.
But Li Zhiwei's feet moved slower.
Not from exhaustion. His body could manage the distance easily. He'd walked farther while helping Aunt Han deliver crops to the market in the next town over. His legs weren't the problem.
The problem was what waited at the end of the walk.
The field that still needed finishing. The house with its two rooms and packed earth floor. The hearth where Aunt Han would be preparing the evening meal, waiting to hear what had happened, already knowing but waiting for him to say it anyway.
And worse than any of that: the memory of a promise he'd made and couldn't keep.
Li Zhiwei stopped walking again. Third time since leaving the sect. Just stopped, standing in the middle of the road, staring at nothing in particular.
His hands were shaking.
That was new. They hadn't shaken at the testing courtyard. Hadn't shaken when Elder Qin delivered the verdict. Hadn't shaken when he walked through the gate past all those whispers.
But now, with no one watching, they shook.
He looked down at them. These hands that had touched the Testing Stone and produced nothing. These hands that had held his father's as a child while listening to stories about cultivation, about immortals who could fly and legendary heroes who could split mountains.
These useless hands.
The shaking got worse.
Li Zhiwei had been seven years old when his father first told him about the ancient heroes.
It was winter. The kind of deep cold that made farming impossible, that forced everyone indoors to wait for spring while living off preserved food and hoping supplies would last. His father had been sitting by the hearth, mending tools, when Li Zhiwei had asked the question that would shape the next decade of his life.
"Father, what's cultivation?"
His father's hands had paused in their work. He'd looked at Li Zhiwei with an expression the boy couldn't quite read. Something between sadness and fondness.
"Why do you ask?"
"I heard the traveling merchant talking about it. About people who can live forever and break stones with their hands. Is it real?"
His father had been quiet for a long moment. Then he'd set down the tool he was mending and gestured for Li Zhiwei to sit beside him.
"It's real. Cultivation is the practice of refining your body and spirit to transcend mortal limitations. Those who succeed can live for centuries, perform feats that seem impossible, achieve things ordinary people can only dream about."
Li Zhiwei's eyes had gone wide. "Can anyone do it?"
"No. You need spiritual roots. Special structures inside your body that let you sense and absorb spiritual energy. Most people don't have them."
"Do I have them?"
His father had looked at him for a long moment. That same expression. Sadness and fondness mixed together.
"I don't know. The only way to find out is to be tested. When you're older."
"When I'm older, will you take me to be tested?"
"If that's what you want, yes."
Li Zhiwei had nodded enthusiastically. "And when I pass the test and become a cultivator, I'll make our family rich and you won't have to farm anymore and we'll live in a big house in the city."
His father had smiled at that. A sad smile, but a smile nonetheless.
"That would be good."
Then he'd done something unexpected. He'd started telling Li Zhiwei stories.
Not the simple stories other parents told their children. Not tales of talking animals or moral lessons wrapped in parable. Real stories. Histories.
He told him about The tale of Ren Zu, the Human Ancestor, who'd become the first cultivator and defeated the Primordial Dragon Emperor when humanity was still prey.
He told him about the Nine Saints who'd sacrificed their souls to seal the demonic rift and save the world from corruption.
He told him about Chen Wuji, the formation master who'd created the Eternal Circulation Array and stabilized reality itself.
He told him about Sword Saint Li Taibai, who'd perfected the path of the blade and could cut concepts instead of just matter.
And he told him about heroes whose names had been forgotten but whose deeds remained, cultivators who'd fought impossible battles and died doing impossible things and changed the world through sheer refusal to accept limits.
Li Zhiwei had listened with the rapt attention only children could manage, absorbing every detail, every name, every incredible feat.
"Could I become like them?" he'd asked.
His father had looked at him with that same sad expression.
"Perhaps. If you have the talent. If you have the dedication. If you have the Will to refuse every limitation that tries to stop you."
"I have Will," Li Zhiwei had said with all the confidence of a seven-year-old who didn't yet understand what Will actually meant.
His father had smiled at that. "I believe you do."
That winter, his father had told him stories every evening. The history of cultivation. The nature of different paths. The philosophy of advancement. The cost of transcendence.
His mother had protested once, quietly, when Li Zhiwei was asleep.
"Why are you filling his head with these stories? He's just a boy. He'll only be disappointed."
"Maybe," his father had said. "But maybe not. And if there's even the smallest chance, shouldn't he know what's possible?"
His mother had died that spring. The illness that came quietly and stayed until it finished.
His father had died three years later. The same kind of death. The same quiet ending.
But before he died, he'd made Li Zhiwei promise something.
"Keep learning," he'd said, his voice already weakening. "Keep studying. When you're old enough, go to the Han Xu Sect and take their test. Find out if you have spiritual roots. If you do, cultivate. Become strong. Become what I couldn't be."
"What do you mean?" Li Zhiwei had asked. "What couldn't you be?"
But his father had just smiled that sad smile and closed his eyes.
Li Zhiwei had promised. Had sworn he would take the test. Had spent the next three years reading every book about cultivation he could find, listening to every traveling merchant's story, memorizing the names of legendary heroes and their impossible deeds.
And he'd made a promise to Aunt Han.
It was six months ago. Late summer. They'd been working the same field he'd been working yesterday.
"When I go to the Han Xu Sect for testing," he'd said, "and when I come back, if I'm smiling, that means you don't have to farm anymore."
Aunt Han had stopped her hoeing. "What kind of promise is that?"
"It means I passed. It means I have spiritual roots. It means I'll join the sect and become a cultivator and eventually I'll be strong enough to send you money so you can rest."
"And if you're not smiling when you come back?"
Li Zhiwei had been quiet for a moment. "Then we finish this field and plant in spring like we always do."
Aunt Han had looked at him with an expression he couldn't quite read. "You shouldn't make promises about things you can't control."
"I can control how hard I try."
"That's not the same as controlling outcomes."
But he'd made the promise anyway. To her. To himself. To his dead father's memory.
When I come back smiling, it means everything changes.
Li Zhiwei stood in the middle of the road, hands shaking, face wet with something he hadn't realized he was producing.
Tears.
He was crying.
Not sobbing. Not making noise. Just tears running down his face while his hands shook and his throat felt like it was closing.
He'd held this back at the Han Xu Sect. Held it back while Elder Qin delivered the verdict. Held it back while walking through the gate. Held it back while processing what it meant.
But now, alone on a road with no one watching, it came anyway.
All those years of stories. All those names memorized. All those impossible deeds studied and admired and dreamed about replicating.
All of it for nothing.
No spiritual roots.
He would never fly. Never break stone with his hands. Never live for centuries or achieve impossible things or become someone whose name would be remembered after death.
He would farm. Marry someone eventually. Have children who would also farm. Grow old working the same earth his father had worked, his grandfather before that, every generation the same.
Not a bad life. Not a wrong life. But not the life he'd promised his father. Not the life he'd spent a decade preparing for. Not the life that would let Aunt Han rest.
He'd come back broken instead of smiling.
The promise couldn't be kept.
Li Zhiwei stood there crying for perhaps a quarter hour. Maybe longer. Hard to measure time when the world had collapsed into this single moment of grief for a future that would never exist.
Eventually, the tears stopped. Not because the grief had ended. Because bodies had limits, and crying was work, and eventually the work became too much to sustain.
He wiped his face with his sleeve. Took a breath. Then another.
The road was still there. Willow Creek Village was still waiting. Aunt Han was still expecting him to return.
He started walking again.
This time, his feet moved with purpose. Not the slow, reluctant steps of someone dreading arrival. The steady pace of someone who'd accepted what needed to be faced.
The field still needed finishing. Promises to dead fathers might be unkeepable, but fields didn't care about promises. They needed work.
That, at least, was something he could control.
Aunt Han was working the field when she saw him appear on the road.
She'd been watching for hours. Every time she completed a row, she'd straighten and look toward the path that connected the village to the wider world. Waiting for the figure that would eventually appear. Hoping that figure would be smiling.
When Li Zhiwei finally came into view, she knew immediately.
Not from his expression. He was too far away for that. From the way he walked. The set of his shoulders. The pace of his steps.
That wasn't the walk of someone coming home victorious.
She set down her hoe and waited.
Li Zhiwei crossed the field toward her. As he got closer, she could see his face more clearly. The redness around his eyes. The tear tracks he'd tried to wipe away but which remained visible if you knew what to look for.
He stopped a few paces away.
They looked at each other for a long moment.
"No spiritual roots," he said. His voice was flat. Empty. The voice of someone reporting information rather than processing emotion.
Aunt Han nodded slowly. "I see."
"The Testing Stone rejected measurement. Elder Qin said it was unusual. But the result was still rejection."
"What does that mean? Rejected measurement?"
"I don't know. He didn't explain. Just said it was anomalous and noted it in my record." Li Zhiwei's jaw tightened. "But anomalous doesn't matter if the result is still no spiritual roots."
Aunt Han studied his face. Saw the grief there. The disappointment. The weight of a promise broken.
"Come inside," she said. "You haven't eaten since morning."
"The field needs finishing."
"The field can wait. You can't work like this."
"I can work."
"Li Zhiwei." Her voice was gentle but firm. "Come inside. Eat. Rest. The field isn't going anywhere."
He looked at the partially completed rows. The earth he'd been turning yesterday, that she'd been working today. The simple, endless work of farming that would now define his life.
"I promised you," he said quietly. "I promised if I came back smiling, you wouldn't have to farm anymore."
"I know."
"I'm not smiling."
"I know."
"I'm sorry."
Aunt Han stepped forward and did something she rarely did. She pulled him into an embrace. Not gentle. Firm. The kind of hug that was meant to hold someone together when they felt like falling apart.
"You have nothing to apologize for," she said. "You tried. That's what matters."
"Trying doesn't change the result."
"No. But it changes who you are. You're the boy who tried despite knowing most fail. That means something."
Li Zhiwei stood in her embrace, not quite hugging back, just accepting it. Being held together by someone who knew what grief looked like and how to bear it.
Eventually, she released him.
"Come inside. We'll eat. Then tomorrow we finish the field together. Life continues. That's what we do. We continue."
He nodded. Couldn't quite speak yet. Just nodded.
They walked toward the house together. Two figures crossing a field as evening approached, shadows growing longer, the sun beginning its descent toward another sunset.
Behind them, the partially completed rows waited. Patient. Indifferent to human grief and broken promises.
The earth didn't care about cultivation or spiritual roots or dreams of transcendence.
It cared about being worked. About seeds being planted. About the cycle continuing.
And the cycle always continued, regardless of individual hopes or failures.
That was the thing about farming.
It never stopped needing to be done.
That night, Li Zhiwei lay on his sleeping mat and stared at the ceiling.
He'd eaten the meal Aunt Han prepared. Rice. Vegetables. Nothing special. Just food that fulfilled its function.
He'd answered her questions about the testing. The courtyard. The other applicants. Elder Qin's reaction to the anomaly.
He'd accepted her reassurances that this didn't define him, that life had value regardless of cultivation, that farming was honest work and nothing to be ashamed of.
He'd nodded and agreed and said all the things someone was supposed to say when processing disappointment.
But now, alone in the darkness, he let himself think the thought he'd been avoiding all day.
His father's stories. The legends of ancient heroes. The impossible deeds that shaped the world.
All of those cultivators had started somewhere. All of them had taken a first step. All of them had faced moments where continuation seemed impossible and had continued anyway.
But they'd all had spiritual roots.
That was the foundation. The requirement. The thing that made everything else possible.
Without spiritual roots, none of those legendary deeds could have occurred. Without spiritual roots, Ren Zu would have remained prey to the Primordial Dragon Emperor. The Nine Saints couldn't have sealed the demonic rift. Chen Wuji couldn't have created the Eternal Circulation Array.
Spiritual roots were the beginning. Without the beginning, nothing that came after could exist.
Li Zhiwei had no spiritual roots.
Therefore, none of what came after was possible for him.
The logic was simple. Final. Absolute.
He stared at the ceiling and felt the weight of that certainty pressing down like physical force.
Tomorrow, he would wake up. He would help Aunt Han finish the field. He would begin accepting that cultivation was not his path, would never be his path, could never be his path.
He would let go of the dreams he'd carried since age seven. Let go of the promise to his dead father. Let go of the stories and legends and impossible deeds that had shaped a decade of his life.
He would become a farmer. Like his father had become. Like his grandfather before that.
The cycle would continue.
That was reality. That was truth. That was what the Testing Stone had revealed.
Li Zhiwei closed his eyes and tried to sleep.
But sleep was a long time coming, and when it finally arrived, his dreams were full of legends he would never join and heroes whose names he would never stand beside.
In the morning, he would accept reality.
But tonight, he let himself grieve for the future that would never exist.
In the darkness outside the house, standing where no one could see, the man in mist-colored robes watched the window.
He'd been there for hours. Observing. Waiting.
His expression was still difficult to read. Not because it held complex emotion, but because it held almost none at all.
After a long moment, he spoke to himself, or perhaps to something else entirely.
"The Testing Stone measures what it was designed to measure. Spiritual roots. The standard pathway. The expected foundation."
He tilted his head slightly.
"But it cannot measure what it was never taught to recognize. Cannot perceive what falls outside its parameters. Cannot judge what operates on principles it was never programmed to understand."
A pause.
"The boy grieves because the test said no. The test said no because it only knows how to say yes to one specific thing."
Another pause.
"But grief is also Will. Refusal to accept loss is also a form of power. The question is whether grief transforms into resignation or into something else."
The man in mist-colored robes turned and walked away, his footsteps leaving no marks in the dirt.
"Time will reveal. It always does."
And then he was gone, as if he'd never been there at all.
Inside the house, Li Zhiwei slept fitfully, unaware of observation, unaware that someone had been measuring him with metrics the Testing Stone could never comprehend.
Unaware that failure, sometimes, was just the beginning of a different path.
One that no test could predict and no measurement could find.
But that path, if it existed, was invisible to him now.
Hidden behind the grief of a broken promise and the weight of a future that looked exactly like the past.
Tomorrow, the field would need finishing.
That was certain.
Everything else was unknown.