The stone steps were steep and uneven, with dangerous drops on either side. A single misstep could send one falling to their death.
After less than half a day, Martin's legs felt like lead. Sweat poured down his face. He could barely lift his feet. From the foot of the mountain, the path had looked short, but now it seemed endless, breeding despair.
Ahead, a dozen stronger youths also struggled upward. No one had given up yet.
Martin gritted his teeth and persisted. This was his last chance. His parents' expectant eyes stayed in his heart. Then, behind him, a youth slipped, lost his footing, and fell off the path. A terrified scream rang out.
"I give up! Help!"
Everyone stopped and looked down. A dark light flashed. A monk appeared out of nowhere, caught the youth in midair, and set him gently at the foot of the mountain.
Martin paled and continued climbing carefully. Two days passed. The youths ahead had disappeared from sight. He did not know how many had given up. He only knew he could not give up. His feet were blistered and bleeding, but he still crawled upward using his hands.
"The child's heart is firm, but the holy path is merciless. Futile, futile…" A sigh drifted down from the peak. A sallow-faced middle-aged man floated down the stairs, passing the youths, shaking his head with emotion.
When he reached Martin, he paused. This was the sixth youth he had seen, but by far the most miserable. Martin was covered in blood, his clothes soaked, his knees and toes torn and bloody. He was crawling with his hands. The man sighed and asked, "Child, what is your name?"
Martin was barely conscious. He had only one thought: to reach the top even if it killed him. He did not hear the question. In his eyes, there was nothing but the stone stairway.
The man looked into Martin's eyes and was moved by his determination. He placed his hand on Martin's head, then shook his head. "Excellent perseverance, but far too ordinary an aptitude. No destiny, no destiny…" He took one last deep look at Martin and continued down the stairs.
On the third night, Martin's hands were raw and bloody. The steps he had crawled over left a deep trail of blood. He was running on pure will, at death's door.
At sunrise on the third day, through blurred vision, he thought he saw the end of the stairs. But then a merciless voice thundered in his ears like a clap of thunder.
"Time is up. Only three have passed. The rest fail."
Martin gave a bitter laugh, his body went limp, and he collapsed on the stairs, unconscious.
Brother Malachi, the middle-aged monk who had administered the aptitude test, stood at the top, looking at Martin, who was less than ten yards away. His eyes were merciless.
Several monks hurried down from the peak, bringing all the remaining youths to the top and feeding them medicine.
"Brother, of the thirty-nine, twenty-five gave up. Besides the three who passed, there are eleven," a female monk reported coldly. She had gone through such a cruel test herself years ago and had barely qualified in perseverance because of her martial arts training. After nearly ten years, she was still only a servant monk.
Brother Malachi nodded. "Take the three who passed to the logistics office to arrange their duties. Send the twenty-five quitters back to their families. When the eleven who persevered wake up, take them to the Sword Spirit Hall to test if any have affinity with a sword spirit. If not, send them home."
Without another glance at the youths, he flicked his sleeve and left.
Three days later, in the Sword Spirit Hall, Martin and the other ten stood pale. Martin's physical wounds had healed, but the wounds on his heart were torn even wider. An aching pain gnawed at his body and mind.
The sword spirit test was not conducted by Brother Malachi but by a young man in white robes. Like the others, his face was cold, and he looked at them as if they were ants.
"This is the final test. Those who can walk into that room pass." His words were brief and impatient.
Martin looked at an ordinary-looking room with its door wide open. Inside, swords of various lengths were displayed.
The youths took turns walking toward the room. The first youth reached five yards from the room, struggled with an invisible force, and was pushed back several yards.
"Fail. Next."
Martin was the seventh. The six before him had all failed at five yards. He smiled bitterly, mustered the little hope he had left, and stepped forward.
At five yards, he passed easily. Martin was stunned. Hope surged in his heart. His mouth went dry, his heart pounded. He took another step. Still no discomfort.
The young man said, "Hmm," with interest. His expression softened slightly. "Don't hesitate. Keep going. If you enter the room and gain the sword spirit's approval, even if you failed the previous tests, you will be accepted as a full disciple."
The other ten youths looked at Martin with envy, and deep jealousy hid beneath their envious stares.
Martin's heart pounded. His parents' expectant faces flashed before him again. He took another step. Three yards from the door. He took another.
Suddenly, a tremendous force appeared and pushed him back uncontrollably, all the way to ten yards away.
The other youths sneered. In their eyes, Martin should have failed just like them. There was no chance.
Martin gave a bitter laugh. The image of his parents' expectant eyes faded from his mind.
The young man's face returned to coldness. "Fail. Next."