Laying the Foundation

The courtyard beneath the White Palace had changed.

No longer the tranquil plaza where disciples meditated under the watchful eye of legacy statues, it had been cordoned into concentric rings of formation lines, each glowing with sigils older than the Empire itself. Ten spirit furnaces blazed with bound essence. Array masters moved in silent rhythm, while illusion adepts from the Mirrored Vale traced invisible glyphs midair, each symbol suspended in quiet defiance of gravity.

At the very center stood Aeon — his robes unmoving despite the storm of qi around him.

Today, they would begin the construction of the Tower of Existence.

Not the full body — not yet. What would rise today was only the Foundation Floor.

A floor unlike any other. A place where all ego, pretense, memory, and ambition would be stripped away. Where the core of one's being — unadorned and without cultivation — would be exposed.

To build such a thing, Aeon needed a material not of flesh, not of illusion, but of unbroken legacy.

He needed the Ancestral Essence of the Empire.

But the ancestors were in seclusion, hidden in a realm between breath and stone — accessible only by bloodline and purpose. Only during cataclysm, or for destiny-altering constructs, would they stir.

And so, Aeon had prepared the ritual.

He stood alone within the innermost ring, where the seal of the Empire's first Sovereign was etched in molten sky-iron. Before him floated nine ancient tokens — each linked to a secluded ancestor.

"I do not summon you for war," he said, his voice echoing across planes, "but to borrow strength. Not your weapons, not your time — but your Essence."

"The Tower we build shall shape the Empire's soul for generations. I ask not for command, but for your acknowledgment. Your witness. And from that, your will."

The tokens shook.

Then — one by one — the air grew heavy, as if the world had paused its breath.

Nine indistinct figures appeared above the plaza, suspended in silent majesty. They wore no crowns, no armor, no grandeur — and yet, every cultivator present instinctively lowered their gaze. These were the living, sequestered beyond comprehension. Watching.

One raised a hand — not to grant permission, but to bestow presence.

A single drop of essence — so dense that time warped around it — fell into the ritual basin.

The others followed.

Aeon bowed low. "Your will is recorded. May your strength shape the new path."

The ritual completed. The furnace formations flared, and the mirrored glyphs spun into a unified core.

At that moment, the Foundation Floor began to condense — not from stone or metal, but from raw memory.

It formed as an endless expanse of fog-covered land — where time did not flow forward, but inward. Where entering cultivators would be reduced to their most primal state of mind, forced to confront who they were before Dao, before ambition, before guidance.

A world of silence.

A mirror to self.

And it was only the beginning.

In the outer chambers of the Empire, whispers moved.

The House of the Flowing Chain, the Circle of War Scholars, even the Silent Court of Judgment — factions loyal to the White Palace, but not always aligned — each took note.

They did not speak out. They did not challenge Aeon's authority or the Sovereign's blessing.

But they watched.

They sent observers cloaked in invisibility, spiritual threads extended like needles in still water. They studied the runes. Measured the fluctuation of ambient qi. Compared Aeon's designs against forbidden scrolls sealed since the First Dynasty.

Some elders meditated for days, calculating probabilities: Would the Tower collapse under its own ambition? Would it lead to inner rupture among disciples? Or worse, attract the attention of that which should not wake?

None moved against him. Not yet.

Because even they could not deny — the design was brilliant. And perhaps... necessary.

So they chose the path of cultivation's oldest strategy:

Wait. Observe. Endure.

If Aeon succeeded, they would offer tribute. If he failed, they would remind the world they had warned of imbalance.

But they would not interfere now.

By sundown, the Foundation Floor was fully stabilized. Even from the outside, one could hear the distant hum of soul-will being tested inside.

Several elite disciples — handpicked from the inner court — had entered voluntarily. By midnight, three had emerged, each pale and shaken.

"I... saw myself," one whispered. "Not my face. My choices."

"I forgot my name inside," said another. "But not my guilt."

"It broke me," admitted the third. "And now... I can begin."

The elders outside the Tower remained silent, but their eyes glittered.

Aeon stood atop the outer terrace, robes rustling faintly. Behind him, Lady Huayin of the Mirrored Vale arrived in quiet step.

"You've laid the foundation," she said. "Now comes the ascent."

Aeon nodded. "One floor at a time. Each built from what cultivators fear to face."

She looked up at the fog-wreathed tower root.

"Then perhaps this generation truly will deserve the title of Glorious."

"They won't be given it," Aeon replied. "They'll earn it. Through blood, memory... and meaning."

The Tower of Existence had begun to rise.

And though some doubted, none could deny:

A new path had opened in the cultivation world — and it was not one that could be ignored.