Light surged like water, flowing in torrents.
Xiao Chen stepped through the radiant gate. A subtle tremor passed through his body—
the world before him flickered between light and shadow,
as if he had crossed the threshold of countless realms.
In the next instant, the path beneath his feet fractured.
Mist churned.
And from within it, an aged figure emerged—
still clad in his worn robes, head bowed, eyes lowered.
It was the Tower's guide.
He glanced at Xiao Chen,
his gaze piercing through time itself.
"Until now, I've lost count of how many years have passed.
At last, someone has reached this place…"
His voice remained calm,
but carried a faint, long-lost emotion.
"To break this stage is to earn the Tower's honor.
You may choose one of three.
No regrets. No reversal."
With a flick of his sleeve,
three glimmers of light surfaced in the void.
"A sword—cold and silent, its edge hidden in frost.
It severs breath and shatters force.
Its name: Froststream."
"An armor—woven to shield the soul.
It can withstand three ruptures of the spirit.
Its name: Soulveil Robe."
"A heart technique—cleansing obsession, guarding the heart.
It teaches introspection and inner defense.
Its name: The Unbound Sutra."
The three treasures hovered in silence,
each emanating a quiet pressure—
as if they had waited for this moment across ages.
Xiao Chen looked at them.
He did not hesitate long.
His gaze lingered on the ancient scroll,
its aura steeped in time.
He recalled the illusions—
his helplessness before emotion,
his entanglement with resentment.
If those shadows could not be dissolved,
then no matter how far he walked,
he would never escape himself.
This was not about becoming stronger.
It was about becoming harder to break.
He raised his hand,
and pointed.
The old man said nothing—
only nodded faintly.
In the next moment,
the heart technique shimmered into a seal,
falling into Xiao Chen's soul-sea,
resonating subtly with the fate-mark he had just forged.
The elder turned and departed.
Mist surged once more.
And just before vanishing,
he left behind a sigh—
soft as smoke,
yet carrying the weight of a thousand years,
and a trace of unspoken hope.
And Xiao Chen stood in that vast emptiness,
the fate-mark on his chest slowly emerging.
A thread of pale golden light flowed like a stream—warm and tranquil—
quietly merging with the seal of The Unbound Sutra,
as if, for the first time, his inner and outer selves had truly aligned.
—This was the path he had chosen with his own hands.
—
Outside the Tower of Fate,
the light of the seventh layer had already dimmed—
three hours ago.
"He… should be coming out soon,"
Shi Zhong Dao stood atop a high ledge,
his gaze sharp as a blade, fixed on the silent tower.
Time passed, minute by minute.
The tower remained still,
utterly silent.
Shi Zhong Dao did not move.
Behind him, several fate-mark cultivators lay in wait—
sword aura sealing the path,
barriers deployed,
spirit arrows drawn—
ready to strike the moment the gate opened.
But three hours had passed.
And the tower was still as water.
Someone whispered,
"Could something have gone wrong?"
Another sneered,
"If he wasn't gravely wounded,
why would he still be inside?
He might've already burned his soul and died."
Someone else exhaled in relief,
"If he's barely clinging to life,
then that makes things easier…"
But Shi Zhong ao did not relax.
He continued to stare at the tower,
his brow slightly furrowed.
"…Too quiet," he murmured.
"Quiet enough to be unnatural."
Though he had no right to enter the tower,
he understood its anomalies better than most.
His master was none other than Shen Dao eng,
Palace Lord of Starpluck Hall,
who had once personally studied the laws of the Tower of Fate,
using fate-marks to calculate its internal time flow—
leaving behind rare records.
As a youth, Shi Zhong ao had witnessed the tower's awakening firsthand.
He remembered one incident vividly:
a three-mark cultivator had entered the gate,
only to be forcibly expelled after a single incense stick's time.
His face was pale,
his soul in turmoil,
as if he had endured a thousand tribulations—
yet he hadn't even truly stepped into the first layer.
From that day on, Shi Zhong ao understood:
the flow of time within the Tower of Fate was never fixed.
A day could span ten years.
A moment could stretch into eternity.
It had nothing to do with cultivation level—
only with the origin of one's fate-soul.
Especially the number of innate fate-marks.
Moreover, his clan—the Shi family—
had once obtained a fragment of an ancient text,
recording a phenomenon never made public.
One elder had even left a soul imprint within the tower,
and upon returning, claimed that time inside flowed like a flood—
altering heart, altering will, altering fate.
Three hours—
to the outside world,
merely a quiet wait.
But within the tower,
it could have been years of meditation,
or countless brushes with death.
Shi Zhong ao took a deep breath,
and whispered in his heart:
"No matter what happened to him…
the moment he steps out of that gate,
I, Shi Zhong ao,
will personally take his life—
even if it costs me everything."
Time within the tower flowed slow as congealed water—like a slumbering fold in space.
Xiao Chen knew this was the perfect moment to refine his heart.
He sat cross-legged, palms facing upward.
The seal of The Unbound Sutra still shimmered faintly within his fate-soul—like a lamp yet unlit.
He closed his eyes, sinking deep into his consciousness.
At the core of his soul, a void appeared—formless yet real.
This was his sea of awareness, where thoughts rippled like water.
No light.
No sound.
No warmth.
Only one thing remained—thought.
Past obsessions, emotions, killing intent, resentment—
even lingering guilt and longing—
all rose as phantoms from the depths of his heart-lake.
He saw the wedding ceremony.
He saw Lin Miao leave in tears.
He saw the moment he chose to stay.
He saw her collapse in his arms,
despair flooding in with accusation and heartbreak.
He wanted to turn away—
but found no path of escape.
This was the trial of The Unbound Sutra:
not resistance, but confrontation.
Not suppression, but clarity.
He took a deep breath and opened his eyes,
watching the phantoms pass before him.
He did not speak.
Did not intervene.
Did not cling to explanation.
He simply watched—
letting every word that once pierced his heart,
every tear,
every choice,
pass through like wind through a forest—
leaving sound, but no weight.
No flame in thought.
No chase in will.
No desire in heart.
All phenomena, empty.
He softly recited the sutra.
His tone was calm,
like dust being brushed from the soul.
The ripples in his awareness began to settle.
The phantoms gently dispersed before him,
dissolving like smoke into the depths of his fate-soul—
leaving no trace.
The seal flared.
Within his soul,
the heart-mark of The Unbound Sutra began to rotate.
Its runes lit up,
gradually merging with his spirit-mark.
In the sea of awareness,
a silent moon rose—
not to illuminate,
not to burn,
but to hang quietly,
bringing complete stillness to his heart.
He exhaled a breath of turbid air.
His gaze was like fresh snow falling—
clear, resolute, unbound.
He knew this was the first true attainment—seeing through.
The beginning of a heart free from attachment.
But he did not rise.
He remained seated in that land of shattered dreams,
letting the remnants of time flow quietly through his fingers,
cultivating in this layer of the tower forgotten by time—
Day after day,
until three years had passed.
Three years of soul-deep stillness.
His awareness as quiet as a moon's reflection.
He opened his eyes.
The surrounding black mist had long since faded.
Only the void remained, circling in silence.
Xiao Chen looked down,
his brow lifting slightly—
his sleeves were a touch short,
his robe a bit tight.
His body had grown.
He raised his hand and clenched his fist.
The sound of his joints was deeper, more grounded than before.
He was no longer the youth who had first entered the Tower of Fate.
Though his face still held traces of youth,
his eyes now carried the quiet resolve of time endured.
These three years were not merely cultivation—
they were a reshaping of soul and flesh.
He understood:
his fate-soul and body had naturally harmonized into the age of seventeen.
Not illusion.
Not forced advancement.
But the result of tempered growth.
This was the price he had paid—
and the truth of his transformation.
Outside,
only three hours had passed.