Dao of the World Walker (Xianxia) Book 2

Yang stood alone on a mountain path.

The transition had been instant. One moment Li San was beside him, their eyes meeting in shared determination. The next, Yang was completely alone on a narrow trail carved into gray rock.

He looked around, trying to orient himself. The path wound upward through sparse vegetation and weathered stone. Disappearing into mist somewhere far above where the sect gates must wait. No steps. No handrails. Just a worn dirt trail that countless feet had walked before him.

Yang could see others on the path. Some ahead, already climbing with determined strides. Some behind, just beginning their ascent. All separated by distance. All climbing alone.

The isolation was complete. Even when Yang could see other candidates, they seemed unreachable. Locked in their own experience and their own struggles.

He took a breath and started walking.

The first part wasn’t difficult. His legs burned from the incline, muscles working to carry him upward. His breath came harder in the thin air, each inhale taking more effort than the last. But that was normal. Yang had climbed mountains before. Had crossed that frozen peak to reach Yunxi village. Had spent years navigating forest terrain that would have killed lesser men.

This was just more of the same. Physical challenge. Endurance. Things he understood. Things he could overcome through sheer determination.

Yang settled into a rhythm. One foot after another. Eyes on the path ahead. Breathing steady despite the altitude.

Then something changed.

It was subtle at first. So subtle Yang almost didn’t notice. The air itself felt heavier. Like he was walking through water instead of breathing it. Each step forward required real effort now. Not just from the climb but from something else. Something pressing down on him from above.

Yang’s heart began to pound harder than the exertion warranted. His hands trembled slightly. A cold sweat broke out across his forehead despite the cool mountain air.

He glanced back, uncertain. Several people were stumbling back down the trail. Faces pale. Eyes wide with fear. Some were crying openly. Others looked defeated. Broken. They’d given up already.

Weak, Yang thought. He wouldn’t be like them. He’d survived too much to quit now.

He pushed forward. The pressure increased with each step. Like walking into a wind that grew stronger the further he climbed.

Yang gritted his teeth. Focused on putting one foot in front of the other. He’d endured worse. The beast cores had felt like liquid fire in his veins. The mountain crossing had nearly killed him. This was just discomfort. He could handle discomfort.

His knees buckled without warning.

Yang crashed down onto the rocky ground. Palms scraping against stone. Drawing blood. The weight was enormous now. Like the sky itself was pressing on his shoulders. Like invisible hands were forcing him down. He could barely breathe. Each inhale was a struggle against the crushing force.

He forced himself back up. Arms trembling with effort. Gritted his teeth hard enough that his jaw ached. Took another step.

Then he felt it.

Cold metal against his throat.

Yang’s hand flew to his neck instinctively. But there was nothing there. His fingers met only skin. Yet he felt it. A blade’s edge. So sharp and so real that his breath stopped. One wrong move and it would cut. Slice through his throat and spill his blood onto the stones.

His body locked up completely. Every muscle rigid with instinctive terror. The kind of fear that bypassed thought and went straight to the animal brain. Prey freezing before a predator.

The sensation vanished as suddenly as it had appeared.

Fire replaced it.

His skin burned like he was being held over flames. Yang gasped, doubling over. Tears streaming down his face. The pain was excruciating. All-consuming. He could smell burning flesh.

Then bitter cold. So intense his teeth chattered and his fingers went numb. Ice seemed to form shards in his veins. Freezing him from the inside out.

The sensations kept changing. Crushing weight. Phantom blades. Burning. Freezing. Drowning. Suffocating. There was no pattern. No warning. Just suffering cycling through variations of torment.

Yang saw others on the trail. A girl twenty paces ahead was on her hands and knees. Blood dripping from her nose onto the rocks. But she was still crawling forward. Inch by painful inch. Her face was twisted in agony but her eyes remained fixed on the path ahead.

A young man nearby had his eyes closed. Swaying on his feet like he was drunk. But his expression was strange. Concentrated. Almost curious. Like he was studying something invisible. His lips moved silently, forming words Yang couldn’t hear.

There was blood running from the young man’s ear. His face was deathly pale. But he took another step. And another. Like he was walking through a storm but knew exactly where he was going.

Yang took another step. His vision blurred. He didn’t understand what was happening. Was this some kind of poison in the air? A curse on the mountain? Some technique the sect was using to test them?

His inner instincts were screaming. But not with guidance. Not with the subtle tugs and warnings he’d come to rely on. Just raw panic. Undifferentiated terror. Warning him to flee. To get away from this place of suffering.

But Yang couldn’t flee. Wouldn’t flee. He’d come too far. Sacrificed too much. Crossed continents. All for this chance. He couldn’t give up now.

He pushed forward. Step by agonizing step.

Then it got worse.

Yang saw himself being cut apart. Sword strokes opening his flesh in slow motion. He watched his own blood spray. Watched his body fall in pieces. He knew it wasn’t real but the pain felt real. More real than anything he’d experienced. He was screaming and he couldn’t stop.

The vision shifted without warning.

He was drowning. Water filling his lungs. Choking. The pressure in his chest building until he thought his ribs would crack. Dying slowly while the surface grew further and further away.

No. He was falling. Tumbling through endless void while the ground rushed up to meet him. Wind tearing at his clothes. His stomach in his throat. Impact inevitable and approaching fast.

No. He was watching Grandpa die. Over and over. The knife sliding in. Blood spreading across Grandpa’s tunic. Those kind eyes going dim while Yang stood frozen. Unable to help. Unable to save him. Grandpa’s hand reaching out. Mouth forming Yang’s name. Then nothing.

Yang collapsed. His hands clawed at the dirt. Fingernails breaking against rock. Every breath was agony. His mind was breaking under the assault of sensations and visions. Reality and nightmare blending until he couldn’t tell which was which.

Through tear-blurred eyes, he saw that young man again. Further up the trail now. The man’s hand rested at his side. Fingers curled like he was holding an invisible sword. His lips moved silently. Counting perhaps. Or reciting something. There was more blood now. Running from his ear down his neck. His face was deathly pale. Skin like paper.

But his eyes were clear. Focused. Like he understood something fundamental that Yang couldn’t grasp.

Yang didn’t even understand how he could see the mans face when he was ahead of him.

There was only chaos and pain and terror. No meaning. No purpose. Just suffering for its own sake.

He tried to move forward. Willed his body to obey. But it wouldn’t. The invisible blade pressed harder against his throat and Yang couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but survive the next second and the next and the next.

His vision was going dark around the edges. Unconsciousness approaching. Or death. Yang couldn’t tell the difference anymore.

He crawled backward.

The moment he retreated a few feet, the pressure eased. Just slightly. But enough. Yang gasped in air like a drowning man breaking the surface. His lungs burned with the effort. His whole body shook.

He looked up at the path ahead. Others continued climbing. That girl was still crawling. Her fingers bloody from gripping sharp stones. Her progress measured in inches. But she was moving forward. Always forward. Her jaw set with determination that bordered on madness.

The young man took another step. Then another. Like he was walking through a storm but knew exactly where he was going. Like the suffering had meaning he could read. Like there was a language written in the pain that he was learning to speak.

Yang tried again. He couldn’t give up. Not yet. Not after everything.

He stood. Forced his legs to move. Took one step upward.

The crushing weight returned instantly. Twice as heavy as before. Like the mountain was punishing him for his retreat. The blade at his throat. The fire on his skin. The visions of being torn apart.

His body convulsed. Blood vessels burst in his eyes. He tasted copper.

But worse than all of that was the emptiness.

There was nothing inside him that responded to this. No part of his soul that recognized what was happening. No inner flame that could burn brighter in response to the challenge. It was just torture without meaning. Pain without purpose. Suffering that led nowhere.

Yang could endure pain. Had endured years of it. In the forest, eating beast cores that felt like they would tear him apart from the inside. Crossing the mountain in blizzards that should have killed him. Fighting beasts that were stronger and faster. 

But that pain had always led somewhere. Had strengthened him. Changed him. Given him power. Made him into something more than he was before.

This pain was different. It wasn’t transforming him. Wasn’t teaching him. It was just breaking him. Piece by piece. Like a stone under a hammer.

He watched others around him transform their suffering into something else. They hurt. Clearly. They bled and cried and struggled. Some were crawling. Some were barely conscious. But somehow they were progressing. Reading a language he couldn’t even see. Learning a lesson he was deaf to. Forging themselves in fire Yang couldn’t feel the heat of.

Yang took another step backward. His body moved before his mind decided. Pure survival instinct overriding determination.

Then another step back.

The pressure faded with each retreat. His body sagged with relief and shame. The weight lifting. The phantom sensations disappearing. Until he stood on ordinary rock breathing ordinary air.

He looked up one last time at the distant peak shrouded in mist. People were still climbing. That girl still crawling with bloody hands. The young man still advancing. Others he couldn’t see but knew were there. Struggling upward. Refusing to quit.

They would reach the top and be welcomed into the Azure Sword Sect. Would become the cultivators they dreamed of being.

He wouldn’t.

Not because he was weak. Yang knew he wasn’t weak. He’d survived things that would have killed normal people. Had strength that surpassed human limits. Had crossed mountains and lived in the forest alone for years and killed magical beasts with his bare hands.

Not because he didn’t try hard enough. He’d given everything he had. Pushed himself past limits he didn’t know he had. Endured pain that would have made others weep.

But because whatever this mountain was testing for, whatever quality it was looking for in the people who climbed it, he didn’t have it.

There was something in those other climbers. Something that let them turn suffering into progress. That let them read meaning in agony. That let them forge themselves in the mountain’s crucible.

Yang didn’t have that. Whatever it was. And no amount of determination or strength or willpower could substitute for its absence.

Yang turned fully away from the peak. Started walking back down the mountain. Each step easier than the last. The pressure lifting like fog in sunlight.

His chest felt hollow. Empty in a way it hadn’t been since Grandpa died. Since those first terrible days alone in the forest when he’d thought he might die from grief before hunger ever got him.

He’d built himself back up from that. Found strength. Found purpose. Found family in Yunxi Village and brotherhood with Li San. Found hope in Cheng Mo’s painting and the promise of cultivation.

And now that hope was ashes. Scattered by a mountain that had judged him and found him wanting.

Yang walked down past others still trying to climb. Past people struggling against the same torment that had broken him. He wanted to tell them to give up. That some things weren’t meant to be. That not everyone could be a cultivator no matter how much they wanted it.

But he didn’t. They had to learn for themselves. Just like he had.

At the bottom of the path, the shimmering ripple waited. Yang stepped through it.

The world shifted. He found himself back in the crowd of candidates. But separate now. Those who’d climbed through the ripple were gone. Only those who’d retreated remained.

Thousands of them. All wearing the same expression Yang felt on his own face. Defeat. Confusion. Grief for dreams that had died on a mountain path.

Yang found a spot away from the others. Sat down heavily on the ground. His body was exhausted. His mind numb and his heart empty.

He stared up at the mountain. Wondering where Li San was. If his brother was still climbing. Still fighting. Or if he’d retreated too.

Yang hoped Li San had made it. Hoped his dream hadn’t died like his own.

But he wouldn’t know. Not for hours. Not until the sun reached its highest point and the trial ended.

So Yang sat. And waited. And tried not to think about what came next.

His path lay elsewhere. The mountain had spoken.

And Yang, for the first time in his life, had no answer.

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