The Primordial Seed
Aeon stood alone on the Seventh Floor's summit, his breath ragged, spirit battered, robes half-burned away by the sheer force of the Grand Dao's will. The illusions had long since fallen, leaving only raw power behind. The floor itself had dissolved into a boundless void, as if the laws of the world refused to constrain the last challenge.
There, in that endless emptiness, he had faced the fraction of the Grand Dao's quadrillionth might, a weight so absolute that it threatened to erase him, mind and soul. No illusions could soften it, no shortcuts could deflect it.
His thoughts had nearly shattered, fracturing across endless fragments of his own possibilities. Who he had been, who he might have been, who he could become — all of these selves blurred, then reformed under that dreadful, perfect pressure.
Yet Aeon had held on.
He had gathered every piece of willpower, every glimpse of understanding earned through blood and dreams, and refused to be erased.
He had embraced the force instead.
And that act of surrender — surrender without defeat — had triggered something beyond anything he had foreseen.
In the deepest silence, a flame bloomed inside Aeon's spiritual sea.
At first it was no more than a trembling spark, so faint he might have missed it. But then it grew, a tiny mote of origin fire, older than worlds. From it emerged a swirling sphere of boundless potential, neither yin nor yang, neither light nor dark, yet containing both in an unfathomable balance.
The Primordial Seed.
As the sphere condensed, Aeon's senses expanded. It was as if a million veils were ripped away. He saw the inner structure of his own Dao, saw the Tower's resonating layers, saw the fabric of the realm beyond the mortal sky. The Primordial Seed was not merely a cultivation anchor; it was a statement of supremacy, the apex of the Seed Realm, granting him a foundation that could carry him beyond even the dreams of most Emperors.
His body trembled, veins flooded with this new essence, reshaping him down to the marrow. All impurities were burned away. His meridians howled, then widened, no longer the fragile threads of a mortal youth but the conduits of a future Sovereign.
And at the core of his mind, where the Seventh Floor's illusions had once torn at him, there now lay a calm certainty.
I am Aeon.
The Primordial Seed pulsed once more, resonating with the Tower itself, as though recognizing its creator and its climber in one soul.
For a long moment, Aeon simply stood in that stillness, feeling the power settle into him. Tears slid down his face — not of weakness, but of relief, of knowing that he had truly ascended beyond the petty boundaries of his youth.
When he finally took a breath, it felt as if the entire universe moved with him.
He had become something new.
Slowly, as if stirring from a long dream, Aeon stepped off the Seventh Floor's platform.
The Tower responded at once. The void solidified under his feet, conjuring a path down. Symbols of accomplishment, runes of legacy, all burned around him, acknowledging that he had become the first and only to stand at the top.
He descended with steady steps, the Primordial Seed stabilizing inside him, weaving its infinite potential through every breath.
Outside, the world had changed while he was gone.
Imperial banners still flanked the plaza, but reinforcements had arrived — more soldiers, more scholars, even elders from the hidden ancestor halls. At their forefront stood a towering man cloaked in pure white, with a crown of shifting gold. His eyes were ageless, and his presence carried the authority of a thousand conquests.
Aeon's father. The Sovereign of the Empire.
When Aeon emerged from the Tower's gate, a hush fell upon everyone present.
The Sovereign took one step forward, studying his son with a gaze sharper than any blade. "You have climbed all seven," he stated.
Aeon bowed. "Father."
The Sovereign's eyes narrowed on the faint aura swirling around his son, the mark of the Primordial Seed impossible to conceal. "Seed Realm," he intoned, voice carrying over the plaza. "Not just any Seed… but Primordial."
Aeon inclined his head. "Yes."
The Sovereign did not smile, but neither did he look displeased. For a long moment, he considered the Tower that loomed behind Aeon, its floors now brimming with legend, its illusions woven with trials of spirit and will.
Then the Sovereign spoke to his gathered soldiers.
"This Tower will stand," he declared, voice ringing like a great bell. "But its power cannot be squandered. The Fourth Floor and above are henceforth restricted to those whom I personally approve. The people may climb the first three, for their hearts and their courage must still be trained — but the higher trials will remain a secret of the Empire."
Shock rippled through the crowd.
Aeon glanced at his father, sensing no weakness in that command. The Sovereign's mind had already seen the threat that such a Tower posed if left unguarded. Should rival sects or rebellious clans master its higher floors, the balance of the realm might collapse overnight.
Aeon stepped forward. "I understand," he said calmly. "It was never meant for everyone."
The Sovereign raised an eyebrow. "You understand so quickly?"
Aeon nodded. "Those who cannot shoulder meaning, cannot shoulder power."
The Sovereign's lips twitched, just short of a smile. "Well said."
Together, father and son stood before the Tower as night approached, lanterns casting long shadows across its stone.
Aeon could feel the Primordial Seed moving within him, still sending out gentle waves of comprehension. Visions filled his mind — illusions of what lay beyond the Seed Realm, legends of Primordial Kings who once walked the star-paths of a higher cosmos.
He had only begun.
The Sovereign placed a hand on Aeon's shoulder.
"You have built something magnificent," the Sovereign said, voice low enough for only his son to hear. "And something dangerous. Are you prepared to live with that?"
Aeon closed his eyes. "I am."
"Then stand by it," his father commanded. "As its guardian. The Empire cannot watch it alone."
Aeon accepted the burden without hesitation. The Tower was a mirror of his will. If he could not bear its consequences, who could?
That night, the Sovereign held court within the imperial command pavilion. High ministers, generals, and spiritual advisors gathered, weighing the Tower's place in their grand strategy.
A thousand arguments were raised — about letting the sects manage it, about destroying it outright, about making it a holy site. But each voice fell silent when Aeon, newly crowned in Primordial aura, spoke:
"This Tower will stand as the world's crucible," he declared. "A place where destiny itself is tested. But never a tool of tyranny."
And no one found the courage to oppose him.
In the days that followed, a decree spread across the realm.
First Three Floors: open to all.
Fourth to Seventh Floors: reserved for Imperial-trusted cultivators only.
It was seen as a compromise between the Sovereign's fears and Aeon's faith in human growth.
Slowly, pilgrims began to gather. Children who dreamed of heroism. Soldiers wanting to polish their courage. Small sect disciples hoping to break through illusions of fear.
They came by the hundreds, then thousands, to test themselves upon the Tower's first three floors.
And on the top, the legend of the Seventh Floor remained untouchable, a rumor of a trial so absolute that no one could even imagine its truth — save for Aeon, who now alone carried the memory of that final confrontation with the Grand Dao's fraction.
Sometimes, standing near the Tower's threshold, Aeon would close his eyes and feel the Primordial Seed, its perfect calm guiding him through the chaos.
His mind was sharper now, his heart steadier. A thousand flaws had been burned away in that last illusion.
He began to train again, in the early hours before dawn, moving through cultivation forms older than memory, reshaping them with insights born of the Primordial Seed.
One morning, as the sun touched the Tower's highest glyph, Aeon realized that the path had only started.
The Seed Realm was not an ending, but a doorway.
What lay beyond?
He did not know yet — but he would find out.
His father watched from a distance, pleased but wary, as though he saw both a future emperor and a future monster within the same boy.
That was fine. Aeon would bear it.
I am myself, he thought. I am Aeon.
The Tower, behind him, seemed to resonate in agreement.
No illusions. No mercy. Only the truth, engraved forever.
And so the Seventh Floor's legend ended — but Aeon's journey had only begun