The night after Lu Fei's trial was still.
Still, yet tense — like the breath before thunder. Yet Aeon did not rest.
He stood beneath the stars in the central courtyard of the White Palace, the Tower of Existence rising behind him, glowing faintly with internal breath. Its stone did not cool. Its light did not dim. It pulsed, slow and alive, as though remembering.
I cannot wait.
In a cultivation world, news traveled through talismans, voice-sending mirrors, and spirit birds — but not instantly. Even the highest-grade transmission jades were used sparingly. There were sects that buried themselves beneath mountain arrays, cut off from the world for centuries. Unless the Tower caused the heavens themselves to react, Aeon knew he had time. A few days at most. Enough.
Enough to build the Third Floor.
Not just construct it — conceive it.
And for that, he needed solitude.
Aeon descended to the lowest vault of the Palace — the Silent Chamber of Shaping Thought, a relic chamber carved by a Sovereign from an older era. Time was slow here. Sound refused to echo. One could meditate for days and forget even the name of hunger.
Aeon sat in the center of the circle, bare stone beneath him, scrolls floating in quiet rotation.
The Second Floor had challenged one's relationship with memory — through symbolic illusion and projection. But illusion alone could not carry the Tower forever.
What is the Third Step?
His thoughts circled.
The First Floor tested survival — the self in isolation.
The Second tested integration — the self in reflection.
The Third must test consequence.
Not merely what one remembers — but what one does with it.
And what it costs to remain true to what you've found.
A trial of burden.
A trial of choice.
He lifted his hand. The scrolls ceased their orbit. Aeon unfurled a blank one — pure soulpaper, etched with gold-essence thread. He pressed his finger to it, and his thoughts spilled forward.
Not words. Not diagrams.
But visions.
A marketplace burning.
A battlefield frozen in time, every soldier staring at the climber — as if awaiting judgment.
A child offering a sword, asking: "Will you be like them or break the chain?"
A throne room where the climber must pass by a weeping ancestor and a kneeling enemy — both bearing their sins openly.
Each scene played in his mind, raw with metaphor.
The Tower would not ask "Are you strong?"
It would ask: Can you live with the path you've chosen?
The Third Floor would become a test of resolve under moral weight. Climbers would not face pain of body, but fragmentation of identity. Every choice they made would change the floor. No two journeys would be alike.
"The Tower must evolve into a mirror that resists the gaze," Aeon whispered. "Something that questions the truth you think you carry."
And, most importantly: the Tower must never lie.
Even when truth cut deeper than any blade.
Aeon emerged from the Silent Chamber at dawn. The courtyard was quiet, but he had already called the project's core contributors.
Lady Huayin arrived first, her cloak of mirrored silk flowing behind her like a second moon. She bowed slightly.
"Another floor?"
Aeon handed her the soulpaper scroll. She skimmed it once, then paused. Her fingers gripped the edge tighter.
"This… will not be pleasant for anyone."
"It's not meant to be."
"You'll break people."
"Only those who build themselves on illusion. And isn't that the irony?" Aeon smiled faintly. "It was your Vale who taught me that truth wears a mask."
Next came Architect Senn, the ancient talismanic engineer who had engraved the Tower's anchor seals. He walked with a cane of soulsteel and never spoke unless prompted.
He took the scroll. Read. Then nodded once, grimly.
"Possible. Costly. It will need reactive essence wells — dozens."
"You'll have them."
"And glyphmatic mirrors to reflect decision vectors."
"Three per trial node," Aeon confirmed.
Huayin raised an eyebrow. "How do you even expect to contain the emotional resonance of such trials? If climbers start having conflicting responses, the illusions could destabilize."
"Let them," Aeon said. "That's the point. This floor will teach that coherence is earned, not assumed."
They worked until the sun rose fully. The Tower watched, and the Third Floor began to breathe in blueprint form.
---------------------------------------Three Pillars of the Third Floor------------------------------------------
By midday, Aeon had drafted the internal schema of the Third Floor. Unlike the simple spiral of the First, or the shifting halls of the Second, the Third Floor would have three main Pillars — distinct paths a climber might encounter based on their inner burden.
---The Road of Iron Mercy---
In this path, the climber would face former enemies — not as illusions, but as reflections of the potential for forgiveness. Could they grant mercy without forgetting injustice? Could they act without letting guilt rot the blade of their conviction?
Here, forgiveness was not weakness. Nor was rage strength. Only balance could lead them forward.
---The Chamber of Unmade Oaths---
This path summoned visions of past promises — broken, kept, or half-sworn. The climber would confront those they failed and those they betrayed, even unintentionally.
And perhaps worse — they would meet those who kept their promises, at great cost, asking:
"Why didn't you?"
---The Throne of Burdened Light---
The final path was the cruelest.
The climber would be offered a choice:
Save a future.Preserve a belief.Uphold a vow.
But not all three.
They must choose, with no right answer. Their selection would echo, changing how the Tower viewed them from that moment forward.
Aeon titled this final node "The Crucible of Self-Witness."
The Tower was becoming a sentient scripture.
That night, Aeon stood again in solitude beneath the Tower, holding a single shard of condensed existence essence. This was not just a fuel source — it was memory drawn from Aeon's own soul.
He pressed the shard into the Tower's wall, near where the Second Floor had ended. The stone pulsed. Absorbed. And then — something strange happened.
The Tower recoiled.
Just a tremble. Barely visible.
But Aeon felt it.
As if the Tower itself was bracing.
Not against a threat. But against becoming.
You feel it too, he whispered. You know this floor is different.
Because this was not just a test for climbers.
It was a test for the Tower itself.
To hold burden without breaking.
To remember without bending truth.
And so, Aeon whispered one last instruction:
"Make it reflective, but not reactive. Let it echo — not impose. They must carry what they find here, not offload it."
And with that, the Third Floor began to awaken.
By the time the next sun rose, signs of construction were already visible. Builders moved silently, working from floating talisman platforms. Architect Senn carved glyphs with spiritual lightning. Huayin projected illusory frameworks with frightening precision.
Only a handful of inner disciples even realized another floor was being shaped.
News of the Tower's depth had not yet left the capital.
The White Palace's own factions — even those who doubted Aeon — dared not intervene. Not yet. Some of them were waiting to see if the Tower would collapse under its own weight. Others were quietly impressed — or terrified.
Aeon took advantage of that stillness.
And in that pause, he planted the Third Floor like a seed of clarity within chaos.
In the late evening, Aeon sat atop the Tower's outer rim — above the first two floors, overlooking the construction site.
A breeze stirred his robes. His eyes closed.
And for the first time since the Tower's proposal, he allowed himself a private question:
Am I building this for others… or for myself?
He thought of the First Floor — the desert of survival.
He thought of the Second — the mirror of memory.
He thought now of this burdened blueprint.
If I stripped away lineage, fate, vision, and Empire... would I still build?
His heart answered quietly:
Yes.
Not because it was duty.
But because it was necessary.
Because if one man could walk into meaning, and emerge more true, then perhaps the Tower was not simply a monument.
Perhaps it was a waystation for all those lost in the fog of becoming.
Aeon opened his eyes.
"Let the burden rise," he whispered.
And the Tower pulsed in agreement.