[Between the Staircases]
After the tribunal shattered,
Silence returned.
Only the staircase to the next floor
Floated quietly in the void.
Xiao Chen stood before it,
Silent for a long time.
"Evil…
Is not just in killing and hatred.
It hides deeper—
In the parts of ourselves we refuse to face."
He closed his eyes.
The words echoed in his heart.
The life-mark at his brow flickered—
Golden ripples spreading faintly.
He did not rush into the next trial.
Instead,
He sat cross-legged in the void between the third and fourth floors,
Breathing slowly.
The trials had worn him down—
Especially the self-judgment.
His spirit was weary.
His blood unsettled.
He exhaled gently,
Letting the tension in his chest dissolve bit by bit.
Here,
No one disturbed him.
Even the air felt like another world.
[Outside the Tower]
The tower remained shrouded in mist.
Only the faint glow of its tiers
Revealed its state.
At that moment,
The light of the third floor dimmed.
The black-clad guards stirred.
One whispered:
"The third floor… has gone dark."
Another gasped:
"Impossible.
Only three hours?
He already passed the third floor?"
"Hmph.
Time inside the tower doesn't match the outside.
Days, even years may pass within—
While only moments pass here."
The speaker was Shi Zhongdao,
Shen Daoheng's trusted aide.
His gaze was sharp,
Fixed on the tower.
After a moment,
He turned:
"Report to the Palace Lord.
Tell him—
The boy has passed the third floor."
"Yes!"
Several shadows vanished into the mist,
Racing into the distance.
Shi Zhongdao remained,
Eyes cold.
"Only three floors—
And already this much trouble…"
He murmured:
"The Palace Lord said—
If he reaches the fifth floor,
This trial will no longer be a test.
It will be the beginning
Of his true clash with fate."
[The Fate-Marked Tower: Fourth Floor]
Time passed.
Xiao Chen felt his spirit restored.
He rose slowly,
Brushed off his sleeves,
And stepped forward.
At the end of the staircase,
A gate woven from flame awaited him.
He sensed something familiar beyond it.
He stepped through.
The world twisted.
Flames surged toward him—
Scorching his skin with real pain.
The ground was charred and broken.
Fireclouds rolled in the distance.
The air was filled with the roar of thousands—
Angry cries.
Warhorses screaming.
The scent.
The sound.
He had dreamed of this before.
This scene—
Was not just illusion.
It felt like a memory
Awakened.
It wasn't the first time.
Long ago,
When Xiao Chen first began practicing spiritual breathwork,
He had dreamt of this battle for several nights in a row.
He once thought it was illusion—
Or a disturbance from inner demons during cultivation.
But one morning,
He awoke with his hand clenched—
Fingers numb,
Gripping the shape of a broken blade from the dream.
That entire day,
His spirit was unsettled.
It felt like something had been left behind in the dream—
And the forgetting itself
Was suffocating.
An ancient mirror spun slowly in the void,
Radiating gold and crimson light.
It pulled his consciousness
Into the realm of sealed rage.
He stood upon a boundless battlefield.
The scene matched his dreams perfectly—
Scorched earth.
Pools of blood.
Burning winds.
Roars of fury.
This was not illusion.
It was memory.
A roar burst from his chest.
Without thinking,
He drew his sword
And charged into the fray.
The cries of war thundered around him.
He slashed.
Swept his blade.
Blood rained.
One.
Two.
Ten.
Enemies fell beneath his sword.
His eyes burned red with fury.
His body drenched in blood—
His own and theirs.
He became a figure of blood on the battlefield.
His heart held only one thought—
Kill.
Until he stumbled—
And collided with a fallen body.
A comrade.
Then another.
He stopped.
Staring at the lifeless forms.
He couldn't tell—
Were they illusions?
Dreams?
Or real memories?
Some resembled brothers from his dreams.
Others reminded him of villagers he once lived beside.
These faces lay silent.
Blood pooled beneath them—
Reflecting his own image.
Blood-soaked.
Eyes burning red.
In that moment,
He awoke.
The flames were no longer external—
They burned from within.
From the depths of his spirit.
Ripping through reason.
Blazing uncontrollably.
He was driven by rage.
Ruled by wrath.
Then—
From the fire
A figure emerged.
It was him.
A version of him from another life.
Clad in armor—
Red and black.
A war god born of flame.
His aura was violent.
Fire surged beneath his feet.
The battlefield boiled in his presence.
His sword no longer held technique—
Only destruction.
He fought until blood ran dry.
Until death claimed him.
His entire body was wrapped in flame.
Even his eyes burned crimson.
His aura twisted like a storm—
A manifestation of pure rage.
He stepped forward.
His gaze locked with Xiao Chen's.
"You're not angry anymore?"
He asked, voice hoarse like fire.
"You watched your brothers die.
You saw traitors rise.
And you feel nothing?"
"You think suppressing rage is control?
No, Xiao Chen—
That's just cowardice."
He stepped closer.
Flames surged beneath each footstep.
His voice rose—
From restrained
To furious.
"You have power now—
And yet you're afraid to be angry?"
Xiao Chen's heart stirred.
The words were persuasive—
But instinctively,
He asked himself:
If he hadn't held onto that rage back then—
Would he have survived?
Did that mean
His current calm and restraint
Was a form of surrender?
Or…
Was it a stronger choice?
He gazed quietly
At the version of himself born of wrath.
His fingers curled into a fist.
A vein pulsed at his temple.
Emotions churned within him.
Yes—
He had hated.
He had wanted to scream.
He had dreamt of that night
More than once.
But now—
He asked softly:
"If I unleash the flames of rage—
Will it bring them back?"
The illusion trembled.
Speechless.
Xiao Chen lifted his head.
His eyes—
Cold and steady,
Like stars in winter moonlight.
"Rage should not be a blade of revenge—
But a fire of protection."
He stepped forward.
One step.
Then another.
Through the burning lines of flame.
The life-mark on his left palm glowed faintly.
The fire parted before him—
As if recognizing its master.
He reached out.
Placed his hand gently
On the chest of his wrathful self.
His voice was calm:
"I remember you.
And I remember why we were so angry.
But now—
I choose to move forward.
Not to drown in it."
The wrathful illusion trembled.
Stepped back.
The flames in its eyes flickered—
Then faded.
It dissolved into a thread of light,
Vanishing quietly into the fire.
From the void,
The elder's voice returned—
Like wind.
Like a bell.
Low and resonant
Across the fading flames:
"Those who cannot extinguish wrath
Burn their own will.
Those who can—
Save themselves and others.
You have seen its root.
The fire is stilled.
The trial—
Is passed."