Chapter 2 The Spirit Stone Test

Night had fallen, and silence covered the land like a soft blanket.

But in the brightly lit mansion of the Thorne Family, silence was nowhere to be found.

Laughter and talk filled the East wing Hall, the place usually used to receive honored guests. Most nights, this hall remained quiet, as it rarely hosted anyone. But tonight was different. Voices echoed through the large space, and the once-quiet air now danced with excitement and curiosity.

The door creaked open with a long "squeak."

A young man stepped into the hall. His eyebrows were sharp and clean, and though his face was calm, his head was slightly lowered, as if he was deep in thought.

The noise of the door must have been louder than he intended. As soon as he stepped inside, all eyes turned toward him.

"Well, if it isn't Cousin Silas Thorne. Not sleeping tonight? What brings you here?" a teenage boy called out with a smirk. His tone was sharp, his words dipped in sarcasm.

The boy who spoke was Damien Thorne, around sixteen or seventeen years old. He was handsome, but his narrow eyes gave off a cold, harsh feeling. There was something mean about him, something that hid behind that smile.

"Damien, that's enough," came a gentle yet clearly fake voice. An older man, sitting not far away, waved a hand. "Your cousin Silas may not be strong or gifted in cultivation, but I'm sure he's just curious. He must have heard that we have an immortal guest tonight. He came to witness greatness, just like the rest of us."

The old man then turned and bowed with great respect to a young man dressed in a flowing purple robe who sat in the center of the hall, glowing like the moon among stars.

This purple-robed young man was the so-called "immortal" the old man referred to.

Silas stood by the doorway and quietly watched the two perform their act - the father and son duo showing off in front of the important guest. There was something odd about it. He felt like a stranger, watching a play from the outside. The feeling made him chuckle inside. So these were his "relatives," he thought. The life of the person whose body he now lived in had not been an easy one.

At the head of the room sat Gerald Thorne, the head of the family. His brows drew together slightly in displeasure. It was no secret that he never looked kindly upon Silas. But even so, to mock him like this, in public, made Gerald uncomfortable. Silas was still his son, after all.

"Silas," Gerald finally spoke, as if everything that had happened didn't bother him at all, "come and greet your Uncle North."

The purple robed youth beside him, known as Lucas North, nodded slightly.

"So, this is the father who wants nothing to do with his own son," Silas thought as he looked at Gerald a middle-aged man in fine robes whose face bore a familiar seriousness.

He stepped forward calmly and gave a respectful bow.

"Uncle North," he said.

Lucas North stood up slowly. The room quieted.

"Since we're all here," Lucas said, his voice calm but firm, "let's begin. Whether you're blessed with immortal fate or not, tonight will tell."

Lucas North was no ordinary guest. He was an inner disciple of the Azurelight Order, one of the oldest and most respected cultivation sects in the land. Though their power had faded over the years, the name still carried weight. For generations, they had trained strong cultivators and stood at the peak of the cultivation world.

Today, however, the Azurelight Order was no longer as glorious. Once the rulers of the realm, they now barely counted among the mid-level sects. Yet, they still held sway over a vast region, controlling many nearby cities including silver brook, where the Thorne Family lived.

Even if their strength had declined, people still feared and respected them. For mortals, there was no greater chance than the opportunity to join a sect. This was called "immortal fate."

In Silver brook, it wasn't rare to see disciples from the Azurelight Order walking the streets. The Thorne Family had long built ties with the sect, often hosting visiting disciples. Over time, the two sides began to trade in secret including selling spots for new disciples.

Of course, not just anyone could join a sect. The elders of the Azurelight Order were not fools. They allowed these deals to exist so long as they remained useful and didn't cross certain lines.

And the greatest line was this: you could not bring someone into the sect if they had no spiritual roots.

Lucas North sighed softly. He glanced at his longtime friend Gerald and clenched his jaw. "You sure gave me trouble this time," he thought.

Still, he was willing to do a favor - but only if Silas had at least a thread of spiritual roots. Even the weakest would be enough. Otherwise... he didn't want to think about it. Looking over at Silas, who was quietly standing in the corner, Lucas frowned deeply.

He took a deep breath, then turned back to the crowd.

"Not everyone can become a cultivator," he said, his voice serious. "Whether you can walk the path of the immortal depends on whether you have spiritual roots."

In the world of cultivation, spiritual roots meant talent. A person with strong roots could progress in one year as fast as a weak-rooted person could in ten. And those with no roots at all... could only struggle in the lowest ranks their entire life, never touching true power.

Silas's fingers clenched slightly on the chair beside him. He tried to stay calm, but his heart was pounding. He knew this body's reputation. Everyone called him a waste. Would someone like that even have spiritual roots?

He didn't know. But he hoped. He hoped fate wouldn't turn cruel again.

The mention of "spiritual roots" stirred the crowd. A few teens nearby began whispering.

"Do you think Silas could have spiritual roots?" a girl asked, loudly and with a laugh. She stretched out the words "spiritual roots" as if they were part of a joke. Her laughter rang out, mocking.

The other teens followed her lead, bursting into laughter.

"He's still stuck in the third stage of martial practice," said a dark-skinned boy, laughing. "He's a waste if I've ever" But he stopped mid word, catching sight of Gerald's dark expression. "Cough... cough..." he began coughing violently, as if trying to swallow the word.

The hall fell into an awkward silence, broken only by the boy's coughing.

Several elders frowned. Even the fourth elder, Cedric Thorne, who had earlier spoken against Silas, shook his head and muttered, "These foolish brats. Teasing him in private is one thing, but doing it in front of the head of the family?"

He looked up at Gerald, who still wore a dark expression, though he did nothing.

Silas, head lowered, remained calm. He had lived two lives. This mockery didn't stir his heart. Instead, his mind returned to his earlier time in meditation - and a small idea started forming in his mind.

Lucas North clapped his hands once. "Whether you have spiritual roots is not something that can be guessed," he said coldly. "There's only one way to find out."

He touched a ring on his finger. In a flash of light, a black stone appeared in his palm.

"This is the Spirit Measuring Stone," he explained. "Place your hand on it and grip it tightly. If it shines, you have spiritual roots. The brighter the glow, the better the roots. If it stays dark... you have none."

He looked around. "Who wants to go first?"

...

"No roots."

"Next."

"No roots."

"Next."

Time passed. Teen after teen stepped forward and left disappointed.

The elders' faces grew darker with every failure. So far, only two of the young people had shown spiritual roots. And this was a big generation for the Thorne Family, with more than a hundred youths Silas's age.

Some of the elders sighed quietly. "We can't always be lucky," one muttered.

"Next," Lucas North called again. This time, no one stepped forward.

All eyes turned to the corner of the room to Silas.

Silas slowly raised his head. He looked at the Spirit Measuring Stone. His eyes filled with determination.

"I'll go," he said calmly.

He walked forward. His back was straight. Confidence flowed from him, though no one could understand where it came from.

At the head of the room, Gerald's face shifted. His stiff features softened for a moment. He stared at Silas, and for a brief second, he seemed to see a different face, the face of a woman from his past, like a spirit dancing in the wind.

"Ping'er..." he whispered.

Then, as if snapping out of a dream, he frowned again. That warmth vanished, replaced by doubt and coldness.

The other youths stepped aside, forming a circle. At the center were the only two with spiritual roots: Damien Thorne and Marcus Thorne.

No one dared laugh anymore, not after the earlier warning. But whispers still floated through the air, quiet but poisonous.

"Is he really going to test?"

"He's just embarrassing the family again."

"He only made it this far because his father is the family head."

From within the crowd, Damien Thorne leaned toward Marcus and whispered, "Do you think there's hope for him?"

Marcus chuckled. "You're joking, right?"

They shared a look, then laughed softly.

Silas, unaware or perhaps uncaring, placed his hand firmly on the black stone.

The hall held its breath.

Would it shine? Or would it stay dark?