Chapter 3
Chapter 3: Stars, Sun, and Moon
Lu Shao Heng stood in line, withdrew her gaze, and turned toward the snow-white jade pillar.
From the Divine Voice’s words, she had already guessed what kind of spectacle would bloom when Jiang Yun Jiang tested.
As for that “innate divine ability,” Lu Shao Heng had her own suspicions.
She had read far more than most noble girls were ever allowed. Somewhere in a brittle old volume—Ping Jin Lesser Treasury Essentials—she remembered a line she hadn’t been able to forget: When a person is born with an omen, a demon prodigy is sure to be born.
Ever since Jiang Yun Jiang entered the marquis’s manor, Lu Shao Heng had noticed her eyes—strange enough to be called eerie. Later, while quietly gathering information, Lu Shao Heng learned that rosy clouds had floated above the courtyard on the day Jiang Yun Jiang was born.
Her eyes… that must be it.
Jiang Yun Jiang’s demon gift.
The line moved forward. Lu Shao Heng forced herself to set the thought aside.
It was her turn.
She stared at the jade, and everything else blurred. A single, fierce idea filled her: a chance.
A chance to step onto the path of cultivation.
They said the Mortal Realm lacked the spiritual energy cultivators needed. Any disciple taken away by a sect rarely returned to their old home. And the techniques they learned belonged to their sects, forbidden to be passed on.
So even now, there was no organized power of cultivators in the mortal world. Mortals could only wait—once every 20 years—for the recruitment, for the test, for this one narrow door to crack open.
The female cultivator in charge of Lu Shao Heng’s line was named Yan Ci, a young woman who looked around 20. Her face remained calm as she repeated the practiced words.
“Next. Just stretch out your hand.”
Lu Shao Heng had been almost certain she had aptitude.
If she were an ordinary person with no talent, why would the Divine Voice have found her?
And yet, at the last moment, her heartbeat still thundered.
She raised her hand and pressed her palm to the cold jade.
A faint sting pricked her skin. Blood threads began to climb.
At the same time, a gentle force wrapped around her consciousness and carried it away, as if she’d been lifted by the nape of her soul.
The world vanished.
No sky. No earth.
Only boundless darkness—and then, one by one, stars igniting. Countless points of light blooming until they joined into a brilliant sea. Within it, a crimson sun burned, and a white moon rose.
Sun and moon faced each other from afar. The river of stars gleamed and turned without end.
Lu Shao Heng stood in that vastness, breath held, as if her own body was too small for what she was seeing.
“Lu Shao Heng.”
Yan Ci’s voice cut through, and the vision snapped like a thread pulled tight.
Lu Shao Heng’s awareness slammed back into her body.
Yan Ci was looking at the pillar, confusion flickering in her eyes.
“Lower Grade aptitude,” she said slowly, as if weighing the words. “Outside the five elements.”
On the jade, a pale darkness had appeared, and within it, a few points of color shone like distant sparks.
Lu Shao Heng understood at once: what she’d witnessed was only a fragment of what the pillar had captured.
Thirteen stars had formed on the jade.
Yan Ci clearly couldn’t find the image in any standard list of known aptitudes. But aptitudes were wildly varied, shifting without end. She had seen a few types not recorded in texts.
Judging by the strength of the aura ripples from the image, she classified it as Lower Grade and didn’t dig deeper.
Especially since the sect elders above hadn’t moved.
One elder, rumored to have reached a deep realm, had opened his Niwan Palace and refined spiritual sense into divine sense. He was constantly observing everything below.
If he didn’t intervene, Yan Ci knew her judgment was acceptable.
“Wait to the side,” Yan Ci said, her tone returning to its usual neutrality.
Lu Shao Heng swallowed the questions that rose hot in her throat, nodded, and stepped into the waiting line.
By now, nearly 2,000 people had been tested. Including her, only nine had shown aptitude.
Of the other eight, five were old acquaintances.
Jiang Yun Jiang. Lu Shao Jia. Lu Shao Jing. Qin Ji. Yan Ning.
The remaining three were a timid girl in gray cloth, a brawny man with knotted muscles, and a handsome young man whose outer robe had been washed pale from too many cleanings.
Even without words, there was already a faint tendency for the group to gather around Jiang Yun Jiang.
Among the nine, she was the only one with High-Grade Aptitude. The gap was so wide it made everything else feel small.
Of the five Lu Shao Heng knew, only Jiang Yun Jiang looked concerned.
The other four stared at Lu Shao Heng with open disgust.
Yan Ning wore palace robes with gauze wrapped around her arms. At 15 or 16, she already carried herself with rich dignity. She had once been Lu Shao Heng’s close friend.
Now her lip curled. “I have to say, Lu Shao Heng, someone as vicious as you fits beggar clothes perfectly.”
“A Ning,” Jiang Yun Jiang snapped, grabbing her arm and scolding in a low voice. Disapproval filled her eyes, like a gentle person forced into firmness. “Enough.”
Lu Shao Heng lifted her gaze, eyes flat.
Yan was the royal surname. Yan Ning was a commandery princess—neither very high nor very low, just enough to be spoiled and protected.
Lu Shao Heng smiled without warmth. “I’m fine.”
She tilted her head, looking Yan Ning up and down. “Wearing badly at least means I’m normal.”
Her tone sharpened. “Not like you, greedy girl. When you were little, you loved eating night soil. A hobby like that really is one of a kind.”
Yan Ning’s face flushed a furious red.
But this was an immortal sect recruitment. Now that they’d tested and their futures were secure, none of them dared make a true scene in front of the disciples. Yan Ning kept enough sense not to scream.
Lu Shao Heng didn’t bother watching her simmer.
Lu Shao Jia approached, face stern, as if he still believed he had the right to lecture her from above. The sight of him turned Lu Shao Heng’s stomach.
Her dark eyes fixed on him. Whatever warmth had once existed between siblings was gone.
“Get lost.”
Lu Shao Jia’s expression twisted. “You—”
Before he could step closer, Lu Shao Jing had already lunged forward, fists clenched, disgust on his face. “Are you looking for a beating?”
“With your half-baked skills?” Lu Shao Heng kept her voice low, but the contempt in it was unmistakable.
Her contempt had weight.
She knew every move Lu Shao Jing could make.
The Marquis of Pacifying the South Manor hadn’t risen through martial prowess. Lu Yuan prided himself on status, but his connections were limited. The external trainers he hired were mediocre at best.
Lu Shao Jing’s footwork, fist techniques, sword techniques—nearly all of it had come from manuals Lu Shao Heng collected from the martial world. She read them through, broke them down, then taught him piece by piece, hand to hand.
Ninety-nine percent of Lu Shao Jing’s reputation as a “martial genius” was built on her sleepless nights.
But he had been drunk on praise for years, and now truly believed he was heaven-born.
Lu Shao Jia understood the implication in her words. Guilt pricked—quickly buried beneath jealousy. He averted his eyes.
Bian Capital praised him for talent. Whether poetry or policy essays, he always took first at the Imperial Academy.
But aside from the family, no one knew those brilliant works had been written by Lu Shao Heng—after the manor’s Madam begged her, and she had ghostwritten them with a quiet hand.
A secluded noble girl who had never listened to a Great Scholar’s lectures, never studied under a famed teacher—only someone who had read too many books and understood too quickly.
Lu Shao Heng didn’t even need to struggle. A few casual lines from her pen were enough to leave men who studied day and night far behind.
An odd silence fell over the waiting line.
Cushions had been set out. Lu Shao Heng chose one and sat down, refusing to waste another thought on them.
Because something was wrong with her body.
She could feel it—quiet at first, then growing.
Something had changed.