Threads Reknotted
Aeon stood at the eye of the storm.
The Loom whirled around him in furious radiance, each strand a destiny once lost, a future denied, a possibility broken. Threads of light, coiling and unraveling, showed him a thousand deaths, a thousand lost hopes.
Every time he thought he could catch his breath, another pattern tore free — a version of himself that had failed, that had faltered, that had brought ruin to his sect or his Empire. A version where his mother's lineage was wiped out. A version where his father fell in battle. A version where the Tower itself collapsed, ending countless dreams.
The assault was endless.
You will fail, the Loom whispered.
You will betray every hope.
You will break what you have built.
Aeon's knees buckled under the weight of all these phantom failures. The Loom showed him that even his precious will could be twisted and turned. That even a child of genius, a seed of greatness, could be snuffed out.
For a moment — a moment that might have been an eternity — he wanted to let go. To collapse under the knowledge that the path ahead would always be dangerous, that every step might destroy another world, that carrying the dreams of the White Palace was simply too much.
But then —
A small light, deep inside him, answered.
I am Aeon.
I chose to build this Tower.
I chose to climb.
His mind steadied, heart blazing. He rose, even as the Loom lashed out with a torrent of terrible outcomes. He began to step forward, one foot after another, moving through the swirl of future-fragments. Each one tried to grab him, to chain him with guilt or dread, but Aeon's voice grew steady.
"No," he said.
A broken version of himself staggered from the threads, weeping blood.
"You will become me," it shrieked.
"No," Aeon repeated, more certain. "I will not."
He reached out with his will, refusing the phantom's claim. The threads around him pulsed, fighting back — yet he gripped them, reworking them, refusing their imposed doom. With each breath, he reasserted his choices. His destiny.
He was Aeon, the Tower's builder. The one who would challenge the Grand Dao itself.
One by one, the broken possibilities tried to seize him, but he denied them. He walked on, deeper into the Loom's core, and with each step, the illusions began to flicker.
A final horror lunged for him: an image of the Tower itself twisted into a monument of despair, trapping millions of souls.
He looked at it and felt fear — but then, he smiled.
"That will never be," he declared. "Because I will not allow it."
His words rang like a blade. The Loom quaked, threads coming loose and streaming toward his outstretched hand. Aeon seized them, not to flee, but to bind them anew. His spirit roared in defiance, and the tower's sixth floor recognized him, accepting him, harmonizing with his unbroken heart.
The illusions fell away.
Aeon stood alone at the center of the Loom, the warp and weft of infinite failure tamed at last. Around him, the patterns began to glow softly — no longer curses, but lessons.
He breathed in, steady.
I will carry all these possibilities. I will remember. I will build.
He stepped from the Loom's heart as the floor fell quiet. The illusions dissolved, the floor stabilizing. The Sixth was now truly part of the Tower, conquered and integrated.
When he emerged, the onlookers below — empire observers, sect allies, rival Heaven Chosen — watched in hushed awe.
Aeon stood calmly on the threshold, his eyes like two endless skies.
"I am ready," he said, voice iron and song. "The Seventh awaits."
And far beyond, a sliver of the Grand Dao turned its gaze — curious, perhaps even faintly amused — at the child who would someday dare to bear a quadrillionth of its power.