The Loom of Broken Futures
It began in a hush, like a breath held between heartbeats.
Aeon stood before the growing gate of the Sixth Floor, its threshold flickering with unformed visions. There was no stable sigil here, no consistent geometry. Instead, the doorway was a kaleidoscope of shifting symbols, as if reality itself could not settle upon what this place would become.
The Tower had grown more demanding with each floor, but nothing before had matched the pressure now pulsing from this unborn domain. It felt as if all of time, all of choice, all of cause and consequence had been wrapped together and set to unravel at a single touch.
And Aeon was the one who must lay that touch down.
He took a slow breath, steadying himself.
The Sixth Floor…
He had named it in his heart The Loom of Broken Futures.
Its structure would not be a path, nor a spiral, nor a chamber of illusions in the old sense. Instead, it would be an interwoven field of shifting outcomes — where any cultivator who stepped inside would face their own might-have-beens. Regrets, failures, successes turned to poison, victories hollowed out by impossible consequences.
Each participant would be forced to witness the paths they did not take, to experience them with total reality. And from those splintered lives, they would have to reconstruct a will strong enough to move forward.
There would be no consistent geometry because no one's choices were consistent. The illusions would reshape for every soul that entered.
If a man regretted a lost love, he might see a life where he stayed with her — only to have it cost him all else.
If a woman regretted abandoning a sect, she might see a path where she remained — and was devoured by its corruption.
If a child regretted failing to stand tall, the illusions would let them stand tall — only to face destruction far greater than their original failure.
The Sixth Floor would hold nothing back.
It would break those who were not already made whole.
Aeon moved around the threshold, studying its swirling energy. His fingers traced the patterns, carefully adjusting the weave. It responded to him, drinking in the intent behind his thoughts.
"You will not kill them," he whispered. "But you will break them. And through breaking, remake."
The Tower, if it heard him, gave no sign.
Behind him, Grandmother Kirell approached. She moved lightly despite her age, her presence as quiet as evening rain.
"You look ill at ease," she said softly.
Aeon did not look away from the shifting illusions. "It is one thing to test regret. It is another to make them live regret until they either master it or collapse."
Kirell nodded. "That is a blade whose edge can wound even its wielder."
"Yes," Aeon agreed. "Which is why I will enter first."
The old matriarch's eyes widened, though only a little. "You?"
"Yes." His tone was resolute, a stone laid into the river of his fate. "No one else can test the truth of this floor. It must be me."
Kirell studied him for a long, grave moment. "Then you are no longer merely the builder of this Tower," she said at last. "You are its first true challenger."
Aeon inclined his head. "I always was."
That night, the Tower felt as though it had eyes.
Even the Empire's gathered observers seemed subdued, aware that something greater than a mere trial was unfolding. Word had spread of the Spiral Path's unflinching cruelty, and of the rumored illusions that waited on the next level. Some wondered if the Tower itself had become a spirit-entity, growing with each climber's fear and hope.
Aeon tried to sleep, but dreams shattered against his thoughts. He saw himself — countless versions of himself — building floors that devoured people, floors that offered too much power, floors that broke the world.
Could I have built differently?
Should I have stopped at the Third?
No. He would not turn back.
His dream-self reached out to him from behind a veil of fog, whispering:
"What if you had never built at all?"
He woke in a cold sweat, gripping the floor mats until they tore.
At dawn, he rose. The Tower stood silent, waiting, its flickering sigils now forming a hesitant pattern, as if acknowledging his choice.
He stepped to the threshold, ignoring the hushed gasps of onlookers.
"Architect Aeon!" called the Imperial Captain, breaking protocol. "You cannot be first — you have no observers to shield you!"
Aeon paused, glancing back. A small, grim smile touched his lips.
"There is no observer on this floor," he answered. "Only the one who dares to climb."
And with that, he stepped inside