Chapter 3: The Trial Tower
Three days later, the new disciple assessment of the Cangxuan Sect began.
The so-called assessment was to challenge the Trial Tower. The tower loomed nine stories high, its ancient stone walls scarred by countless battles. Each floor housed puppet guardians of increasing strength. The higher one climbed, the greater their combat prowess—and the more resources and techniques the sect would grant.
All new disciples gathered before the tower. Even the Chores Hall attendants.
"The Chores Hall gets to participate too?" a disciple whispered.
"In theory." Another shrugged. "But no chores disciple has ever cleared the first floor. Without a spiritual root, you can't even scratch the puppets."
Ma Biao stood at the back with his crew, arms crossed. Lin Luo stood beside him, hands in his pockets as usual.
"You're going up?" Ma Biao shot him a sideways glance.
"Might as well see what the fuss is about." Lin Luo's voice was flat, uninterested.
Ma Biao snorted and turned away.
Zhao Tian went first.
He strode into the tower with the confidence of someone who'd never known failure. The massive stone door groaned shut behind him.
Three seconds. The first-floor indicator blazed to life.
Ten seconds. The second floor lit up.
Thirty seconds. Third floor.
One minute. Fourth floor.
Two minutes. Fifth floor.
The crowd erupted.
"Fifth floor! A new disciple reached the fifth floor!"
"With that Heavenly Spiritual Root and Innate Sword Body... terrifying!"
When Zhao Tian emerged, his expression remained calm, but sweat beaded his forehead and his breathing was measured. He'd fallen on the sixth floor—a puppet had caught him mid-stance and sent him flying.
"Impressive." Sect Leader Lu Yuan nodded from his perch. "The fifth floor. A once-in-a-century achievement for a new disciple."
Zhang Wei followed, bulling his way to the fourth floor through sheer physical might. Su Xiaoxiao danced through the third with wind-whipped grace. Chen Yutong methodically solved the third floor's puzzle-like combat. Most others lingered on the first or second, some crawling out battered and humbled.
Then came the Chores Hall.
Ma Biao stepped up first. He lasted ten seconds on the first floor before a stone fist caught him square in the chest and sent him tumbling out the door.
"Tch." He spat on the ground, rubbing his ribs. "Thing hits like a mountain."
The others fared no better. The best among them—a wiry kid with quick feet—managed twenty seconds before being tossed out like a ragdoll.
Finally, Lin Luo.
"That waste of space is going up?"
"He doesn't even have a spiritual root. He'll be out in three seconds."
"Three? I'm betting two."
Lin Luo walked toward the tower, hands still in his pockets, footsteps crunching on the gravel. As he passed Zhao Tian, the golden boy opened his mouth as if to say something—then closed it, frowning.
Lin Luo didn't glance his way.
The stone door groaned shut behind him.
The first floor chamber was wide, cold, and dim. Torches flickered along the walls, casting dancing shadows across the worn stone floor. Dust motes swirled in the stale air.
At the center stood the puppet.
It was carved from dark, vein-streaked rock, twice as tall as a man, its joints fitted with some ancient mechanism that clicked and ground with each subtle shift. A dull yellow glow pulsed from the runes carved into its chest. Its fists, each the size of a human torso, hung at its sides like sledgehammers waiting to fall.
Outside, everyone stared at the indicator lights.
The first floor lit up.
"He's in."
"Count him down..."
Lin Luo pulled out his phone. The screen glowed softly in the dim chamber. He tapped [Auto-Battle].
The chibi figure on the screen shifted its stance.
In reality, Lin Luo didn't move.
The puppet's head snapped toward him. Its eyes—two hollow sockets with pinpricks of amber light—locked onto his. A deep grinding sound echoed through the chamber as it shifted its weight.
Then it charged.
The floor trembled with each thunderous step. Dust rained from the ceiling. The puppet's massive arm drew back, fist cocked like a battering ram.
Lin Luo's body moved.
He sidestepped—not fast, not flashy, just exactly enough. The fist whistled past his ear, close enough to stir his hair. The wind of its passage raised goosebumps on his neck.
He was already turning, already lifting his arm, already driving his fist into the back of the puppet's neck joint.
Crack.
A fissure spiderwebbed across the stone. The puppet's head lolled forward but didn't fall. It spun, pivoting on its leg joints with a shriek of grinding rock, its other fist already arcing toward him.
Lin Luo ducked. The fist scraped the stone wall behind him, gouging a furrow a foot deep.
He struck the same spot again.
Crack.
The head separated clean from the shoulders. It hit the floor with a dull thud, rolling twice before coming to rest. The body stood frozen for a heartbeat, runes flickering and dying, then collapsed like a felled tree.
The impact shook the floor.
Outside, the first-floor indicator went dark.
A collective intake of breath.
"He's out? That was fast—"
The second-floor indicator blazed on.
Silence.
The stone floor of the chamber split open, revealing a worn staircase descending into deeper darkness. Lin Luo walked down, his footsteps echoing off ancient walls.
The second floor held two puppets. They moved in tandem, one striking high while the other swept low, their attacks coordinated with mechanical precision. They'd learned from the first floor's failure.
The game's auto-battle adapted.
Lin Luo's body flowed between them—here a pivot, there a sidestep, a palm strike redirecting a stone fist into its partner's chest, a knee driving into a leg joint, the crack of stone giving way to stone.
Two minutes. The puppets lay in pieces.
Third floor lit up.
"The third floor?!" Ma Biao's face had drained of color.
Fourth floor lit up.
Zhang Wei's jaw dropped. "No way..."
Fifth floor lit up.
Zhao Tian's expression shifted from curiosity to something sharper.
Sixth floor lit up.
Sect Leader Lu Yuan's eyes narrowed.
Seventh floor lit up.
The crowd stood in absolute silence. The only sound was the wind rustling through the mountain pines.
Xuanqing's voice cracked when he finally spoke: "Impossible... He has no spiritual root. How could he possibly—how could anyone—"
The eighth-floor indicator flickered once, twice. It glowed for a breath, then went dark.
The door groaned open.
Lin Luo walked out.
His clothes were rumpled, dust smudged one cheek, his hair disheveled. But his hands were still in his pockets. His breathing was steady. There wasn't a scratch on him.
Hundreds of disciples stared. No one moved. No one spoke.
Lin Luo looked up at the tower, then back at the frozen crowd. He scratched his head, leaving a streak of dust across his forehead.
"Huh. Guess I got lucky."
No one laughed.
Sect Leader Lu Yuan descended from his platform, purple robes whispering against the stone. He stopped before Lin Luo and raised a hand, pressing it to the boy's shoulder. Spiritual energy flowed into him—a probing tendril that mapped his meridians, his dantian, his core.
Lu Yuan's brow furrowed.
"Qi Refining Stage... Layer 1?"
Lin Luo blinked up at him with wide, innocent eyes. "Yeah. No spiritual root, right? So I can't get past Layer 1. Makes sense, doesn't it?"
Lu Yuan probed again. Deeper this time.
Qi Refining Stage. Layer 1. No spiritual root. Clean meridians. A body that should, by every law of cultivation, be utterly ordinary.
And yet.
A disciple in the crowd found his voice. "He cheated! He must have!"
The Trial Tower elder—a withered man who'd overseen this ritual for two centuries—snorted. "The Trial Tower cannot be cheated. The puppets are independent constructs. No external force can interfere with their function."
"Then how—"
No one answered.
Zhao Tian stared at Lin Luo with an expression caught somewhere between confusion and grudging respect. Su Xiaoxiao, standing among the Pill Peak disciples, tilted her head. A small smile played at the corner of her lips.
Wang Hao's voice cut through the tension: "BROTHER LUO! YOU'VE BEEN HIDING THIS FROM ME?!" His bowl clattered to the ground, forgotten.
Ma Biao stood frozen in the back, his face pale. His mind churned through every order he'd given Lin Luo over the past three days—the wood-chopping, the water-carrying, the yard-sweeping. His knees felt unsteady.
Sect Leader Lu Yuan regarded Lin Luo for a long, silent moment. The mountain wind stirred his robes.
"Interesting," he said at last.
Then he turned and walked away.
The crowd dissolved slowly, breaking into clusters of hushed, frantic conversation. But every single person was talking about the same thing.
That good-for-nothing. The one with no spiritual root. The one they'd sent to chop wood and carry water.
He'd reached the seventh floor.
---
Lin Luo closed the door to his Chores Hall cell and leaned against it. The wood was rough against his back, the room cold and narrow, a single cot pushed against the wall.
He pulled out his phone.
The screen glowed to life.
[Auto-Battle ended. Floors cleared: 7/9.]
[Rewards obtained: Spirit Stones +200, Random Cultivation Technique ×1.]
[Gacha draw in progress…]
A flash of gold on the screen.
[Congratulations! Obtained: SSR-grade Technique "Nine Cycles Mystic Art" (Incomplete Scroll · Part One).]
Lin Luo stared at the screen.
SSR. Incomplete. Part One.
He tapped the technique details.
A wall of text filled the screen, but his eyes snagged on the important parts:
[Nine Cycles Mystic Art (Incomplete Scroll · Part One): A legendary body-tempering technique. Comprises nine cycles, each cycle a new level of power. When cultivated to completion, the physical body can withstand heavenly tribulation. Currently cultivatable up to the Third Cycle.]
[Learn technique?]
[Yes / No]
He tapped Yes.
The world tilted.
Information flooded into his skull—not like reading, but like remembering something he'd always known. Meridian pathways. Breath control. The precise way to fold his body's energy into itself, layer upon layer, until flesh became iron and bone became steel.
His skin prickled with heat. Deep in his chest, something shifted. His muscles tightened, relaxed, tightened again—a rhythmic pulsing that traveled down his arms, his legs, his spine. His bones itched from the inside.
[Nine Cycles Mystic Art, First Cycle cultivation in progress… Estimated completion time: 72 hours.]
He exhaled. The breath came out warmer than it went in.
He checked his Disguise Talisman status. Still holding steady: Qi Refining Stage, Layer 1.
Lin Luo smiled.
"Layer 1 suits me just fine," he murmured to the empty room. "Who's going to watch out for a Layer 1 waste of space?"
Moonlight filtered through the paper window, casting pale rectangles on the stone floor. Somewhere in the main compound, disciples were still talking about the Trial Tower. About the freak result. About the impossible seventh floor.
Out here, in the cold corner of the Chores Hall, Lin Luo lay back on his cot and closed his eyes.
The phone screen dimmed, but the chibi figure kept meditating.
[Idle Cultivation in progress… Time until breakthrough to Qi Refining Stage, Layer 4: 18 hours.]
[Nine Cycles Mystic Art, First Cycle: 71 hours 59 minutes.]
---
(End of Chapter 3)
Current Status
Cultivation: Qi Refining Stage 3
Auto-Cultivation: In Progress (Time until Breakthrough to Qi Refining Stage 4: 18h)
Nine Revolutions Profound Art: First Revolution (In Progress, 71h 59m)
Attack: 25
Defense: 18
HP: 220/220
Spirit Stones: 200
Disguise Talisman: Active (Displayed Stage: Qi Refining Stage 1)
Resurrection Cost: 1 Spirit Stone / use