The Tower of Existence

Aeon walked through the vast, spiraling corridors of the White Palace, each step echoing like the ticking of a divine mechanism. The ancient structure pulsed faintly with ancestral qi, as if the bones of the empire itself breathed in anticipation. Deep beneath the throne halls and celestial spires was the Round Circle of Ancients — the true heart of the Empire.

Today, he would propose something that could change the fate of the entire cultivation world.

The guards at the gate did not stop him — they couldn't. As the son of the Sovereign, Aeon's status alone was beyond challenge. But more than that, there was something in his gaze — firm, unwavering — that made people instinctively step aside.

Inside the Round Circle, a ring of elders, ancestors, and spiritual projections sat silently. These were the true pillars of the Empire — ancient existences who had transcended mortal understanding. Blue flames danced over floating braziers, illuminating stone etched with the empire's deepest legacies.

Aeon walked forward and bowed deeply.

"Greetings, Sovereign. Elders. Ancestors. I request this assembly not for ceremony, but for purpose."

His voice was calm, but firm. It carried a depth that didn't belong to someone so young.

The Sovereign — Aeon's father — sat at the center. His expression was unreadable, not like the warm father Aeon remembered from childhood, but like the ruler of a cultivation dynasty whose will could alter the flow of nations.

Aeon took a breath and began.

"Some time ago, I opened the Vault of Listening — believing that existence could be refined like ore, and value extracted from essence."

Many elders nodded. They remembered the experiment. A strange fusion of cultivation, karma, and metaphysical economy. It had shaken many circles, impacted the kingdom in a way they couldn't imagine.

"But I was wrong. Existence is not a resource. It is not subject to demand or shaped by desire. It is structure. Silent. Unfinished."

At this, he waved his sleeve, and a scroll unfolded into the air. But it wasn't made of paper. It was compressed will and thought-symbols, each glyph glowing with ancestral light. The image it projected was clear: a Tower, spiraling endlessly into the heavens.

"I wish to build the Tower of Existence."

The moment the words left his mouth, the room changed. Some elders narrowed their eyes. Others raised their spiritual defenses out of instinct.

"What is this tower?" asked the Great Elder of the Ancestral Pillar Hall, an old man whose soul had long merged with the Empire's root vein.

Aeon responded immediately, his tone steady.

"The base shall be built from the essence of our ancestors — cultivators who did not ascend, but willingly sealed themselves in death to anchor the Empire's foundation. Their legacy will shape the Foundation Floor — a place where all illusion is stripped, where cultivators return to the raw essence of self. No ego. No past. Only truth."

The elders exchanged glances. This was no small matter. To disturb ancestral remains — even with reverence — was something that required unimaginable conviction.

"However," Aeon continued, "soul alone is not structure. A Tower of Existence must not only challenge the flesh, but confront the mind. Therefore, I seek aid from the Mirrored Vale — the masters of Illusion Dao."

This time, laughter broke out in the room.

"You want us to entrust the sacred foundation of existence to phantoms and mirage weavers?" sneered a Martial Ancestor with nine condensed Nascent Souls flickering behind him.

Aeon didn't flinch.

"The Vale do not deal in lies. Their illusions are mirrors — capable of showing truths that direct perception cannot. They will craft the Projective Strata — illusion-forged floors of the Tower where cultivators confront symbolic realms. Not dreams, but compressed archetypes — regret, desire, failure, hope, betrayal — things that define the Dao Heart."

At this, even the Sovereign leaned forward slightly.

Aeon pressed on.

"These floors will collapse the barrier between symbolism and reality. They will forge meaning into structure. Illusion not as deception, but as trial — refining the Dao Heart without destroying the cultivator."

The hall was silent again.

He then made his final move — one that showed not just insight, but political power.

"The Mirrored Vale is no longer what it once was. Their wards fade. Their children are hunted. They stand on the verge of dissolution."

He gestured, and a map projected over the chamber — glowing lines showing how hostile sects pressed into Vale territory like blood creeping through snow.

"But if they bind their Dao to this Tower, we bind them to the White Palace. In return for their aid, we offer our protection. Our name. Our shield."

Many elders widened their eyes.

This was no longer a proposal — it was strategy. Diplomacy. Statecraft cloaked in cultivation.

Aeon looked to his father.

"With their illusions and our truth, we build a Tower that reshapes the path of cultivation. One that dares to say — we can structure existence itself."

Silence.

Then, a faint sigh drifted through the room. A formless wisp of smoke gathered behind one of the thrones — it was the Ancestor of the First Flame, a soul so old he no longer wore form.

"Let the dreamers craft their illusions," the voice whispered. "Perhaps they will birth something real."

The Sovereign finally stood. The temperature in the chamber rose. Every projection bowed slightly in acknowledgment of his presence.

He looked down at Aeon — his son, yet also his junior in the cultivation path.

"This Tower… is a challenge to orthodoxy. It will shake the foundation of many sects."

He paused.

"That is why it must be built."

The Sovereign raised his hand, a flame of decree forming above his palm.

"Send word to the Mirrored Vale. Tell them: The White Palace seeks alliance. The Tower of Existence will rise. May illusion clothe our truth in power."

Aeon bowed, not as a prince — but as a cultivator.

In that moment, the first cornerstone of the Tower of Existence was placed.