Dawn had just broken, and thin blue mist curled around the dark blue mountains outside the village, wrapping the tiny hamlet nestled on the edge of the Immortal Sect in a soft haze. Morning dew still glistened on the blue stone paths, crunching softly underfoot. A-Chen carried half a bundle of freshly cut firewood, moving lightly between the scattered adobe houses.
He wore a washed-out linen short coat, its cuffs frayed with fine threads, his trouser legs dusted with soil. Yet none of this could conceal the cleanness and gentleness in his features. Around seventeen or eighteen years old, he was not particularly tall, but his frame bore the sturdiness of years of labor. A light morning breeze stirred the stray hair on his forehead, revealing a pair of clear eyes—like undisturbed spring water from a mountain stream.
Around his waist was tied an old cloth cord, from which hung a palm-sized wooden tablet: dark gray, rough-grained, its edges smoothed by years of wear, without any pattern at all, as if it were just a scrap of wood haphazardly cut from a tree. This tablet had been with A-Chen for as long as he could remember. The old village chief said it had been clutched in his hand when he was found. It was no treasure, yet it had accompanied him for more than a decade.
"A-Chen, you're back?" Aunt Wang at the village entrance stepped out with a wooden basin, greeting him with a warm, kind smile. "The wood you cut today is nice and dry—the chief will be pleased. Oh, have you heard? The Immortal Sect Alliance is here, at the threshing ground. They're testing spiritual roots for the village children!"
A-Chen paused. A faint, almost imperceptible longing flashed in his eyes, then faded. He nodded with a smile. "I heard, Aunt Wang. I'll take this wood home first, then go take a look."
Spiritual roots were the only threshold mortals could cross to step onto the path of immortal cultivation in this ancient world. Misty Green Village lay on the fringe of the Immortal Sect's territory; though far from the true immortal mountains, tales of cultivators soaring through the sky, tunneling through the earth, and slaying demons and monsters still reached their ears. Which child in the village did not dream of awakening a spiritual root, entering the Immortal Sect, and breaking free from mortal bonds? Especially now, with the world in turmoil and strange beasts roaming freely, cultivating immortality was the only assurance of survival.
But A-Chen knew deep down that he was unlikely to have such fortune. From childhood to adolescence, he had tried countless times—whether touching the weak spirit herbs hidden by the village elders, or imitating the way cultivators gathered energy as the stories described—there had never been the slightest reaction, not even a wisp of spiritual energy. The old chief had once patted his head and sighed, "A-Chen, we are mortals. Living a steady, honest life is enough."
After carrying the firewood back to his low adobe home, A-Chen wiped his hands briefly, poured a cup of warm water for the bedridden old chief in the inner room, and whispered, "Chief, I'm going to the village entrance to see the Immortal Sect members. I'll be back soon."
The chief was nearly seventy, his hair and beard white, his back bent, plagued by illness all year round, yet his eyes remained clear. He looked up at A-Chen, his tone calm yet solemn. "Go. Just watch. Do not act recklessly, and do not touch the immortals' things. Especially the wooden tablet on you—never let outsiders see it."
A-Chen hesitated. Though he did not understand why the chief insisted on this, he obediently nodded. "I understand, Chief."
Since he was little, the old chief had told him this again and again: never show the wooden tablet to anyone. A-Chen was full of doubt, but he always remembered. To him, the tablet was just a memento that had stayed with him for years. If the chief had warned him, he would keep it well hidden.
By the time he reached the village threshing ground, it was already packed tight. Villagers of all ages crowded around, their eyes fixed on the center, filled with anticipation and awe, hardly daring to breathe. In the middle stood a simple wooden table, on which rested a half-man-tall crystal: pure white, glowing faintly. Even from a distance, one could feel an indistinct, cool aura—the Spirit Testing Stone used by the Immortal Sect to judge spiritual roots.
Beside the table stood three cultivators in moon-white robes embroidered with faint cloud patterns. Their figures were tall and straight as pines, their temperaments cold and distant, surrounded by faint ripples of spiritual energy. They were worlds apart from the plainly dressed, mortal villagers, their innate pride making others afraid to meet their gaze. The lead cultivator wore a blank expression, his eyes sharp as blades, sweeping over the crowd with a trace of impatience.
"Silence!" The lead cultivator spoke. His voice was not loud, yet it carried an invisible pressure, like a boulder weighing on everyone's hearts. The noisy ground fell instantly silent. "I am an outer disciple of the Immortal Sect Alliance. I have been ordered here today to test spiritual roots in Misty Green Village. All those aged ten to twenty may step forward. Those with spiritual roots may return to the Immortal Sect with us to cultivate immortal arts and prepare for the Hundred-Year Spirit Tribulation. Those without roots shall stay and protect their village in peace."
The crowd erupted again, though more restrained this time. The village children were eager, tugging at their parents' clothes, their eyes filled with longing and urgency. They quickly formed a line. Tales of the Spirit Tribulation had spread across this desolate land: spiritual energy in chaos, strange beasts restless, remote villages frequently attacked. Everyone lived in fear, and the Immortal Sect was their only safe haven.
A-Chen quietly squeezed to the edge of the crowd, keeping his head down. His gaze locked onto the glowing white stone, torn between suppressed hope and bone-deep anxiety. He stepped back instinctively, tucking the wooden tablet at his waist deeper into his linen coat, his fingers brushing the cord to make sure not even a corner showed.
The testing proceeded orderly. A little girl with horned braids stepped forward first, her small body trembling slightly. She carefully reached out and touched the Spirit Testing Stone. The next moment, it glowed with a faint green light—weak, but clear, rippling across the white crystal.
Indifference crossed the lead cultivator's eyes. His tone was flat. "Wood spiritual root. Low aptitude. May enter the Immortal Sect's outer court as a handyman disciple."
The girl's parents burst into tears of joy, bowing repeatedly to the cultivator, thanking the immortal again and again. Even a handyman disciple meant stepping into the Immortal Sect. From then on, they had a chance to cultivate immortality, no longer living in constant fear of strange beasts.
One by one, more children stepped forward. Some awakened weak roots—mediocre, yet enough to send their families into ecstasy. Others touched the stone, and it remained completely still. Those children walked back with drooping heads, red-eyed, shoulders shaking, too ashamed to lift their faces.
Soon the line ended. The crowd fell quiet, and all eyes turned to A-Chen in the corner. Whispers broke out, filled mostly with unmasked mockery rather than sympathy.
"Let A-Chen try too. Stop hiding."
"What's the point? He couldn't even draw energy from the village spirit herbs since he was little. How could he have a spiritual root? He's just wasting the immortals' time."
"Exactly. A useless mortal without a root, daring to crowd in on the Immortal Sect's business. Aren't you afraid of embarrassing yourself?"
The words pricked A-Chen like tiny needles. His face flushed, his fingers twisting his coat until his knuckles whitened. He wanted to turn and flee. But before he could move, the lead cultivator called coldly, "You there. Come. Since it's your turn, be quick. Don't waste time."
A-Chen gritted his teeth, took a deep breath, and forced down his embarrassment and bitterness. He walked step by step toward the center. Each step felt heavy. He could feel countless eyes on him—pity, mockery, the cultivators' obvious impatience.
At last he stood before the Spirit Testing Stone. A cold breath washed over him. He slowly extended a shaking hand. The moment his fingertip touched the crystal, a piercing cold spread through his body. Yet the white stone remained completely still, no glow, no ripple, as ordinary as any common rock.
The lead cultivator frowned, his impatience and disdain sharpening into a snap. "No spiritual root. Useless. Get out of my sight. Don't delay our journey."
Laughter erupted around him. The mocking words grew louder, drowning A-Chen in a tide of humiliation. He bowed his head lower, his face burning, his eyes stinging. His fingers clenched so tight his nails dug into his palms. The faint pain did nothing to ease the bitterness in his chest. He silently pulled his hand back and turned to leave.
"Wait."
A cold, arrogant voice cut through the laughter, pressing down with overwhelming force. The entire ground fell silent again. A-Chen froze, not daring to turn. Everyone looked toward the source: a young cultivator in white, stepping slowly from behind the three sect members.
He was tall and handsome, yet exuded bone-deep detachment and pride. His spiritual energy was stronger than the lead cultivator's, the cloud patterns on his robe more intricate. It was clear he held a high status. Elderly villagers who had seen the world whispered that this was Mo Ying, the last disciple of Xuan Zhenzi, sect leader of the Immortal Alliance—a top-tier spiritual root, a genius, personally sent to oversee the testing.
Mo Ying's gaze fell on A-Chen, filled with contempt, as if looking at worthless trash. "No spiritual root? I think you're hiding it on purpose to sneak into the Immortal Sect."
A-Chen stiffened. He slowly lifted his head, eyes wide with grievance and confusion, his voice trembling slightly as he insisted, "I'm not. I really don't have a spiritual root. I only came to watch."
"Not?" Mo Ying sneered, stepping closer. His spiritual pressure slammed into A-Chen. "Daring to crowd in and waste our time? Today I'll teach you the gap between mortals and immortals—someone like you doesn't deserve to even approach us."
He raised a hand and shoved A-Chen in the chest. A-Chen stumbled backward, losing his balance. Just as he was about to fall heavily, a clear, gentle voice rang out firmly.
"Senior Brother Mo Ying, stop!"
All eyes turned again. A young woman in a pale green robe hurried from the crowd. Slender and pretty, her features soft, her spiritual energy weak—her aptitude was clearly unexceptional—but she carried a pure, clear aura that made others fond of her.
She quickly reached A-Chen and steady him, then turned to Mo Ying, her tone firm yet respectful. "Senior Brother, he is just an ordinary mortal. He truly has no spiritual root. Testing is voluntary. He only came to observe. He has done nothing wrong. Why must you bully him?"
Mo Ying scowled, his voice cold. "Junior Sister Ningshuang, this is none of your business. Step aside. A useless mortal is not worth your defense. Do not shame the Immortal Sect."
"Senior Brother," Su Ningshuang did not back down, standing slightly in front of A-Chen, her gaze steady, "immortals should protect mortals, not harm them. Though he has no root, he is still a living person. Your actions dishonor the sect and betray the true purpose of cultivation."
Mo Ying's face turned red and white with fury. He glowered at A-Chen with hatred, but dared not act in front of the villagers and other disciples. He snorted coldly. "You're lucky Junior Sister Ningshuang spoke for you. I'll spare you today. Next time I see you meddling, you won't be so fortunate."
With that, Mo Ying turned and stormed off, his spiritual energy turbulent with anger. As he passed the Spirit Testing Stone, his fingertip accidentally brushed its surface—so quickly no one noticed.
Su Ningshuang exhaled in relief and turned to A-Chen with a gentle smile. "Are you alright? Did you hurt yourself? I'm sorry you were humiliated."
A-Chen shook his head and quickly stood straight, his face still flushed, his eyes filled with gratitude and awkwardness. "I'm fine. Thank you, Junior Sister. If you hadn't—"
"It was nothing," she said with a smile. "Don't take it to heart. Senior Brother Mo Ying is just arrogant. Having no spiritual root is not a bad thing. Living peacefully as a mortal, caring for those around you… that is a good life too."
A-Chen nodded, warmth spreading through him. It was the first time an immortal had treated him with kindness. In the past, cultivators passing through Misty Green Village had always looked down on mortals, not even granting them a glance—let alone defending someone as useless as him.
He opened his mouth, not knowing what to say. Then, without warning, the wooden tablet at his waist grew faintly warm. The heat was weak, but clear through his coat, even trembling slightly—as if responding to something.
A-Chen quickly pressed his waist, his face changing. In the chaos, the cord had loosened, and a tiny corner of the tablet had brushed against the Spirit Testing Stone. His heart jolted. He tucked it away again and stared anxiously at the crystal.
But the stone showed no reaction at all—exactly as when he had touched it, no glow, no ripple, no different from the other children without roots. A-Chen sighed in relief, thankful the tablet had not been seen and had caused no trouble.
He did not notice the old chief standing at the edge of the crowd, leaning on his cane, staring at his waist with a terribly grave expression—worried, urgent, weighed down by an unspeakable secret.
He did not notice Mo Ying in the distance, his back to the ground, his spiritual energy growing more chaotic, his fingertip tingling, confusion and irritation crossing his face. When he had brushed the stone, he had clearly felt its light explode, a sharp pain in his finger, a tiny crack appearing on the crystal—so fast he thought it was just an illusion from his rage.
Su Ningshuang noticed nothing unusual. Seeing A-Chen's nervousness, she smiled reassuringly. "Don't worry. The testing is over. Go home before your elders worry. Next time immortals come, don't crowd in so easily. You won't have to suffer this again."
A-Chen nodded and bowed deeply. "Thank you, Junior Sister. I will remember."
He turned and hurried out of the crowd, heading home. The wooden tablet at his waist still carried a faint warmth, seeping through his skin into his heart, driving away some of the cold and hurt from the mockery.
Morning mist still shrouded Misty Green Village, the mountains dark blue as ever. Wind rustled through the treetops, like someone whispering softly. A-Chen hurried along the stone path, eager to return to the old chief. He did not notice that the ordinary wooden tablet against his chest was now faintly glowing with extremely fine lines—so faint they seemed like an illusion.
He did not know that this seemingly ordinary spiritual root test was no accident, and the Immortal Sect had not come only to test roots.
He did not know that the simple tablet that had accompanied him for over a decade hid a secret powerful enough to overturn the world.
And he was the very heart of that secret—the beginning of a great, dark conspiracy.