They emerged not onto stone or blood, but grass.
Rolling hills stretched in every direction, dotted with ancient trees and glowing white blossoms. The air was warmer here, calmer, and the sky above—still artificial—was painted in hues of soft gold and deep blue. The Tower had shifted tone. But the silence that followed the last battle clung to Leo like a weight he couldn't shake.
For a long moment, no one spoke. No one could.
Then the medics arrived.
Robe-clad figures of neutral qi—neither competitors nor foes—moved among the wounded, stabilizing the worst injuries, administering healing essence. Mira's arm was reset. Aric's wounds were stitched with liquid ice. Leo's cuts were sealed, but the ache inside his chest only grew.
Because Eli never walked through the portal.
And the longer he waited, the more certain Leo became.
He was gone.
He searched for hours.
At first he was methodical—checking each recovery tent, asking quietly for names, descriptions. A few people recognized Eli's face. "Yeah, he was holding the right side." "Saw him near the wall." "Fought well."
But eventually, the answers stopped.
Some stared at him with pity. Others looked away entirely.
By dusk, Leo found himself standing at the edge of the tree line, spear clenched in his hand, staring out over the fields where hundreds of initiates moved like ghosts.
Mira approached quietly, stopping beside him.
"I saw him fall," she said softly. "When the elite hit us. He didn't run. Held the line longer than most."
Leo didn't respond.
"He mattered," she added.
Still nothing.
So she left him to the silence.
That night, Leo didn't sleep.
He trained.
He returned to the isolated clearing near the edge of camp, drew his spear, and began the forms.
Thread Steps.Veiled Thrust.Threefold Flow.
Again.
And again.
And again.
He pushed his body until his hands blistered, until his legs trembled with every shift in stance. He tried to lose himself in the rhythm, to find the clarity he'd felt on the bridge. But it didn't come.
The paths didn't flicker.
They didn't snap into place.
His thoughts were too loud.
Why didn't I check on him sooner?What if I'd been faster?What if I'd held the line harder?
He gritted his teeth and drove the spear into the earth with a scream. His breath came fast. Ragged.
Why can I see the future in battle but couldn't save a friend?
He fell to his knees beside the embedded weapon.
Mastering Intent required stillness. Harmony between thought and motion. But his mind was chaos. Every image of Eli's smile twisted into the sound of that elite creature cutting down initiates like they were nothing.
He wanted to reach the next level. He needed to.
The spear still trembled in the earth beside him, its shaft catching the pale light of the third floor's artificial moon. Leo sat slumped beside it, sweat and grief clinging to him like a second skin.
He didn't notice Mira approaching until her shadow crossed the edge of his vision.
She stood there for a moment, arms crossed, head tilted as she watched him with a mix of frustration and something quieter. Pity, maybe. Or recognition.
Then she sighed and shook her head.
"You really aren't from some hidden force, are you?"
Leo glanced up, face drawn. "I told you that already."
"I know." She dropped into a squat across from him, pulling something from the satchel at her side—a slim, worn book with a dark red cover. She tossed it toward him. "Then let me teach you something every one of us is taught before we enter the Tower."
Leo caught it, turning it over in his hands. The title was simple, pressed into the leather in faded gold:
The Mirror of Will.
He frowned. "What is this?"
"It's not a technique," she said. "It's not about forms or essence flow. That book is about will. Your core. The part of you that the Tower can't burn away unless you let it."
She stood, brushing dust from her knees, and began to pace slowly. "Everyone who trains for this place eventually learns that power alone doesn't carry you far. Not here. Your body breaks. Your qi drains. Your talent hits a wall."
She stopped and looked down at him. "When that happens, what keeps you standing isn't strength. It's will. And the goal—what every serious cultivator reaches for—is to refine it until it's as clear and focused as shining glass."
Leo opened the book. The first page was filled with elegant script, a single sentence underlined:
The will, once made pure, becomes a blade no enemy can block and no fear can fracture.
Mira continued, her voice low, almost reverent.
"There's no defined path to train will. That's what makes it so damn hard. Some people—like Aric—aim to empty themselves completely. No fear, no grief, no joy. They become still. Cold. Unshakable. No matter what happens around them, nothing touches the core."
She paused. "Others go the opposite direction. They drown in their emotion. Let it consume them. Rage, love, guilt—whatever burns hottest. And they ride that fire into battle like it's a weapon. The more intense it is, the sharper their will becomes."
Leo looked up, eyes searching. "Which one are you?"
Mira smiled faintly, not without bitterness. "I'm still figuring that out."
She dropped back to the ground beside him.
"But the point is," she said, tapping the book, "it has to be you who carves the path. You can't borrow it. You can't copy it. That's why this isn't taught with manuals or drills. Because your will isn't trained. It's forged."
Leo looked back at the book. His fingers tightened on the cover.
A blade of will.
A purpose clear as glass.
"I thought if I just worked harder, I'd get there," he said quietly. "But the more I pushed, the more it slipped away."
Mira nodded. "Because you're trying to force it into a shape you think it's supposed to be. Not the one it is."
They sat together in silence for a long while. The night breeze rustled the grass, and the stars above shimmered gently over a field that seemed almost peaceful.
Leo finally spoke, voice steadier.
"Then I guess it's time to figure out what my path looks like."