The Path To Strength Is Lonely [ISEKAI/CULTIVATION PROGRESSION]

The dirt road stretches ahead, winding toward the looming stone gates of the Sect Selection Grounds.

The journey is over.

Now, the true test begins.

The massive structure ahead is more than just an entrance—it is a statement. Towering walls of black stone, adorned with intricate carvings of past warriors, stand as a silent testament to those who came before. At the center, a colossal archway marks the threshold, beyond which the strongest young cultivators of this generation await.

De-Reece and Kalia do not slow their pace.

The weight of countless gazes presses upon them even before they step through.

They are being watched.

The outer courtyard of the selection grounds is a vast expanse of packed earth, training dummies, and sharpening whetstones.

Disciples from various sects, scions of noble clans, and rogue cultivators stand in small clusters, assessing, measuring, comparing. Some wear flowing robes emblazoned with sect insignias, others clad in armor forged from exotic materials.

Every single person here is dangerous.

Some exude an effortless confidence, their presence alone enough to dominate the space around them. Others carry themselves with a quiet intensity, their hands hovering near their weapons, ready for any sign of hostility.

And then—there are the recruiters.

Figures dressed in darker robes, seated beneath pavilion tents, quietly observing. These are the scouts, sent by the sects to identify promising talents before the trials even begin. Some scribble notes on parchment. Others simply watch with unblinking eyes.

De-Reece and Kalia do not go unnoticed.

The moment they step into the courtyard, the shift is immediate.

A few heads turn—then more.

Some recognize Kalia from past encounters, noting the sharpness in her eyes, the newfound refinement in her stance.

But it is De-Reece who draws the most attention.

Not because of arrogance. Not because he stands out.

But because he does not fit.

To those trained in reading cultivators, he is an enigma.

He carries no sect's emblem, no clan's insignia. His cultivation feels refined, yet detached—neither wholly orthodox nor unorthodox.

And then there is Solar.

The beast at his side—**sleek, powerful, golden-violet eyes glowing with intelligence—**immediately sets him apart.

One of the recruiters, an older man with a thin beard, folds his arms and murmurs to his companion. "A beast companion of that level… he isn't just some wandering rogue."

His companion watches a moment longer before replying. "No. He isn't."

Before either of them can speak, a figure steps forward—a young man clad in pristine white robes, the insignia of Mount Kunlun prospect token embroidered in silver thread. His long hair is tied back, his sharp gaze filled with unspoken challenge.

Without a word, he flicks his wrist, Sword in his hand—a silent invitation for battle.

A test.

A demand for acknowledgment.

Because in this place, strength is the only currency that matters.

Kalia smirks, already reaching for her saber. "You want to do this now?"

De-Reece says nothing, his expression unreadable.

This is not unexpected.

This is exactly what he came for.

He admittedly has been noticing he's becoming lost in this new world of violence which seems to suit him more than his previous, violence previously meant escape now it meant reward.

And this is only the beginning.

The air grows tense as the Mount Kunlun disciple steps forward, his white robes pristine, his silver-threaded insignia catching the light.

This is not just a challenge.

It is a test of standing, a demand for acknowledgment.

Those who do not fight will be forgotten.

Those who lose will be dismissed.

De-Reece steps forward.

He does not hesitate.

Because this is where he belongs.

The young man's stance is controlled, his presence sharp and deliberate. He does not waste words. A disciple Prospect does not challenge without purpose.

His sword is already drawn, the blade gleaming with a faint, refined qi that hums with restrained lethality.

"You carry no insignia," the disciple states, his eyes narrowing slightly. "No affiliation. No name worth remembering."

A flicker of interest crosses the faces of the recruiters and onlookers. Mount Kunlun's disciples do not challenge lightly. If this unknown cultivator is not worth fighting, then his loss will prove it.

De-Reece does not respond to the bait. He does not need to.

His steps are measured as he stops a few paces away, his posture relaxed, yet absolute.

The Mount Kunlun disciple tilts his chin slightly. A small nod of approval.

"Then prove yourself."

With a flicker of movement, the duel begins.

The Prospected disciple moves first.

A single step forward—graceful, efficient, unhesitating.

His sword slices through the air, a technique refined over countless hours of training.

Not wasteful. Not reckless.

A master's cut.

The blade moves like flowing water, unhindered, like a gust of wind passing through the leaves.

But De-Reece does not move to block it.

He does not need to.

Shadow Phantom Steps.

His body shifts—a blur, a flicker of motion so precise that the sword simply cuts through empty air.

The Kunlun disciple's eyes widen for a fraction of a second.

De-Reece is already beside him.

A single palm, pressed against his ribs.

Not an attack.

Not yet.

Just a statement.

I could have ended this already.

The Kunlun disciple grits his teeth. This fight is not over.

The Mount Kunlun disciple is skilled.

His techniques are flawless, his footwork impeccable, each movement honed to near perfection.

But he fights with precision.

And De-Reece does not.

De-Reece fights with dominance.

Each evasion forces the Kunlun disciple to reposition. Each counterstrike comes not as a flurry, but as a single overwhelming force, a strike that threatens to end the duel outright.

Domineering Demon Fist.

A single punch—not aimed at the opponent's blade, but at the very air around him.

The pressure wave shatters the dust beneath their feet, the force sending a tremor through the ground.

The Kunlun disciple barely corrects his stance in time, skidding backward to avoid the brunt of the impact.

For the first time, his expression shifts.

Because now, he understands.

This is not a battle of refinement.

This is a battle of absolute control.

The Prospected disciple exhales sharply, lowering his blade slightly.

Not in surrender.

But in understanding.

His gaze meets De-Reece's, and this time, there is no challenge in them.

Only acknowledgment.

"You are not nameless."

He sheaths his sword.

And turns away.

The dust from the duel settles, yet the weight of the moment lingers in the air. The gathered cultivators murmur among themselves, their sharp eyes flicking toward De-Reece with newfound awareness.

No name. No insignia. No affiliation.

Yet he had forced a disciple of Mount Kunlun to acknowledge him.

Kalia crosses her arms, smirking. "That didn't take long."

De-Reece rolls his shoulders, the subtle pulse of residual energy from the duel fading from his limbs. He had held back. Completely. The Domineering Demon Fist and Sky Shattering Demon Palm had been more than enough to establish his presence.

No one here needed to know about his sword just yet.

Beyond the murmurs of the crowd, beyond the recruiters whispering among themselves, beyond the shifting glances of rival disciples—someone else is watching.

Not from the gathered sects.

Not from the recruiters' tents.

From the shadows.

A presence sits unseen, observing not just the outcome of the duel, but every subtle movement De-Reece had made.

No wasted steps. No unnecessary exertion. Every attack calculated.

To the untrained eye, he had fought simply as a body cultivator, relying on raw power and refined technique.

But to someone watching closely—there was more.

Much more.

The observer does not step forward. Does not announce their presence.

They do not need to.

Because they have seen enough.

For now.