The rain fell without mercy.
It soaked the stone courtyard of the Ye Clan until the ground turned dark and cold, like a grave that had been waiting for years. Thunder rolled above the mountain city, not loud, not furious—only distant and indifferent, as if Heaven itself could not be bothered to look down.
Ye Fan knelt.
His knees pressed into the wet stone. His hands trembled, not from fear, but from exhaustion. At fifteen, his body was thin, his clothes worn and patched too many times to count. Mud clung to the hem of his robe. Blood trickled from his lower lip where he had bitten too hard, trying to keep himself silent.
In front of him stood the elders of the Ye Clan.
They were dry beneath spiritual barriers, robes pristine, expressions cold. To them, this was not a trial. It was a confirmation.
"Ye Fan," Elder Ye Hong said calmly, his voice carrying spiritual pressure. "Step forward."
Ye Fan obeyed.
A crystal sphere was placed before him—the Spirit Measuring Orb, an object that decided a person's entire life in a single breath. Children who lit it brightly would rise as disciples. Those who failed would remain servants. Those who shattered it… were legends.
Ye Fan placed his palm against the cold surface.
The courtyard went silent.
Seconds passed.
Nothing happened.
The orb remained dull, lifeless—like a stone.
A murmur spread through the crowd.
"He failed again."
"As expected."
"Heaven-Sealed Meridians. Completely useless."
Ye Fan withdrew his hand slowly.
His chest felt hollow, as if something inside him had finally broken. He already knew the result. He had known it since the first test at age seven, since the second at ten, since the third at thirteen.
But hope was stubborn.
Hope was cruel.
Elder Ye Hong sighed, as if disappointed by something trivial. "Ye Fan. Heaven has sealed your meridians at birth. You cannot cultivate. According to clan law, you are unfit to remain within the inner grounds."
Another elder spoke, his tone colder. "From today onward, Ye Fan will be demoted to permanent servant status. He will be sent to the outer mines."
The words struck harder than any slap.
The outer mines.
Everyone knew what that meant. No cultivation resources. No protection. A slow death from exhaustion—or a fast one from spiritual beasts.
Ye Fan lowered his head.
"I accept," he said.
His voice did not shake.
Some disciples laughed quietly. Others looked away. No one stepped forward.
No one except one person.
"Stop."
The voice was soft—but it cut through the rain.
A woman pushed through the crowd. Her clothes were plain, her cultivation shallow, her face pale from years of labor. Her hair was tied simply, rain soaking it as she knelt beside Ye Fan without hesitation.
"Mother…" Ye Fan whispered.
His mother bowed her head deeply, her forehead touching the stone. "Elders," she said, voice trembling, "my son may be talentless, but he is obedient. Hardworking. Please… spare him the mines. Let him remain as a courtyard cleaner. I beg you."
Silence.
Elder Ye Hong frowned. "Clan rules are—"
She reached into her sleeve.
The movement was small, desperate.
A jade pendant fell into her palm.
It was old. Cracked. Almost ugly. No spiritual light radiated from it at all.
But the moment the elders saw it, their expressions changed.
Sharp.
Greedy.
Ye Fan's heart skipped.
"Where did you get that?" one elder demanded.
His mother hesitated.
Then she smiled faintly.
"It belonged to my husband," she said. "And before him… to ancestors long forgotten."
Ye Fan felt something cold crawl up his spine.
"Mother," he whispered urgently, "don't—"
Too late.
The elders moved.
A hand struck her chest.
She was thrown backward, her body hitting the stone with a dull sound that Ye Fan would remember for the rest of his life.
"Mother!"
Ye Fan crawled to her side, catching her head. Her breathing was shallow. Blood stained her lips.
She smiled again.
Weak. Apologetic.
"Fan'er," she whispered, gripping his sleeve with surprising strength. "Listen to me."
Tears blurred his vision. "Don't talk. Please. I'll find help—"
"There is no help," she said softly. "Heaven… never intended to give you one."
Her hand pressed the jade pendant into his chest.
"Live," she said. "No matter what it costs."
Her fingers went limp.
The rain grew heavier.
Thunder finally roared.
Someone laughed in the distance. "A servant's life, wasted."
Ye Fan did not hear them.
He stared at his mother's still face, his mind empty, then painfully full.
Something inside him cracked.
Not his heart.
Something deeper.
That night, Ye Fan did not cry.
He carried his mother's body alone to the burial hill. No elder followed. No incense was given. The rain washed the blood from his hands, but not the hatred from his bones.
When he returned to his small servant room, soaked and shaking, he collapsed onto the floor.
The jade pendant lay against his chest.
It was warm.
No.
Hot.
Burning.
Symbols he had never seen before lit up in his mind, carved not in ink—but in pain.
A voice echoed within him, ancient and broken:
"Heaven has chosen your death."
Ye Fan clenched his fists.
Blood dripped onto the floor.
"Then," he whispered hoarsely, eyes burning in the dark,
"I will choose Heaven's end."
The jade shattered.
Lightning flashed outside.
And somewhere far above the clouds—
Heaven opened its eyes.