Chapter 23: I Am the Charter

As the illusion vanished, Wei Yuan’s spirit returned to find the Martial Assessment Hall in chaos—some weeping, some laughing, others collapsed on the floor trembling, their lower garments slowly darkening with wetness.

Amid the clamor, a girl’s voice suddenly rose from nearby—clear, soft, and impossibly sweet: “You pig-riding bastard, I’ll fight you to the death…”

Wei Yuan stole a glance and saw a girl in goose-yellow robes, like a doll carved from jade and water, flawless in beauty. She had just awakened and leapt from her seat—but upon noticing all the examinees staring at her, she fell instantly silent, her small face flushed with alarm and dread, stirring instant pity.

Wei Yuan naturally remembered this girl—the main general of the Northern Blue Team who had blocked his spear. Later, after confirming she was still alive, he had gone back and stabbed her again.

Now, seeing her tear-filled gaze, Wei Yuan felt a flicker of guilt. But guilt was guilt—the stab still needed delivering.

The Daoist, equally exasperated by the noisy children, swiftly herded all examinees out of the hall.

Wei Yuan rose slowly, waiting until the girl in goose-yellow robes had left before blending into the crowd and heading for the exit. Though she hadn’t recognized him, others had.

Just as he neared the hall’s exit, Li Zhi stepped from the shadows beside him, blocking his path.

Wei Yuan tensed, awaiting Li Zhi’s words. But Li Zhi said nothing—and made no move to step aside. The two stood facing each other as the other examinees filed past, leaving the hall empty save for Li Zhi and Wei Yuan.

The Daoist made no haste, standing just outside the door, back turned to the pair.

Li Zhi glared at Wei Yuan, his eyes slowly reddening. He gritted his teeth: “This is an unforgivable humiliation—I, Li Zhi, will never forget it! Have the guts to tell me your name!”

At this point, Wei Yuan could not retreat. Besides, they had already clashed in the illusion; with the Heaven’s Madman’s aura, Wei Yuan knew defeating Li Zhi would take but one or two moves. He replied: “Wei Yuan.”

Li Zhi barked: “Fine, Wei Yuan—I’ll remember you! You won this time—I accept defeat! But you’re only a few years older, nothing special. I, Li Zhi, am only eight this year! Thirty years east of the river, thirty years west! Wait and see—I’ll win back every loss you’ve dealt me!”

With that, Li Zhi turned and stormed out of the hall. Only when he reached a secluded spot did he secretly wipe his eyes.

The Martial Assessment was over. The Evaluation Hall now erupted in smoke.

Every evaluator’s mind was a sludge of confusion. No one had foreseen this outcome. Had the evaluators not ended the assessment early, Wei Yuan would have methodically hunted down every hidden candidate in the woods and thickets until none remained.

Nearly all examinees who had secured slots in the Immortal Sects and Celestial Realms were eliminated by Wei Yuan without a single achievement. Those with minor accomplishments were ordinary candidates—vanguards or scouts—earning at most one or two points.

The current situation: if strictly judged by the charter, everyone but Wei Yuan scored zero.

The elder cultivator spoke first: “We must deliberate carefully on scoring.”

The old Confucian immediately declared: “I declare Li Zhi first! As commander of the Yellow Team, he led his forces to annihilate the Blue Team, and his elite core remained intact. Such talent at such a young age—who else could be first?”

The young cultivator sneered: “Did he wipe out the Blue Team? Are your eyes afflicted with some blindness?”

The old Confucian remained unperturbed: “The Blue Team was wiped out by Wei Yuan, but Wei Yuan is of the Yellow Team. Any achievement by a member of Li Zhi’s team is Li Zhi’s achievement—this has always been so. Naturally, Wei Yuan’s merit is immense—he may share first place.”

The young cultivator laughed bitterly: “Then what of the Yellow Team’s failures? Shouldn’t those be counted against Li Zhi too?”

The old Confucian replied as if stating obvious truth: “Merit is merit, fault is fault—how can they be conflated?”

The young cultivator trembled with rage, but he could not out-debate Liu Sigu. The old Confucian had spent half his life in argument; the young cultivator, brash and proud, stood no chance.

The Fufeng Daoist interjected: “The charter only divides teams into Blue and Yellow—it mentions no commander. Even if the Yellow Team had a commander, why Li Zhi and not someone else? Is it because he’s the son of Lord Hui’en?”

To everyone’s surprise, the old Confucian replied loudly: “Precisely because he is Lord Hui’en’s son! Precisely because Cui Han and Wang Quan endorsed him!”

This statement, delivered with unshakable certainty, instantly silenced the Fufeng Daoist.

Everyone knew the great clans wielded immense power—there were the Seven Surnames and Thirteen Lineages, the foremost families rivaling even Immortal Sects. In such a grand examination, leadership came not from merit but from birth—and only from birth. Bao Yun led the Blue Team, Li Zhi led the Yellow Team—both by lineage alone. The team division claimed absolute fairness, yet concealed design: no matter how teams were drawn, Bao Yun and Li Zhi would never be placed together.

The Fufeng Daoist knew this well—but hearing the old Confucian state it so brazenly, so unquestioningly, stirred his Dao foundation into agitation, his face darkening like a soot-blackened pot.

The old Confucian continued: “This mess must be cleaned up. Regardless of others, I assign Li Zhi thirty points.”

At this, the middle-aged Confucian cleared his throat, breaking the silence: “All witnessed the assessment: the Blue Team was destroyed first. Li Zhi commanded with discipline, remained calm under crisis, and as leader of the Yellow Team, he deserves thirty points.”

The young cultivator sneered: “Two defeats in a row—call that disciplined command? What does the Blue Team’s destruction have to do with him? Without Wei Yuan, Miss Bao would have crushed him several times over! If Li Zhi gets thirty, shouldn’t my lady get fifty?”

The middle-aged Confucian replied: “Wei Yuan is of the Yellow Team.”

The young cultivator retorted: “But didn’t he also wipe out the Yellow Team?”

This question was hard to answer. The two Confucians exchanged glances and said: “Accidental harm to one’s own team should reduce the score accordingly.”

The young cultivator pressed: “Then how much should it be reduced?”

The Confucians cursed inwardly, but Zhang Sheng watched nearby—they could not answer carelessly. The middle-aged Confucian avoided the issue entirely: “Miss Bao’s Blue Team was annihilated, and she achieved nothing—by charter, she deserves zero.”

“Bullshit!” The young cultivator exploded.

In moments, the evaluators were bickering again, leaving Zhang Sheng ignored. But all knew arguing was pointless; unable to agree, they each assigned their own scores.

Zhang Sheng made no move to touch the roster before him, merely watching quietly.

Old Confucian Liu Sigu was first to pick up his brush—he wrote “Li Zhi: 30,” then the next name: Wei Yuan. After long thought, his brush weighed like a thousand catties—he wrote a “2,” paused mid-air, then added an “8.”

Seeing this, the young cultivator sneered inwardly: This old fox is all bluster—when faced with the Immortal Sword, even his bones bend.

The young cultivator picked up his brush: he gave Bao Yun thirty, then Li Zhi—no mercy, he wrote fifteen.

As he finished Li Zhi’s score, he noticed the old Confucian lift his head and glance at him—then write: “Bao Yun: 1.”

The middle-aged Confucian, as if waking from a dream, shed his hesitation and wrote the same: “Bao Yun: 1.”

The young cultivator stared, dumbfounded.

He glanced around: the monk had given Wei Yuan thirty, Bao Yun and Li Zhi each three, and was now scoring others—mostly one or two. The elder cultivator, indifferent, gave both Bao Yun and Li Zhi twenty-five.

The Fufeng Daoist scored Wei Yuan thirty, Bao Yun ten, Li Zhi five. A few others gave above twenty—clearly those they needed to favor.

The absolute scores mattered little—relative differences did. Only now did the young cultivator realize his naivety: he should have waited to give Li Zhi zero. But once written, scores could not be changed.

By this point, save the monk, the evaluators’ scores bore no relation to actual performance—they had torn off all masks, bare-knuckled and unhidden.

Zhang Sheng watched their performance in silence.

At that moment, a water-colored radiance descended from the heavens, striking the stone tablet in the hall. The slender moonlight, finer than a hair, pressed upon all like facing an abyss or a blazing sun.

Every evaluator’s thoughts froze. Then the tablet’s names vanished and reappeared—each followed by a score. At the top: Wei Yuan, twenty-five; then Bao Yun, three; Li Zhi, two; others one or zero.

A distant, mournful voice boomed from above: “This is justice!”

The scores on the tablet melted like snow, replaced by new ones—each candidate given an additional twenty points. Final scores: Wei Yuan forty-five, Bao Yun twenty-three, Li Zhi twenty-two, others descending accordingly.

“This preserves your families’ dignity.”

The evaluators fell silent, daring not to speak.

Each True Immortal was a pillar holding up the sky, capable of elevating a mid-tier family to greatness. Even ancient clans like the Bao or Cui treated True Immortals with utmost deference. And that slender moonlight—renowned even among True Immortals—belonged to the sole figure in the Tai Chu Palace who held dual posts as Master of both the Azure Heaven and Water Moon Halls.

Then the voice turned stern: “Zhang Sheng, evaluator of the Tai Chu Palace, has acted recklessly, disgracing his peers. Though his actions had cause, he must be severely punished!”

After a pause, the voice continued: “...Order Zhang Sheng to forfeit three years’ stipend, as a warning to all!”

The evaluators bowed in sincere submission, showing no trace of dissent.

High above, a figure veiled in water-colored moonlight spoke: “We are old friends. If any have objections, let us debate further. If none, then this stands.”

Around him stood several towering figures, each radiating formidable aura. Two nodded slightly; two others snorted, offering no reply. One wore Confucian robes, his fan neatly broken halfway; the other, a cultivator, shimmered with divine treasures—his radiant robe missing one sleeve, jarringly incomplete.

Three agreed, two remained silent—the matter was settled. The grand examination was over.

(End of Chapter)