Two years had passed since the Inner Academy Market was reduced to rubble, but the scars remained—etched not in stone alone, but in the silence that hung over the old Mill Tower like a shroud. Dust floated in golden shafts of sunlight that angled through fractured stained-glass windows. Ivy clung to the stone walls, its tendrils creeping through cracks as though trying to reclaim the tower. Tiny spiders had woven delicate webs in the corners, threads catching the light like fragile silver.
Mike's boots whispered against the worn marble floor, each step stirring the air like a soft breath in a crypt. Beneath his feet, faded mosaics told forgotten tales—dragons coiled through vines, stars tangled in celestial knots. His black armor, dulled from countless battles, gave off quiet metallic clicks, a rhythm that matched the slow, measured pulse of the place. The light chains around his forearms shifted with a faint jingle, soft as wind chimes in a dying breeze.
Beside him, Master Jian Dao walked in silence, his white robes trailing along the floor like mist. The fabric caught glimmers of torchlight, the gold embroidery threading through it like constellations. His hand brushed the wall lightly, fingers tracing the age-old grooves carved by some long-lost architect. Torches embedded in iron sconces flickered as they passed, casting long shadows that danced like silent guardians.
Mike's voice, low and uncertain, broke the hush. "You said this place was a vacuum. No breath, no wind. But… I can feel the air. I can feel the earth."
Jian Dao paused beneath a tall arch where the ceiling rose into shadow. A single leaf, browned and crumbling, fluttered down from a crack above, landing soundlessly at his feet.
"This tower is old," he said, eyes fixed on the play of light across the stones. "Older than memory. It changes. I once walked these halls in perfect stillness—no wind, no sound. But time folds here. It listens. It adapts."
The hall narrowed. They passed a crooked torch bracket overgrown with moss. Somewhere far above, unseen birds stirred, their wings rasping like sandpaper against old wood.
Then—three doors.
They rose before them like ancient monuments, each twice the height of a man, framed in carved stone and tangled vines. The first door was black and dull, like an abyss. The second shimmered like water, blue ripples moving slowly across its surface. The third glowed faintly, not with light, but a kind of presence—white as bleached bone, as quiet snowfall under a full moon.
Mike stepped closer, hand hovering. The stone beneath his feet darkened near the black door, warmed near the blue, and seemed weightless near the white. The runes carved around them blinked softly, as if breathing.
His voice was barely above a whisper. "Black… cold. Endless. Blue… flowing. Moving. And white… clear. Light. Open."
He took a breath, crisp and cool as mountain air. "I'll take the white."
The door opened with a deep, slow groan, its hinges weeping rust. Light spilled out—not harsh, but warm, like morning through fog.
And then the Mill Tower vanished.
---
The forest breathed.
Sunlight scattered through a tall canopy of emerald leaves, their edges swaying gently in the wind like waves on a quiet pond. The ground was soft beneath Mike's feet—dirt padded with damp moss, fallen pine needles, and specks of white petals that looked like snowflakes trapped in spring. A small beetle, iridescent green, clambered over a curled fern leaf before vanishing into the underbrush.
A single bird chirped. Then another. The trees answered, rustling in reply.
A narrow path stretched ahead, half-swallowed by creeping vines and speckled with puddles that mirrored the sky. Overhead, branches laced together like fingers, the sunlight dripping through in golden threads. A distant stream murmured beyond the hill. Tiny mushrooms—blue, white, even glowing green—clustered at the base of a fallen tree. Somewhere deeper, something growled softly before silence returned.
Mike stared, his armor catching glints of gold. "This… this is real."
Jian Dao knelt near a wildflower, brushing its petals gently. "Zhen Wu Continent. The land answers your thoughts now. There are three forests here."
He stood, eyes scanning the distance. "Yuan Shadow Forest—where no light stays long. Crimson Thunder Wood—where lightning lives in the trees. And this… this is likely the Glass Mist Forest. Quiet. Ancient."
Mike bent to touch the earth, fingers brushing tiny roots pushing up through the dirt. "It feels alive."
"Because it is," Jian Dao said. "Your thought led us here. You imagined Zhen Wu. That was enough."
The world felt still.
Then it struck.
A tremor passed beneath their feet. Birds exploded from the trees like shards of color, leaves spiraled down, and the sky briefly darkened. A low hum rolled through the forest, then a sharp BOOM cracked the air, echoing through the trunks like thunder through stone.
Mike's eyes darted toward the source. Between the trees, a flash—blue-white energy crawling across the sky like a jagged wound.
Jian Dao's voice dropped, hard and cold. "Stay close. Trouble's already watching."