The door had no form, yet its sound arrived first—a low, resonant hum, deep as the marrow, like ten thousand obsessions murmuring in blood, like a seal buried in the soul beginning to loosen. The mist ahead parted in silence. A gate surfaced slowly from the void, etched with dark crimson veins. No light. No wind. Only a weight beyond words—like stepping into a prison forged from the grudges of countless past lives.
Xiao Chen stood before the gate, his soul gently tugged by an unseen force.
He did not look back. Quietly, he reached out and pushed the door open. The seventh gate closed behind him, leaving no path of return.
He stepped into the void and hovered there, not yet steady when the scene around him abruptly shifted. No trial monolith. No ripple of illusion. Only a solitary stone platform suspended in emptiness. Upon it, a robe of dusky grey floated in stillness, a sword leaning beside it, its cold gleam unmoving.
In an instant, his simple garments transformed into a dark-gold battle robe. Behind him, an ancient sword appeared, its sheath worn with rune-scars—like a veteran who had fought beside him for a thousand years.
As Xiao Chen's feet settled, the robe began to descend. A figure coalesced in the void.
He watched in silence as the man took shape—silver-grey armor, sword strapped to his back, a face resolute and wordless. Xiao Chen did not recognize the face, yet deep within his soul stirred a strange familiarity.
The man spoke no name. He simply gazed at Xiao Chen and murmured,
"You are the one I could never surpass."
Xiao Chen gave no reply. He merely raised his hands into a ready stance.
This battle was not about victory. It was about a promise.
No words. No names.
The man spoke again, voice calm but heavy with pressure:
"I've waited a long time for this strike."
Swordlight burst forth. They clashed.
The man's swordsmanship was fierce as thunder, each move charged with long-suppressed obsession and battle intent. Xiao Chen countered with stillness, his heart like a quiet lake.
After dozens of exchanges, the figure in the battle robe unleashed a strike like a thunderclap. Clean. Precise. A lifetime's restraint turned into resolve. Xiao Chen failed to block it—his chest took the blow, blood sprayed, and he dropped to his knees.
Yet the man did not strike again. He simply looked at him, sheathed his sword, and said with a wind-like voice,
"This defeat—I accept it. Just once… is enough."
With that, his form scattered like mist, as if he had never existed.
Xiao Chen knelt, gasping, chest ablaze with pain—but without regret.
He knew this was the only outcome the man had ever wanted.
He had fought with all his strength.
And he had honored the defeat.
Yet the trial was not over.
As the figure dissolved, the illusion around him shifted violently. Heaven and earth lost their light. All things fell silent. Black mist surged, and within it, crimson threads of light—fine as silk, sharp as blades—crisscrossed the void.
A piercing hum drilled into his mind, like ten thousand souls wailing in unison, shaking his spirit to the brink of collapse.
When the mist finally cleared, it revealed an endless battlefield.
The earth was torn apart. Mountains burned. The sky split open by streaks of battle intent.
And he—was kneeling at the very center of it all.
A figure descended from the heavens: black robe, golden sword, its aura like a dragon.
He spoke no words. His sword came first, slashing straight toward Xiao Chen's crown.
Xiao Chen raised his blade in calm defiance. Sparks flew. He was knocked back several paces.
Before he could catch his breath, more figures emerged from all directions—
A white-haired elder.
An armored warlord.
A strange woman wrapped in chains.
A young man in the old robes of the Startrace Sect.
And one who looked exactly like Xiao Chen himself—except his eyes were sharp as blades.
Whispers echoed from every side:
"Your so-called resolve is just cowardice dressed in pride."
"You can't let go, and you don't dare to truly give."
"You think you can defy fate, but you've already been seen through."
Xiao Chen stared at the version of himself, silent.
He did not respond.
He simply thought—searching for a way to break through.
The enemies struck again.
They spoke no words, yet moved as one, their intent perfectly aligned.
In the next instant, killing intent erupted.
Xiao Chen had no time to distinguish them.
He could only force his spirit to gather, fighting back with sheer will.
Every sword, every palm strike, every sigil was a blow to his soul—each aimed at his core.
He fell again and again.
And each time, he rose.
With every clash, a seed of resentment buried deep within his soul pulsed faintly—
feeding on the hatred and killing intent of his foes, growing silently stronger.
But his body was weary.
His soulprint dimmed.
His breath grew faint.
His vision blurred.
The enemies said nothing.
Only their attacks grew fiercer.
At last, the one who resembled him spoke.
His voice was a verdict:
"You can't even kill yourself. What right do you have to speak of destiny?"
That final strike shattered the battlefield.
Xiao Chen collapsed, unconscious.
In the pitch-black silence, where all five senses had been severed, he seemed to glimpse a spark.
It was himself.
No longer a body—only a thread of will, burning stubbornly in the cold void.
He saw how hatred had once devoured him.
He saw how he had never truly compromised.
He didn't know how much of his will remained.
He only knew: if he gave up now, he would never prove the worth of his existence.
He refused to die without meaning.
Suddenly, a familiar voice seemed to echo beside his ear—
"Hold on… this isn't the end."
It was a woman's voice.
Her outline was blurred, but her tone was gentle and unwavering.
And in the instant she spoke those words,
a warmth stirred in his mind—
a memory not of this world.
Her smile.
Her hand.
Her tears.
In that moment, Xiao Chen's will ignited.
His soul began to reshape itself through pain.
Not a rebirth of flesh,
but a reforging from the depths of his will and fate-marked soul.
In the void, a golden flame of fate burst forth from his soulprint,
reversing through his body,
wrapping that last thread of spirit in armor once more.
Destruction before rebirth.
Deep within his soul, a hidden seal shattered and reformed.
The Mark of the Fate Pulse—
Entry Realm: Achieved.
He slowly opened his eyes.
His body was still broken, bloodied and torn—
but he stood.
The illusion had not ended.
The mirror reappeared.
Images surged like a tide—each one a manifestation of his inner demons.
Xiao Chen raised his fist and struck toward the heavens.
This punch was not to defeat an enemy.
It was a declaration:
He was still alive.
He stood quietly.
The illusions and heart-demons had long since faded.
Yet he frowned.
Something inside him had changed.
It wasn't chaotic spirit energy.
It wasn't lingering wounds.
It was a subtle, indescribable dissonance—
like a foreign presence drifting slowly through the depths of his consciousness.
Not painful.
Not itchy.
But impossible to ignore.
He focused inward, searching.
But found nothing.
Only that strange sensation—like a seed, like a thread—
hidden between his soul and his spirit mark.
The void collapsed.
The oppressive illusion finally dissolved.
He had walked out of the Sea of Desire.
Xiao Chen stood where he was, bloodstained but clear-eyed.
He understood now:
This trial was not about craving fame.
Not about lusting for power.
It was about the deepest obsession—
to survive,
to prove oneself.
Though named "Desire,"
it was truly about the heart.
To fight not for battle's sake—
that is how one truly transcends the self.
"You do not fight for battle, nor live for life,"
came the whisper of the Tower's guide from the void.
"For a wish—though dead, not gone.
For will—unbroken, fate continues.
This stage may be passed…
and reborn."
In the distance,
the staircase leading out of the tower slowly emerged.
He turned,
and stepped into the final light.