The Heavy Sword Sect’s training grounds buzzed with energy. Wooden swords clashed loudly, creating a lively atmosphere. Grunts of exertion and sharp reprimands howled out throughout the sect. The air felt heavy with sweat, wet soil, and a slight metallic hint of blood from split lips and sore blisters. Dust filled the air from the footwork, sticking to skin and settling deep into those who trained here.

  Wei Long stood among the outer sect disciples; he was like a stick amongst mature pine trees. Yet, despite his size, it was undeniable that his presence could be felt. He had an air of confidence that he hadn’t displayed when he first arrived, but after two years of constant training. It was clear his foundation was solidifying.

  “It seems all of you have excelled,” Master Feng barked. He turned to his left, hands clasped behind his back as if disappointed, despite the resolute smile that flashed across his lips. “…but some of you won’t be here after today.”

  Wei Long’s fellow students looked at each other, confused, but he stood there unmoved and resolute. His knuckles turned bone-white from squeezing his wooden sword. “…listen carefully,” Master Feng said, turning around. “We’ll be having a little competition today, but unlike your usual sparring matches… there will be consequences.”

  “Such as?” Ren chided”

  “Impertinent as always, aren’t you, young Ren?”

  “I hate to disappoint!” he said with a smile, drawing laughter from his goons.

  Master Feng scoffed, shook his head, and strolled back to the center of the training yard. He turned to his students and nodded. “All of you knew that this day would come, a day that you’d be tested. A day that a line would be drawn to separate those who will stay within the sect, leave the sect, or graduate to the core disciple class.”

  “Hear that RAT! You’ll be kicked out of the sect as of TODAY!”

  “SILENCE!” Master Feng growled. The entire training court fell silent. The sound of cicadas could be heard, despite being in the forest. Wei Long, though, turned to his right slightly to see Ren’s face red from anger. Wei Long mused.

  “Now that we have silence, let's get on with it. The tri-annual evaluation will take place today.”

  “Master, the third tri-annual evaluation usually takes place in summer; it's autumn, Master,” Han’er asked, confused.

  “Han’er, the sect master has ordered this.”

  Wei Long mused;

  “Line up and pick your straws. The rules haven’t changed. The smallest straw goes first…and, as per tradition, each of you will face three opponents in combat.”

  He then paused, allowing his gaze to sweep across the assembled disciples. Some stood tall with confidence, while others shifted nervously under his scrutiny. “The rules are simple. Those who fail to secure even a single victory will be asked to leave the sect immediately. Their path clearly lies elsewhere.”

  A murmur rippled through the crowd, quickly silenced by Master Feng’s raised hand. “For most disciples, winning at least one match will allow you to continue your training here. However,” He said with pause as his voice sharpened, “those who have been with us for five years face a higher standard. If you have trained within these walls for five years, you must win at least two of your three matches to remain.”

  Several of the senior disciples exchanged tense glances; the stakes of their upcoming battles suddenly weighed heavier.

  “And for those who prove their worth by winning either two or three matches,” Master Feng's expression softened slightly, “promotion awaits. You will advance to the core sect disciple class and learn new techniques,” Master Feng said, clasping his hands behind his back.

  “This is not cruelty. This is a reality. Our sect has no use for those who cannot demonstrate progress, and those who excel deserve to advance. The martial path demands nothing less than excellence.” He nodded once, decisively. “Prepare yourselves. The matches begin at noon.”

  As the tri-annual evaluation session loomed, it was an unspoken rite of passage among disciples. The older ones chose their opponents, often targeting the weakest to reaffirm their dominance. Wei Long stood at the periphery, his breath steady despite the fatigue anchoring his limbs.

  The sun reached its zenith and the disciples of Master Feng have gathered around the central training arena. The morning’s tension has been sculpted into this. “It’s time,” He called out.

  Master Feng pushed himself off the ground and walked toward the cloth bag containing straws of varying lengths. “As tradition dictates, each disciple will draw to determine the order of matches.”

  He began calling his disciples out and Wei Long stepped forward when his name was called. He kept his expression calm, no smiles, no agitation. It was as if Wei Long was a new person.

  He reached into the bag, fingers brushing past several straws before settling on one. As he withdrew it, a collective murmur spread through the crowd—the shortest straw, marking him as the first competitor.

  Wei Long examined the straw with a resigned smile. “It seems fate wishes me to begin today’s trials.”

  Before Master Feng could announce the opposing contestant, Ren pushed through the gathered disciples. His tall frame commanded attention, matched only by the arrogance in his stride. “Master Feng,” Ren said with a shallow bow that barely concealed his contempt, “I would like to volunteer as Wei Long’s first opponent.”

  Master Feng’s eyes narrowed slightly. “This is the second year you have made such a request, Ren.”

  “Are there rules stopping us from challenging each other, Master?” Ren asked, casting a dismissive glance toward Wei Long. “The Heavy Sword Sect values efficiency. Wei Long has failed to defeat me twice before. Perhaps a third defeat will finally convince him that his place lies outside these walls.”

  “Wei Long is eight years old. You’re thirteen. This is considered bullying… do you think of yourself as better than he is? Socially? Hmm?”

  Several disciples shifted uncomfortably at Ren’s brazen display. It was clear that, this being Ren’s fourth year within the outer sect disciple class, it would be his last. After all, he was considered competent in the basic sword forms, but he wasn’t good enough to be taken in as a direct disciple.

  Wei Long didn’t say anything, nor did it bother him that he would have to fight Ren again. His face showed no emotion beyond a slight tightening around his eyes. “Master Feng, I will fight Senior Ren.”

  “hoo…you will?”

  “Yes…”

  “Very well. The first match will be Disciple Wei Long against Disciple Ren.”

  As the other disciples moved to the sides of the arena, Wei Long stepped onto the fighting platform. He performed a brief stretching routine, his movements fluid and precise.

  Ren sauntered onto the platform opposite him, making a show of yawning as he took his position. “Try not to embarrass yourself this time, RAT! I have more worthy opponents to face today.”

  Wei Long said nothing, settling into his starting stance. His eyes, previously downcast, now locked onto Ren with unexpected intensity.

  Master Feng moved to the edge of the platform, raising his hand. “Remember the rules. Victory comes by forcing your opponent off the platform, rendering them unable to continue, or by their submission." He paused, his gaze moving between the two combatants. “Begin!”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Wei Long’s grip tightened around his sword. He took a slow breath, tasting the dust and sweat on his tongue. He stepped forward, his heart pounding a war drum's rhythm against his ribs. he thought.

  “RAT!” Ren sneered. “Stop dallying and attack me! Are you worried I’d beat you up as I did last time!? Hmm…Don’t worry, I’ll go easy on you. This time.”

  Wei Long did not respond. He settled into his stance, balancing his weight and locking his eyes on his opponent.

  Ren skidded across the platform, attacking with a downward slash. Wei Long pivoted to his left, barely avoiding the slash. The wind from the swing brushed the top of his head. Ren brought the sword up at an obtuse angle following Wei Long. He couldn’t dodge this attack this time. He raised his sword to block the attack.

  A loud thunk echoed through the courtyard and Wei Long ground his teeth, feeling the power behind the attack. He’s gotten stronger…again. That was too much force! But Wei Long immediately realised what his intentions were.

  To overpower him. As he’s always done.

  Wei Long shifted to his left and hesitated. It was a feint; then he moved at the last second, forcing Ren to waste more energy. Each dodge wasn’t just evasion—it was assessment, calculation. In Wei Long’s mind, he began to read Ren’s patterns, predicting his next move; no, he was two steps ahead. He knew that his plan could fail, but he hoped to frustrate Ren into creating an opening. His limbs weren’t long enough, nor was he fast enough to fight Ren in a pure one-on-one battle, but he was fast enough to block and dodge.

  Ren growled in frustration, pressing his attacks, his swings growing wilder, but still emanating power Wei Long couldn’t handle in a head-on battle. He danced back, just beyond Ren’s reach, forcing him to extend himself a little more.

  As his irritation grew, his strikes became reckless, but still focused. Despite all of this, Wei Long felt a strange calmness wash over him despite the danger. Time seemed to slow as he observed Ren’s movements. He noticed the slight shift in weight before each strike, the tell-tale tension in Ren’s shoulders that betrayed his intentions.

  Wei Long reminded himself. Master Feng had drilled into him that victory came to those who could seize the perfect moment.

  Ren lunged forward with a diagonal slash aimed at Wei Long’s shoulder. The blow carried enough force to splinter bone had it connected. “STOP RUNNING, RAT!” he snarled.

  Wei Long pivoted on his back foot, letting the strike pass within a hair's breadth of his chest. The crowd gasped at the near miss.

  Ren’s overhead strike left his ribs exposed for just a heartbeat. It was the moment Wei Long had been waiting for.

  Wei Long darted forward, his wooden sword snapping out like a viper, striking Ren’s ribs with a satisfying thwack. He snarled at Wei Long, then took a quick intake of breath as he stumbled back.

  Murmurs rippled through the crowd and satisfaction swirled within Wei Long, but he didn’t muster it on his face. He kept his mind focused on Ren; if he let his guard down, it would be over.

  Wei Long reminded himself, using Master Feng’s words. One strike means nothing; life itself is a battle. He reset his stance, ready for the counterattack he knew was coming.

  “Lucky shot, Rat!” Ren growled, then he lunged forward, sword thrusting through the air like a spear. Wei Long pivoted right, letting Ren’s momentum betray him. Use your opponent’s strength against them, Master Feng’s words echoed in his mind. Wei Long stepped to the side at the last moment, adding a slight push to Ren’s back as he stumbled past.

  Ren struggled to regain his balance; Wei Long delivered a swift strike to his shoulder, hitting the pressure point located in the lower shoulder. Ren released his sword, and it clattered to the ground.

  A stunned silence blanketed the training grounds. For a moment, it was as if time itself had frozen. The disciples who had been jeering just moments ago now stood wide-eyed, their disbelief evident. Even Master Feng’s usually impassive face showed a flicker of approval before he quickly masked it.

  Wei Long, the youngest and smallest among them, had defeated Ren—the bully who had tormented him for years. Whispers spread like wildfire, rippling through the crowd. Some muttered that it was pure luck, while others, those who had been watching closely, recognized the precision and strategy behind Wei Long’s movements.

  Ren remained on his knees, his face twisted with rage and humiliation as he clutched his numbed arm. He looked up at Wei Long, who stood firm, his wooden sword still at the ready, his expression unreadable.

  The weight of his loss crushed down on him, and for the first time, the arrogance in his eyes flickered with doubt. No one spoke, not even Ren’s usual supporters, too stunned by what had just transpired. Then, Master Feng stepped forward, his voice breaking the silence. “It appears we have all underestimated Wei Long,” he said, his tone carrying a quiet satisfaction. “A victory well-earned.”

  “No,” Ren whispered, “this won’t do. I refuse to accept this! I won’t be defeated BY THIS RAT!”

  “…but you were defeated,” Master Feng said coldly. “What are you going to do, fight him again? Take your defeat gracefully. Learn from it…weren’t you beating Wei Long not long ago? Hmm? Martial arts is a battle with oneself. Disciple Wei Long shows this well. He overcame his weaknesses to defeat you. Sit down.”

  Ren clenched his jaw, his face burning with humiliation. He raised his sword with a clenched fist. “Thank you for showing mercy,” Ren spat, then drifted off into the crowd.

  Uneasy glances were exchanged among the older disciples. Ren, the strongest of the class, had lost. The impossible had happened. Wei Long stood still, his breathing controlled, showing no outward sign of elation. Inside, however, his heart soared. This was validation of every sleepless night, every painful morning.

  “I challenge Wei Long,” Zhao barked, his voice cutting through the murmurs of the crowd.

  “Eager, aren’t you? Do you wish to rest, Wei Long?” Master Feng asked passively as he turned to Wei Long.

  “I can continue, Master Feng.”

  “Then so be it!”

  Zhao stepped forward, a smug smile painted on his lips as he took his position. Wei Long had fought him before—he was wiry and sly, but fast. Known for his speed rather than power.

  As the pair matched up against each other, Zhao grinned slyly as he looked down at Wei Long with contempt. “You lucked out by defeating the Boss,” Zhao sneered, his voice dripping with disdain. “You think you have a chance against me, Rat? I’ll crush you in one MOVE!”

  Wei Long centered himself, breathing deeply as he recalled Master Feng’s teachings. He whispered the mantra to himself: “Different build, different style. Adapt. Observe. Respond.”

  Zhao charged forward, his wooden sword thrusting through the air like a striking viper. Wei Long brought his sword down at a precise angle, deflecting Zhao’s wooden blade and nullifying his attempt to end the match in a single move.

  Zhao spun on his heel, attacking Wei Long with a flurry of rapid strikes, his wooden sword turning into a blur, darting from multiple angles with blinding speed. Yet, Wei Long matched him, his reflexes honed through countless hours of practice, allowing him to meet each attack with calculated precision.

  He relies on speed to overwhelm an opponent, Wei Long thought, studying Zhao’s movements as he parried each strike. His footwork is excellent, fluid, and unpredictable, but his patterns repeat. There's a rhythm to his chaos, and unlike Ren, his attacks lack true power.

  He brought his sword down in quick succession—high, low, thrust, slash—each impact vibrating through Wei Long’s arms. Though his muscles ached and his breath grew shorter, Wei Long pushed through the fatigue, finding the pattern within Zhao's seemingly random assault.

  One-two-three-pause. One-two-three-pause. Wei Long counted internally. For all their speed, Zhao's attacks followed a rhythm. On the third strike, he always needed a microsecond to reset—imperceptible to most, but Wei Long had trained himself to notice such minute details.

  Zhao’s grin faltered as Wei Long continued to withstand the onslaught. He pressed forward with increasing desperation. “Stop defending and fight back, coward!”

  Wei Long remained silent, trying to conserve as much energy as he could.

  The wooden swords clacked loudly as they met, each impact reverberating through the courtyard.

  One strike. Another. A third.

  Then came the moment—the brief pause in Zhao’s rhythm, barely a heartbeat long.

  Wei Long feinted left, baiting Zhao’s defense, then struck from the right with devastating precision. Wei Long thrust his sword forward with vigor. He struck Zhao below his left chest, hitting one of his ribs with such force that it left him bellowing in pain.

  “YOU!” Zhao growled, but Wei Long was already executing his follow-up, striking Zhao’s wrist with a swift technique.

  Zhao’s sword wobbled in his grip, his control compromised. Wei Long pressed the advantage, stepping forward and sweeping Zhao’s legs from under him with a low kick. Zhao hit the ground hard, his sword skittering across the stone tiles. ”Look at that. A second victory for Wei Long, the youngest disciple within the Heavy Sword Sect. A peerless genius.”

  The crowd’s murmurs grew louder, disciples exchanging glances of surprise and respect. Wei Long stood still, breathing deeply.

  Wei Long’s heart thundered in his chest; the realisation washed over him in waves. Two victories. Two! Not only would he remain at the sect, but he would advance to the core sect disciple’s class. The thought seemed almost too grand to believe, like a distant peak suddenly within reach. He was barely eight years old!

  He stood motionless on the platform, his wooden sword held steady despite the trembling he felt in his core. The murmurs of the crowd seemed distant now, as if coming from across a great canyon. His fellow disciples' faces showed varying degrees of shock, respect, and in some cases, outright disbelief. “Well done, Disciple Wei Long. That was impressive; you truly realised that your defense has been your weakness. You’ve solidified it and waited for your seniors to falter, well done.”

  Wei Long bowed deeply, his movements precise despite his fatigue. “Thank you, Master Feng.”

  Zhao, still keeling over on the ground where he’d fallen, glared at Wei Long with both rage and confusion. “How...? You were nothing but a weakling last winter!”

  “A man who does not improve himself is like a stagnant stream, unfit to nourish the land. But one who cultivates virtue and diligence may surpass even the strongest in time. Should it surprise you, then, that winter’s weakling has become spring’s oak,” a voice said in the background.

  Everyone turned, and it was Sect Master Chen Meiyun.