Sylby jolted awake from his dream. In his daze, he felt as if he had experienced a long cycle of reincarnation—a journey spanning millennia. But as he regained consciousness, the details of the dream quickly began to fade.
He glanced at his alarm clock and the towering stacks of books in his room. On one of the books, a row of bright red characters stood out, reminding him of something.
[To the Summit]
Staring at the bold letters, he mumbled to himself.
"Research is exhausting… I can't believe I had such a strange dream."
Engineer Sylby Spencer got up and continued preparing for the next lunar landing project.
Thousands of kilometers away, on a muddy farm, Hoffa carried heavy feed sacks on his shoulders, panting as he stacked them in front of a herd of lowing cows. He tore open a sack and used a scoop to feed them, tossing in scoop after scoop.
The door beside him creaked open, and a man who looked like a foreman stepped in, calling out, "Hoffa, the boss wants to invite you to dinner. Lina will be there too."
"Not going," Hoffa replied flatly while feeding the cows.
"Come on, you're twenty years old. You should find yourself a partner," the foreman said.
"I already have a wife," Hoffa responded.
"You have a wife?" The foreman was shocked. "I've never seen her. What's her name?"
A flicker of something surfaced in Hoffa's mind. He truly couldn't remember his wife's face, nor her name, but he could still feel a faint warmth and love lingering in his heart.
"Not going. I still have work to do tonight," he said.
(Applause.)
"This successful lunar landing—let us welcome aerospace engineer Sylby Spencer to deliver an inspiring speech."
(Applause) (Applause)
"Sylby?"
"Sylby?"
The host searched the venue.
A woman, dressed like a secretary, stood up and apologized, "I'm sorry, sir. Mr. Spencer asked me to relay a message—he is currently preparing for the Mars landing and has no time to attend the celebration."
Fifty years later.
A room was filled with wooden sculptures. Hoffa lay on a recliner, wearing reading glasses, carving two small wooden figurines with a woodworking knife. The carvings were crude—one had long hair, the other short. He stared at the unfinished figures, scratched his head, and sighed. No matter how he carved, they never quite matched the image in his heart.
At that moment, a solemn voice came from the radio.
"Today, we have lost Sylby Spencer forever—the greatest aerospace engineer in history. He perished when his spacecraft fell into Jupiter's atmosphere due to a thermal shield malfunction. Throughout his lifetime, Spencer broke countless records in humanity's conquest of space. He was, without a doubt, the summit—the man who traveled the farthest from Earth."
Hoffa paused.
Then he closed his eyes and remembered nothing.
Sylby awoke again, dazed, looking down at the kneeling crowd before him. He felt as if he had been soaring through the skies—so why was he suddenly seated on a throne?
"Your Majesty, do you remember the humiliation of your father's murder?" the chancellor sobbed.
The sound of weeping snapped him back to reality. He turned to the plaque before him, reading the large characters:
[To the Summit]
"No! Of course, I will never forget!"
Sylby shouted, "Never in this lifetime!"
The pressure was unbearable. Flying? What flying?
As a king, he was meant to rule the world—to stand at the very summit.
Somewhere in the kingdom's countryside.
Hoffa gripped a hoe, tirelessly tilling the land. The scorching sun beat down on him, drenching him in sweat. From time to time, he paused to wipe his forehead with a towel.
"Brother, it's time to eat!"
A voice called to him from the edge of the field.
Turning around, he saw a sweet-looking young girl—a fruit farmer from the neighboring village.
Reluctantly, he set down his hoe and walked to the field's edge. The girl handed him a meal box and a towel. He accepted the meal but declined the towel.
"Thank you, Bessie, but you don't need to bring food for me tomorrow," Hoffa said.
The girl blinked. "Why not?"
"The king is drafting soldiers," Hoffa replied.
"Are you going?" she asked, her eyes dimming.
"Do I have a choice?"
"Probably not."
"Then I have to go."
"Will you come back?" She lowered her head shyly.
Hoffa wiped his sweat, threw the towel over his shoulder, and said, "No."
Ten years later.
At a commendation ceremony.
Hoffa stood on the high platform, gazing at the man seated on the throne. The man's expression was tinged with solitude—the taste of the summit.
"In the battle against the Oran Empire, Bach, you have distinguished yourself. His Majesty grants you one wish," the general declared approvingly. "What reward do you desire?"
"A piece of land," Hoffa answered without hesitation.
"How big? Where?"
"A good, fertile one—its size the same as my fallen comrades'."
Unapologetically, he added, "If they had more, I should have more."
"Shall we also assign you two wives?" the general whispered with a smirk.
Hoffa hesitated and replied, "I have a wife."
Fifty years later.
With graying hair, Hoffa lay alone beneath a grape trellis on his fertile farm, carving two wooden figures. The figures bore gentle smiles—one with long hair, the other with short. Hoffa studied them, feeling his craftsmanship was still lacking. He could never quite capture the essence of what was in his heart.
"Master! Master!"
A servant rushed in, sweating and shouting.
"What's the matter? Why so frantic?" Hoffa asked, still stroking the wooden carvings.
"His Majesty! His Majesty has passed away!" The servant cried as if the sky had fallen.
"The king is dead?" Hoffa glanced at his wooden sculptures and asked indifferently, "How did he die?"
"While on an eastern expedition, His Majesty… because of a massacre, he was… he was… bitten… by a palace maid…" The servant hesitated before whispering the rest in Hoffa's ear.
Hoffa raised an eyebrow. Then, everything went black, and he remembered nothing.
Sylby awoke yet again. The pain in his lower body made him furious, and he hurled the financial report in his hands.
"Damn it!"
The report landed, revealing the vacant, pudgy face of his business partner.
Sylby hesitated and looked at the office wall.
There, a red arrow pointed sharply upward.
Beneath it were a few words:
[To the Summit]
He bit his lip.
The pressure was suffocating. A king? What nonsense.
A private equity manager making kingly dreams—ridiculous. There was no greater thrill than making money.
He refocused and resumed reading his dull financial reports.
At Bach's Fried Chicken on a bustling street.
Hoffa slammed a cleaver down, chopping the chicken into pieces before swiftly packing them into a box for a waiting customer. A long line stretched outside, eagerly awaiting the city's best, most affordable fried chicken.
Soon, all the chicken was sold out.
Half the line hadn't even been served.
Hoffa hung up a "Sold Out" sign, pushed the trash bin to the back kitchen, and collapsed into a chair under a fan.
"Boss, can't you make more?" A well-dressed woman sidestepped the trash bin and pouted. "I always miss out after work."
Covered in grease, Hoffa lit a cigarette and exhaled. "Order delivery."
"No way! Delivery isn't the same as buying it fresh!" She swayed back and forth, pouting. "Boss, can you set one aside just for me?"
Hoffa sneered. "Keep dreaming."
"Why not?!" she whined.
"Even my wife can't get one, and you want one?!"
Hoffa slammed the door shut.
"Mr. Sylby, what's your secret to making your hedge fund the best in the world?" the host asked. "How did you grow your assets from one billion to a trillion?"
"Quantitative management," Sylby answered smoothly, adjusting his glasses.
"Quantitative management?"
"Yes, integrating all economic factors into a single model. After that, every fluctuation is within my calculations."
"No surprises?"
"None. Every risk on this planet is within my model. Even if a country suddenly goes to war, it's still within my calculations."
"So, will you stop here? Manage even more funds?"
"How could I stop? An economy that stops isn't an economy. As long as the economy moves, my fund will keep growing."
Sixty years later.
Hoffa sat in the back kitchen of his fried chicken shop, swiftly carving two wooden statues. A group of apprentices watched curiously, admiring the delicate figures in the glass cabinet. They were clearly two beautiful women, each with unique poses—one with long hair, the other short, their eyes smiling, full of life.
A young apprentice reached out to touch the two statues, only to be ruthlessly kicked by an adult man.
"Daring to touch the master's wife with unwashed hands? Courting death!"
The senior apprentice scolded.
The apprentice quickly withdrew his hand.
Suddenly, the kitchen door was flung open. Another apprentice rushed in, shouting anxiously, "Master! Master! Something terrible has happened!!"
"Has the sky collapsed?" Hoffa, who was carving a wooden sculpture, asked indifferently.
"It's even scarier than that!" The apprentice waved the newspaper in his hand and exclaimed, "A financial crisis has struck! Half of our chain stores collapsed overnight!"
All the apprentices gasped in shock.
Hoffa remained unmoved, continuing his carving as he asked calmly, "Why is there a financial crisis?"
"A meteorite struck the northern plains' chip manufacturing district, destroying the entire world's high-precision industry! The world's largest quantitative fund, the King's Fund, has gone bankrupt! The fund's manager, the world's richest man, Sylby, jumped to his death!"
Hoffa paused for a moment, then his vision darkened. Everything faded into oblivion.
Sylby woke up again.
The howling cold wind lingered in his memory. He opened his eyes dully, staring at the soft glow of the magic crystal lamp above him. This time, he was confused. It felt as though he had woken up like this many times before. Countless times.
Yet each time he woke, the confusion deepened.
On the table, various scrolls lay scattered, their bold letters reminding him of his ultimate goal:
[Go to the Summit]
For the first time, Sylby found himself questioning the meaning of the summit.
What exactly was the summit?
If every summit could be so easily shaken by insignificant things—
If every summit was so fragile before the world's uncertainty—
Could such a summit even be called a summit?
This time, Mage Sylby fell into a deep and profound bewilderment.
The long winter night descended.
A foreign land. A foreign kingdom. A foreign environment.
No more fertile fields. No more rich soil. No more strange women seeking him out. Only the eternal aurora and endless night remained.
Hoffa trudged through the snow alone, carrying firewood on his back, heading to the market to exchange it for living supplies.
The market was desolate. In this lifeless wasteland, few people remained alive.
Gazing at the unsold firewood in his hands and the lonely aurora in the sky, Hoffa lit a fire. Taking out a knife, he began carving the material in his hands amidst the solitude.
Before long, the wood came to life in his hands. Hoffa looked at the two girls he had carved and smiled slightly in the winter night. In that moment, all the cold seemed to fade away.
"Excuse me, may I buy your sculpture?"
Someone asked, "I can pay."
A nobleman stopped beside him, gazing at Hoffa's sculpture in shock.
"Not for sale," Hoffa replied.
"You seem quite poor. I can offer a lot of money."
The nobleman looked at the sculpture in Hoffa's hands with obsession.
"Not for sale. Leave."
Hoffa tucked the sculpture into his coat, issuing an unceremonious order for the nobleman to go.
The nobleman looked at the man in the snow and extended a hand to him: "If you won't sell, then at least let me support you—as long as you are willing to carve for me."
"Master, tell me, in this cold and lonely world, what can we truly rely on?"
Inside a freezing temple, an aging woman posed this question to Sylby.
Sylby did not know how to answer. He was lost in deep thought.
"I was once a beautiful woman. In my youth, countless men fell at my feet. But in just a fleeting decade, my beauty has faded. Now, I struggle to survive in the snow. Master, please tell me—why is everything I once relied on so fragile?"
A foolish woman—perhaps he would have said that in the past. But now, Sylby remained silent. The summit he sought must not be as fragile as a woman's beauty. But then, what was truly unbreakable?
Why was it impossible to grasp certainty? Why were there always unforeseen elements? Why was there always something unexpected lurking beside every summit?
Had his calculations not been meticulous enough?
Was his brain capacity too small?
That must be it.
He didn't know enough.
He didn't understand enough.
He hadn't learned enough.
In a room filled with countless statues, Hoffa tirelessly carved.
His sculptures varied in form, expressions vivid and lifelike. These creatures and people appeared naturally in his mind, but where they came from, Hoffa did not know.
He simply carved them at will.
The nobleman who supported him stood in the room full of statues, staring at a sharp-eyed youth for a long time. Then, he turned to the sculptor and casually remarked:
"Mr. Bach, the Grand Mage of this land has studied himself to death. He collapsed at his desk."
Hoffa lifted his head slightly in surprise.
"Don't be surprised. This is the Land of Eternal Night. There is no entertainment here—only study and contemplation. Every Grand Mage learns an immense amount of knowledge. It is their inevitable path in seeking answers. Sylby Spenser was no exception."
Hoffa opened his mouth slightly.
"Mr. Bach... may I see that original statue again? The very first one?" The nobleman pleaded desperately.
Hoffa did not answer. His vision blurred, and once again, he lost his memory.
Sylby woke up again. And again. And again.
Again and again, countless times.
Hoffa followed behind him, waking up again and again.
With each awakening, Sylby gained more knowledge, new professions, and more skills. Over and over. But Hoffa merely repeated his simple, tedious tasks, carving sculptures in his spare time to pass the days.
Hundreds of times. Thousands of times. Millions. Billions. Trillions.
The endless birth and destruction of the universe.
Until one day, Sylby no longer looked at the world around him. He no longer paid attention to the deliberate reminders. That desire had already been engraved into his very soul.
"I will not wake up again."
He declared, "This time, I will grasp everything in this world. I must calculate everything. I must."
No longer bound by a single profession, he delved into everything:
Biology, physics, chemistry, sorcery, divinity. Astronomy, geography, mathematics, languages, religions. Enhancing the body, altering genes, mechanical ascension, forbidden magic—nothing was off-limits.
In the darkness, amidst the endless array of chips, a massive brainworm was born. Humanity's brain was no longer enough. He needed chips, electronic components, glucose, electricity, magic crystals, potions, spells, prayers—anything that could allow him to see further.
All for one goal:
To reach the summit.
Meanwhile, Hoffa continued his quiet farming life.
Harvesting wheat, threshing grain, milling rice. Living alone for eons.
One day, after finishing his harvest, he lay on the wheat stalks, motionless.
From a distance, someone slowly approached. Hoffa sat up, squinting under the sunlight. This was the first woman in an eternity he did not instinctively push away.
"Ah, it's you, Chloe."
Though time had erased how they first met, he recognized her at a glance.
He bit on a straw, grinning: "So, what brings you here?"
Chloe looked at him, her eyes filled with admiration, reluctance, and reverence.
She knelt beside him and reached out her hand.
Hoffa was surprised. He sat up, watching her kneel among the wheat. "What are you doing?"
"I came to give you something."
Chloe whispered, "Only you can control it."
She wrote a tiny character in his palm, then leaned in and murmured:
"He's failing. Do you want to see him?"
Who was she referring to?
Hoffa had almost forgotten.
But just as he remembered warmth, he also remembered something sharp and piercing.
"Let's go, Chloe. Take me to see it."
He said.
(End of Chapter)
Want to read the chapters in Advance? Join my Patreon
https://patreon.com/Glimmer09