Baili stood up. The movement was stiff, each muscle protesting not just from injury, but from the profound shock that had settled into his bones. He did not look at his wounds. His eyes, still holding a fading, fractured light, swept over the group. They lingered for a moment on Duo Yi, who had now descended from the arena and stood apart, her body healed by the Tower's light but her expression closed off and stormy. He did not speak to her. He did not rage. It was worse than that. He looked at her, and then at Gen, at Ning, at Juxian, as if he were etching their faces onto stone tablets in some dark chamber of his mind. His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles white against the drying blood, the bones making a low, grinding sound.
The phantom head of the old overseer shimmered into view. "Your wounds," the wispy voice intoned. "Allow me to—"
"No."
Baili's voice cut through the air, flat and hard. He did not shout. "I do not need your help. I want them. I want them to stay."
The bearded face seemed to pause, surprised by the request. Then it gave a slow, misty nod. "As you wish."
Lorel rushed to his side, her face pale. "Brother, this is absurd! You're hurt, you need to be healed!" Her hand reached out for his arm.
He reacted not with words, but with motion. His arm, still trembling with suppressed power, swung out and shoved her away. It wasn't a gentle push. It was violent, dismissive. She stumbled and fell hard onto the stone floor, her eyes wide with hurt and shock. He looked down at her, and in that moment, the year that separated them felt like a chasm.
"You chose to stay with them," he said, his voice devoid of any warmth, any of the familial condescension he usually used. It was cold, like reading a verdict. "Stay with them. As for me…" He trailed off, his jaw working. The words 'I don't know' seemed to hover, unsaid and too terrible to admit. He simply turned and began to walk away, his back a straight, lonely line against the vast chamber.
Chubbs moved to block his path, positioning himself between Baili and the fallen Lorel. "Now see here," he began, his voice uncharacteristically hard. "You can't just—"
Baili stopped. He looked at Chubbs, and for a moment, his usual icy smirk returned, but it was cracked, bleeding at the edges. It held no humor, only a chilling promise. "You. You had better make sure she stays alive." He held the guard's gaze for a heartbeat longer, then walked past him without another word, heading not for the exit, but for a dark, empty archway leading deeper into the Tower's unknown lower levels.
Gen could only watch the desolate figure retreat. A part of him, a deep and painful part, understood exactly what Baili was feeling. It was a sliver of the same world-ending void he had felt that night on the mountain, watching the light of the Damocles fall and knowing his father was gone. It was the moment when the ground you thought was bedrock turned to ash. At such a moment, family ties were noise. Pain was a compass. Nothing could stop you from walking into whatever came next.
Liang's hand came to rest gently on Gen's shoulder. He didn't speak. He just nodded once, his eyes saying everything: *I'm here, my brother.*
Duo Yi, now fully healed, walked stiffly to a far corner of the chamber and sat with her back to everyone. She hugged her knees, her face turned to the wall. The playful, curious girl was gone, replaced by someone simmering with a cold, private anger. She spoke to no one.
Gen took one last look at the leaderboard floating in the air. Most of the names had solidified. The atmosphere in the arena, however, had shifted from competitive tension to something heavier, more contemplative. For several long minutes, no one moved to challenge anyone else. The strongest had already clashed, or perhaps something fundamental had changed in all of them after witnessing the unbreakable break.
Above them, the old man sighed. His misty form began to shift, to coalesce. The phantom head and wisps of smoke drew together, solidifying into the figure of an elderly man with a long, white beard, plain grey robes, and kindly wrinkles around his eyes. He looked more like a gentle grandfather than an ancient mystery. Only his eyes remained unchanged—pools of deep, starless night that held the weight of the Tower's countless secrets.
"To the 45th Level," he announced, his voice now soft and clear.
A cultivator from the Bamboo Marches grunted. "But the fights aren't over! The bracket—"
"You know," the old man interrupted, his gentle tone brooking no argument. "Deep in your hearts, you have all seen it. The ten who qualify have already been cemented. In my eyes, the selection is complete. As for the rest of you… you may leave now."
He waved a hand. A soft, white light enveloped the dozens of other cultivators—those who had survived the forest but had not distinguished themselves in the arena clashes. They vanished, their frustrated protests about wanting to see more mysteries cut off mid-sentence.
Left in the vast, quiet hall were only eight figures: Duo Yi, Ning, Juxian, Lorel, Chubbs, Gen, Liang, and Li Zhan.
Eight. Not the ten the old man had mentioned, but he looked upon them with a satisfied nod.
"Come," he said. "All of you, gather close."
They did so without question, drawn by the finality in his voice. Gen found himself standing next to the silently fuming Duo Yi. His curiosity burned, pushing past his own fatigue. He leaned slightly towards her, his voice a low whisper. "That thing you did… with the lightning and the Dragon. That wasn't just **Shidow**, was it? It was… something else."
Duo Yi turned her face fully away from him, her shoulder tense. She ignored him as if he were a fly on the wall, her silence a wall of its own.
Li Zhan stood a little apart from the loose circle. The others had the bond of shared battle, of friendship or rivalry. He had only his cold, impeccable victory over Lorel and his silent, watchful presence. His strength was undeniable, yet he was an island.
The old man, now in his solid form, clasped his gnarled hands together.
With a soft *whoosh* of displaced air, the cylindrical hall vanished.
***
Gen's senses lurched. There was no light, no sound, no feeling of stone underfoot. For a terrifying instant, he felt cut adrift from all reality.
Then his vision cleared. He stood on a narrow, grey stone path, no wider than two men shoulder-to-shoulder. It stretched forward into an infinite, absolute darkness. To either side of the path was nothing—a void so complete it seemed to swallow light and thought. He could not see a ceiling or walls. Only the path, illuminated by a sourceless, grey light.
He took a sharp, involuntary breath and stumbled backward, almost falling off the edge into that consuming nothingness. His heart hammered against his ribs.
"What… what is this place?" His own voice sounded small and dead in the total silence.
The old man appeared beside him, not walking, but simply existing there, floating a hair's breadth above the non-edge of the path. "This," the old man said, his voice echoing strangely in the void, "is the 45th Level of the Tower of Wonder. It is called the **Alter Ego Path**."
Gen blinked, forcing his breathing to steady. "This isn't a physical challenge, is it?"
The old man's kindly face creased into a smile that didn't reach his ancient eyes. "Whether you can walk this path to its end will determine the reward you may glean from this place. Although I am a part of it, know this: I am an insignificant being compared to the mysteries that surround the Tower's origin. I am merely… a floor sweeper here."
Gen's mouth fell open. "You should learn to lie better," he managed to say, but when he turned his head, the old man was already gone.
He was alone.
Utterly, profoundly alone on a path in the middle of nothing.
Gen Jiang took a deep, shuddering breath, the air cool and tasting of stone dust and silence. He looked at the path ahead, vanishing into the dark. Unsure of what he might see, what he might face, he lifted his foot and took the first step forward.