During the ten minutes of Aeon's confrontation against the final trial of the Seventh Floor, he did suffer injuries—but not from the force of the illusory Grand Dao itself. It was his own limitations that nearly destroyed him.
Five minutes into the trial, Aeon's physical body suddenly collapsed, dissolving into motes of essence, followed by the utter annihilation of his own spirit. But Aeon was not yet finished.
In the place where his body had stood, a figure of pure willpower emerged—an illusory Aeon, carved entirely from his unwavering resolve. It was no soul projection, but the naked embodiment of his mind's supremacy, untainted by flesh.
It turned out that Aeon's mortal vessel was far too frail to contain the sheer magnitude of will required to withstand a fraction of the Grand Dao's quadrillionth power. His flesh was destroyed, but his will endured.
In fact, Aeon understood, even if he had advanced countless realms beyond his current cultivation, no mere physical form could truly carry this unstoppable will.
Back within the storm of the trial, the Grand Dao seemed enraged. Within its illusion, the Dao itself roared across infinite heavens. That a speck of dust—a youth from the Empire's mortal world—could resist its fraction of boundless force was an unthinkable insult.
So the Grand Dao responded. Its projection twisted and flexed, collapsing the Three Thousand Paths in a single breath, shattering even the illusory laws of reality the Tower maintained, returning all existence within the trial to the blank emptiness of Origin.
Yet even there—where there was no time, no space, no law—Aeon's will remained unbroken, blazing like a lamp against endless night.
Meanwhile, outside the Tower, when that portion of the Grand Dao unleashed its fury, a profound change rippled across the entire Empire. The Tower of Existence itself trembled, humming with a fearsome resonance.
In the White Palace, where the ancestors slumbered, a sense of ancient dread arose, as if the trial was rewriting the fate of all living things.
Though the sensation only lasted a moment, every elder, every cultivator of rank, knew instinctively that something had passed beyond their comprehension.
They recorded these phenomena, ready to consult ancestral archives and oracles to see if there was precedent for such a disturbance.
In the tenth minute of Aeon's struggle, right before the Tower could collapse the floor's illusions, something unimaginable happened.
A single line of essence from the projection of the Grand Dao broke—a thin strand of supreme law itself, severed by the force of Aeon's will.
For the first time since the Tower's creation, the Grand Dao's projected trial suffered a true injury. A miracle beyond calculation.
Those who watched through the Tower's external visions were stunned, even the Imperial Sovereign's personal guardians. No cultivator had ever wounded this projection—its design was flawless, despair incarnate.
Yet Aeon had found, or perhaps created, a weakness in the perfect system. As if discovering a flaw in reality itself.
That, they realized, was a true miracle.
Inside the Seventh Floor, Aeon watched the broken law-thread drift away, dissolving into pure emptiness. He smiled, a small, humble curve of the lips, and whispered,
"Now… I am worthy."
In that moment, Aeon's will dissolved as well, and he was expelled from the Tower.
Standing on the ground outside, breathing the air again, Aeon tried to replicate that impossible state—but failed. It was no surprise; the real world lacked the Tower's illusions.
Yet he felt a seed planted in the deepest reaches of his being. When the right moment came, he would know how to call upon it again.
While Aeon gathered himself, a vision appeared behind him—an immense, near-transparent silhouette resembling an older, more commanding Aeon, seated on a throne of starlight. Around this phantom, countless indistinct figures seemed to kneel in homage.
This was no hallucination. It was a shadow of what he could become: the Sovereign of Existence itself.
When that phantom emerged, a crushing spiritual might rolled over the entire Empire. Even the cultivators on guard outside the Tower bowed instinctively. Only a handful of the most powerful elders could stand against the pressure, and even they had to resist with every fiber of their souls.
If they had to fight under that spiritual oppression, it would have been nearly impossible.
But the vision did not fully manifest. As Aeon's focus steadied, the phantom vanished, fading like a half-remembered dream.
Aeon shook himself awake, startled to find some of the Empire's soldiers and disciples prostrated before him in awe, terror, and raw reverence.
"Stand," he commanded quietly.
They obeyed, gazing at him with newfound respect, perhaps even worship.
Aeon understood then that his prestige and his legend would be unshakable from now on.
He would still face envy, still face plots and dangers in the future—but none would question his place in the heavens.
Taking a slow breath, Aeon gestured to a trusted attendant, who came forward to steady him. Together, they walked back toward the White Palace, its marble halls shining under a rising dawn.
In Aeon's mind, a single conviction burned:
The first step has been taken. The Path of the Primordial Seed has begun.
From this day onward, he would build toward that destiny without regret.