Xiao Chen awoke from his sea of awareness,
but did not rush to leave the tower.
Instead, he was transported to the silent space before the entrance to the first layer.
The tower gate remained sealed, its radiance locked.
He sat cross-legged once more,
organizing the insights gained from three years of cultivation.
Only when his inner breath had fully settled,
and his fate-soul lay calm and undisturbed,
did he slowly rise.
He opened his eyes.
In that instant,
the wind stilled.
A subtle, formless aura rippled outward from within him—
like moonlight over a night sea,
clear and undisturbed.
But the next moment,
his brow furrowed.
A faint tremor stirred from the depths of his fate-soul—
barely perceptible,
like a needle's prick,
like the first stirrings of a dream.
—
Outside the tower,
Shi Zhongdao's gaze was sharp as an eagle's,
locked onto the tower's silhouette.
"If he comes out…
I'll kill him myself."
He knew the Tower of Fate distorted time—
three hours outside could mean years within.
If the boy had truly survived,
then…
Someone gripped their sword, palms drenched in sweat:
"If he comes out…
he might not be the same person anymore."
Another sneered:
"Better if he never comes out.
Dying inside would be ideal."
One stood silent, clutching a formation banner,
a flicker of respect rising in their heart:
"To walk out of the tower…
is no small feat."
Another wore a conflicted expression—
resentful, yet envious:
"Why is fate divided like this?"
—
The tower gate opened without a sound.
Mist surged outward.
A figure in grey robes stepped out slowly—
his aura steady as a mountain,
gentle as water,
his surface calm as a still lake,
yet beneath it,
lightning seemed to sleep in a hidden valley—
ready to erupt at a touch.
"He's out—!"
The ambushers hidden among trees and rocks moved instantly.
Several fate-mark cultivators unleashed their power—
spirit techniques, enchanted weapons,
all surged toward him like a tidal wave,
aiming to swallow him whole.
Xiao Chen said nothing.
He simply tapped the ground with his foot.
His figure shot upward.
His robe billowed.
His aura surged like a wave.
In that instant—
Boom!
A palm strike, like moonlight breaking through clouds,
sent the first three attackers flying ten zhang,
shattering trees in their wake.
His left hand became a blade.
An elbow strike shattered a spirit shield.
He seized a long halberd mid-motion,
and swept it in reverse—
knocking down four more foes along with their artifacts.
"This… how did he become so strong?!"
The ambushers fell into chaos.
One tried to retreat in panic—
but before he could speak,
a silent sword intent struck his fate-soul.
——
Only chaotic spiritual currents and echoes of explosions remained in the air.
From above, Shi Zhongdao's expression was iron-hard. At last, he spoke in a low, grim voice:
"Withdraw the rear formation. Push the main battle squad forward. I'll go in myself."
He swept down from the hilltop, a long sword of blue iron humming in his palm. His aura surged forth, and the glow of his life seal flickered faintly behind him.
"Boy, the Life-Marked Tower… is not a place for you!"
The two clashed head-on, waves of force roaring around them.
Shi Zhongdao's sword strikes were fierce and direct, his movements unpredictable.
Yet every three moves, he was forced back by one of Xiao Chen's crushing punches.
"You've… entered the Vein-Marked stage?" he growled through clenched teeth.
Xiao Chen said nothing. He simply drove his fist downward—
The ground shattered beneath him!
Shi Zhongdao staggered back ten zhang, his face suddenly pale. A cold glint flashed in his eyes. As Xiao Chen landed, Shi Zhongdao lunged with his sword—
The strike was narrow, its force lacking. It seemed like a final blow before retreat.
Xiao Chen blocked it, but the blade slipped—
A barely perceptible cut opened on his arm, a thin line of blood surfacing without any visible reaction. He frowned slightly… but thought nothing of it.
Shi Zhongdao gave a cold smile, turned, and shouted, "Retreat!"
But in that instant, Xiao Chen reversed his grip and seized Shi Zhongdao's sword—
His movement was as fast as lightning.
This wasn't reckless slaughter. He knew: if this man lived, the consequences would be dire. Better to sever the root than let him return with orders or spread word.
Shi Zhongdao flew backward in shock, just in time to see Xiao Chen flip the sword and say quietly:
"This… is your blade."
A flash of cold light—
Agonizing pain burst from Shi Zhongdao's chest. He looked down.
His own sword was buried in his chest, driven in to the hilt.
He screamed.
The others saw him die by his own weapon and felt no surprise.
The blade had never touched foreign force—yet it became the path by which its master's soul departed.
Shi Zhongdao's eyes filled with terror. Blood gushed from his throat.
He collapsed, never to rise again.
Dozens of surviving soldiers fled into the forest.
Thus ended the ambush: Shi Zhongdao slain by Xiao Chen alone, the rest scattered like startled beasts.
Xiao Chen stepped to the corpse, crouched, and retrieved a few spirit stones and a bloodstained identity scepter from the man's robes.
His fingers paused, then he unfastened a relatively clean outer robe from Shi
Zhongdao's waist, shook off the blood, and draped it over himself—
To cover his torn garments and bleeding wounds.
"What you owed me… this will do as repayment."
His voice was calm.
He turned and walked away.
He walked for three days and nights.
His steps seemed steady, but grew heavier with each hour.
His breath swelled and receded like tides within him, flickering in and out.
His soul mark stirred occasionally, like wind brushing the surface of water, sending faint ripples.
Xiao Chen thought it was merely the aftershock of an unstable life mark.
But he didn't know—
The powder in that wound came from the western shaman tribes.
Its name: Soulbane Grass Dust.
It targets divine sense, subtly disturbs one's obsessions.
At first, he felt nothing.
Then came fatigue.
Then—
He began to notice his mind drifting.
His thoughts would briefly wander at a street corner, or before a door…
It felt like memory.
Or like a dream.
Disorienting.
He clenched his teeth, forcing himself to stay alert, refusing even the slightest emotional ripple.
Because once his mental state cracked—
That invisible seed would take root.
Until midday—
The sun bleached the market square white.
Crowds bustled along the streets.
Shouts and children's laughter rose and fell in waves.
As he passed a row of fruit stalls, his gaze lifted—and he saw it.
A young couple sat nestled together in the corner of a teahouse.
The woman smiled sweetly, gently wiping sweat from the man's brow.
Xiao Chen's steps faltered.
A thunderclap rang through his mind.
The woman's eyes and brows—
Were almost identical to hers.
Lin Miao.
His heart jolted.
He knew it was impossible, yet he couldn't look away.
It was as if an old wound, sealed for years, suddenly burst open—
Not just flesh and blood, but even his soul trembled.
He knew this wasn't real.
But somewhere deep in his spirit, a corner long buried…
Longed for it to be real.
"No… she's not the one from before."
His chest tightened.
Reason screamed: This is just an illusion.
But the more he told himself no,
The more his soul wavered.
The man leaned in and whispered softly to the woman.
She smiled, smoothing the front of his robe—
Her laughter overlapped with the illusion's.
The sound changed—
It didn't belong to this place.
But it was rooted deep in his heart.
"…You once said you'd guard a patch of joy for me."
The voice rang out—
Sudden, eerie.
It wasn't from anyone in the market.
It was her voice.
The illusion's.
"But look… whose joy are you guarding now?"
A string in his heart snapped.
Thrum!
His aura exploded—
Like a sudden tornado!
Vegetable stands, shelves, teacups—
All shattered and flew apart!
Shouts erupted.
The market turned into a disaster zone.
The young couple hadn't even reacted—
A wooden table shot in from the side.
The man threw his arms around the woman to shield her.
The table slammed into his back.
They collapsed.
The woman cried out, curling on the ground, trembling.
The entire street fell into dead silence.
All sound swallowed by invisible pressure.
Xiao Chen walked forward, step by step.
His gaze hollow.
His aura sharpened into killing intent—like a sword.
His right hand formed a crude blade.
A horizontal slash—
Splurt!
The man's right arm was severed at the shoulder.
Blood sprayed wildly, staining the ground and the hem of the woman's dress.
He screamed in agony, unable to form words.
The woman threw herself over him, clutching him tightly,
Staring in terror at the blank-faced youth whose eyes reflected only death.
And Xiao Chen—
Stood silently before them.
Unmoving.
As if waiting.
Waiting for her to speak.
Waiting for the illusion to return.