Weapon seller in the world of magic-Chapter 697: The Sect Head Trials (Part-3)

Instantly, the pedestal came alive, runes lighting up in a violent spiral. Wind rushed out in a vortex, sucking everything toward the center. Mark barely had time to grit his teeth before an invisible force wrapped around him like a hand and yanked him forward.

His body was torn from the hall in a flash of white, and he vanished.

The room went quiet again.

Lan Yujin stared at the empty space where Mark had stood and released a long breath through his nose. His eyes glinted with something dark as he murmured. "I truly hope you fail this test. Best if you die inside that place. It will save me a lot of trouble."

He shook his head.

"But... knowing what you are capable of... I have little hope for that."

He turned his gaze toward the adamantine statue of the founder, its black metal absorbing the cold light of the hall.

"If you could defeat me, then defeating that thing inside will be nothing difficult for you..." He muttered bitterly.

His eyes narrowed sharply. "So I pray you fail either the character trial... or the wisdom trial."

*

Mark’s vision returned all at once.

He found himself suspended in a strange, weightless space, neither sky nor ground existed around him, only swirling patches of color that looked like they were slapped on by a child with no sense of harmony.

Bright yellows spilled into ugly greens, smeared beside purple streaks that didn’t match anything. The whole world felt like a broken painting, as if reality itself had been doodled with no effort or understanding. But Mark barely spared it a glance.

His attention was locked entirely on the three beings floating before him.

They were massive, towering like giants, but their forms resembled stitched dolls. Their bodies looked like they were made entirely of cloth, each stitch visible, and yet nothing about them seemed fragile.

They had no faces, no hands, no feet. Just tall humanoid silhouettes that radiated an overwhelming presence, each one glowing faintly in its respective colors.

One was deep black, its outline bending the light around it.

Another was snow white, drifting like a ghostly figure.

And the last was crimson, its entire cloth-body shimmering with shifting shades of red.

The black one tilted slightly, as if observing Mark from top to bottom.

A deep, rumbling male voice echoed from its hollow chest. "I did not expect the challenger to be this young... Barely thirteen heavenly years old."

Mark almost rolled his eyes. So what.

But before he could respond, the white figure leaned slightly forward, its feminine voice smooth and calm. "It is not unusual. We have witnessed younger. Do you not remember the one who arrived at merely five heavenly years old? He was reckless and disrespectful, but he was quite knowledgeable for someone..."

"Enough," the red one cut in sharply. Its voice was strange, male and female tones layered together, creating an unsettling, distorted harmony that vibrated through the air. The white tribunal immediately fell silent, drifting back into its original position.

The red one then addressed Mark directly.

"Welcome to the Sect Head Trials, challenger." Its faceless head tilted. "State your name."

Mark let out a slow breath. "You mean my birth name? The name I identify with? Or the name the clan calls me? I have several."

The black tribunal let out a low hum, almost amused. "This young one is interesting... and fearless. I like him."

The red tribunal continued without reacting to the compliment. "Names themselves have no meaning. It is the world around you that gives meaning to what you are called. So speak the name others call you." 𝘧𝓇ℯ𝑒𝓌𝑒𝑏𝓃𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭.𝒸ℴ𝓂

Mark gave a small shrug. "Until a short while ago, everyone called me Lu Zhen. But now that I have become the clan head... I suppose the name they use is Lan Zhen."

A ripple of faint red light pulsed along the red tribunal’s cloth body as if nodding.

"Lan Zhen it is."

The crimson figure raised its arm-like limb toward the other two.

"We are the Tribunals, created by the Founder of this sect. Our duty is to ensure that the sect remains under the hand of a worthy individual. Here, you will be tested, your strength, your wisdom, and your character."

It turned slightly toward the white tribunal, which floated forward with an eerie quietness, its empty face somehow radiating scrutiny.

"First," the white tribunal said, "your wisdom."

The space dimmed around them, the swirling colors fading into a misty gray.

The white tribunal spoke again, its tone soft but heavy with meaning. "Strength can be borrowed. Power can be inherited. Wisdom can be taught... slowly, through hardship."

It drifted closer, lowering its faceless head to Mark’s eye level. "But character... character is the essence of who you are. If your heart is flawed or corrupt, no throne will endure under your rule."

A gentle but firm light radiated from the white tribunal, enveloping Mark like a cold breeze.

"Thus," it concluded, "before anything else... we test your spirit."

Mark exhaled deeply, preparing himself.

The swirling colors around Mark finally settled, fading into a cool, soft glow as the white tribunal drifted closer to him.

"Your first test." Its faceless head tilted slightly and spoke, with its feminine voice echoing gently across the strange space. "There are three disciples of your sect trapped in danger. You may only save one."

The air shifted subtly as three silhouettes appeared in the distance, just vague outlines, blurry and indistinct, representing possibilities rather than people.

"One is deeply loyal, but weak," the white tribunal continued. "One is arrogant and has mediocre talent, but comes from a powerful background. And the last is highly talented, but solitary; he keeps away from others, and his origins are... unknown."

The tribunal paused, letting the weight of the decision sink in.

"You may save only one. Under no circumstances may you save more. Choose, and explain your reason."

Mark stared at the three silhouettes quietly. His brows lowered in thought. The tribunal expected him to hesitate, to crunch numbers, to weigh political advantage or cultivation potential.

Instead, Mark gave his answer without any drama, staying true to his personality rather than appearing like someone who was expecting to give the right answer. "If I can save only one," he said evenly, "then I choose the loyal one."

The white tribunal leaned forward ever so slightly, as though studying his face.

"Why?" it asked calmly. "He is weak. He will not contribute to the sect’s strength. His talent is low. His future is dim. What value does loyalty have if it brings no power?"

Mark looked directly at the faceless tribunal. "If he is weak," he said, "then I’ll make him stronger."

A ripple passed through the three tribunals, the first sign of genuine surprise.

The white one pressed on. "How do you plan to ’make’ him stronger? Through alchemy? Through spirit treasures? Through forceful cultivation techniques? Those have limits. Loyalty does not equal capability."

"Alchemy?" Mark snorted. "No."

The tribunals expected a cultivation plan, maybe a forbidden technique.

Instead, Mark reached into his inventory and, without any hesitation, pulled out a pair of adamantine Desert Eagle pistols, their dark, sleek design gleaming with cold metal sheen.

He held them up with a faint smirk. "These are my creations. I call them Adamantine guns. They don’t need talent. They don’t need a fancy bloodline. They only need one thing, precision."

The white tribunal seemed genuinely caught off guard. Even the red one shifted slightly at the sight of the guns.

Mark didn’t stop there.

"As long as I create defensive treasures and armor for the weak, and teach them how to use these properly, they’ll be strong enough to protect themselves and complete missions for the sect. They won’t need talent. They won’t need powerful backgrounds. They’ll just need loyalty."

He lowered the guns and stared at the tribunals calmly.

"Give me a weak but loyal person, and I’ll give you someone dependable. Give me someone arrogant with a strong background, and all I’ll gain is trouble. Give me a talented loner with a mysterious past, and he’ll stab me in the back when I’m not looking. So yes, I’ll choose the loyal one."

The moment Mark finished his explanation about choosing the loyal disciple, the black tribunal, massive, cloth-like, and faceless, suddenly leaned forward. His deep voice rumbled, tinged with genuine surprise.

"Those weapons..." he murmured. "Aren’t those the Fir..."

Before he could finish, the red tribunal snapped sharply, its dual-toned voice echoing like a hammer through the colorful void.

"Silence. The trials are still ongoing."