Lying on the green grass, staring at the root ceiling filled with luminous white and green leaves, Zamian found himself in a daze. He recognized the place immediately—the Cleric Chosen’s private garden.

  The White Dot had brought him back.

  “Did I physically go to the White Tower, or was it only my inner self?” he muttered.

  Sitting up, the young man instinctively checked his body first, looking for any signs of change. His search extended to the white key, but it was nowhere to be found. Zamian didn’t want to rely solely on the White Dot’s information to solve every problem or understand his condition.

  Yet, with no other clues, he sighed and willed the White Dot to show his stats. Ignoring the information wasn’t an option either—and he did said he would look at it more often.

  STATS POINTS

  Body: 54/54

  Mind: 50/50

  Soul: 100/100

  REWARDS

  Ancient Astral Seal

  Description: A Star Seal guarding your Astral Self.

  Ancient Identify Technique (Passive)

  Description: See the secrets beyond the limitations of time

  Zamian nodded slightly as he read the familiar white text and dismissed it. “I should’ve checked my stats after reading the book. Now I’ll never know if it cost me any soul or mind points,” he grumbled, narrowing his eyes. “And the white key isn’t listed under rewards anymore, meaning it’s already been used. But… where’s my blighted new technique?”

  Hastily sitting back down, he closed his eyes and entered the dark space where the humanoid form of motes awaited him. His gaze shifted to the humanoid’s head, where the mysterious crystal essence hovered, pulsing weakly with a faint white light that sent ripples across the space.

  Zooming in, Zamian observed the rapidly blinking drawings etched on the crystal’s sides. Guessing it was the reward he sought, he focused his attention on the object, probing it as he had with the red essence before.

  The moment he willed the crystal to move, one of the marks flared brightly, drowning out every other color in the dark space. White light bathed his vision yet again. ‘As mother used to say, I’m going to be traumatized by this color,’ he thought, exasperated.

  He felt no danger—just growing annoyance. ‘Why can’t you just do the usual and give me the blighted technique already, White Dot? Who are you trying to impress with this endless light show?’

  As the white light engulfed everything, an image of a towering structure appeared before Zamian—a white tower stretching endlessly into the sky, its surface adorned with gleaming white leaves. The young cultivator tried to move or interact with the scene, as he had done in the Red World, but nothing happened.

  Unable to feel his body, he shrugged inwardly, accepting his role as an observer.

  More structures appeared around the tower, buildings of different shapes and sizes. Yet, they all had one thing in common. ‘Are these buildings small, or is this tower truly larger than the Colossal Trees? It must be the same White Tower as before, then,’ Zamian thought, his mind racing.

  He tried to find the bridge but saw only endless streets and rows of buildings.

  Then, like colored water spilling onto a blank canvas, the scene came to life. The buildings took on shades of brown, red, and yellow. They stood in open air—not under the protective canopy of tree roots. There were no trees in sight, not even grass. ‘Just like old cities from the books,’ Zamian thought.

  Suddenly, his point of view shifted, and he found himself atop the white tower. Looking upward, he saw a vast blue expanse filled with floating white shapes. ‘Clouds. Those must be clouds, right?’ he guessed, stunned. He remembered reading once that the world outside the Sanctuary had a blue sky, white clouds, and an enormous ball of light called the sun.

  But there was no glowing ball of light here.

  Frowning, Zamian tried to recall which book mentioned these things, but his thoughts were interrupted. A rush of movement drew his attention, and he noticed figures spilling onto the tower’s roof through countless doors that appeared on the smooth, clear floor. A cold breeze swept over him, making him shiver.

  The figures surrounded him—tens of thousands of them—and Zamian’s breath caught in his throat.

  ‘What in Verdant’s name are these things?’ he thought, wide-eyed. At first, he noticed their robes, pure white and flowing like the ceremonial garments of the Sanctuary. But then he saw the creatures themselves.

  Some were enormous, twice his size, with bulging muscles straining under their robes. Their faces resembled birds, wolves, lizards, and insects. Others looked closer to human but were made entirely of roots and vines, their faces twisting unnaturally with every step.

  The crowd’s mouths moved as they turned their attention to the center of the roof, speaking words Zamian couldn’t understand.

  His body tensed, and goosebumps prickled his skin as whispers drifted from behind him—a chorus of soft, eerie voices.

  “Greetings.”

  Looking toward the source of the whispers, Zamian saw what he immediately guessed was the ugliest monster in the gathering.

  Draped in the same white robe as the others, the creature had two arms, two legs, and one head—that was where its resemblance to anything familiar ended.

  Its legs were made of dozens of brown roots, each as thick as Zamian’s arm, writhing and intertwining with every step. Its arms had a leathery appearance, covered in shiny, tiny greenish scales. Instead of hands, it had six bony fingers ending in sharp claws, bare and exposed, as if flesh had never covered the white bone.

  But the true horror lay in its face.

  A grotesque collection of different insects formed its oval head, their bodies shifting and squirming. Small gaps between them revealed four glowing green eyes, while a gaping hole where its mouth should be emitted a faint, acrid stench. Zamian swore the air around the creature reeked of acid and rot.

  “Sit,” the creature said, its voice like the sound of a thousand insects whispering in unison—an unnatural impossibility.

  Distressed, Zamian watched as every cultivator around him obeyed, sitting cross-legged in perfect silence. For a fleeting moment, he hoped they were focused on the abomination standing behind him, but while their eyes briefly glanced at the creature, their gazes ultimately settled on him.

  Zamian blanched. His heart raced as he suddenly became aware of the sensations around him: the solid floor under his feet, the cold wind brushing against his skin, and the pungent odor from the insect-like monster.

  ‘I have a body here?!’ His eyes widened in panic as he looked down at his hands. Their shape and color were unmistakable. ‘My body?!’

  “Good disciple. Only through struggle can we learn,” the monster whispered, its eerie tone sending a shiver through Zamian’s spine.

  The floor beneath him trembled. Its smooth surface turned brown, roughening with the texture of bark. A moment later, it rose sharply, lifting Zamian and the grotesque creature on separate stumps that towered above the seated cultivators. Every pair of eyes was fixed on them with unnerving concentration.

  Before Zamian could process what was happening, the creature raised its right hand. Between its sharp claws appeared a green orb no larger than a fingernail, pulsing with a soft glow.

  ‘I don’t feel any essence from—’ Zamian’s thoughts were abruptly interrupted.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  That’s because the moment the orb materialized, a baby’s cry echoed in Zamian’s mind, filling him with a wave of despair. The feeling was overwhelming, as though the world itself was rejecting his existence, demanding he fight for the right to be born. His chest tightened, and he nearly succumbed to the crushing weight of the sensation when, abruptly, it stopped.

  A force surged within him—deep in his soul—blocking the orb’s glow.

  ‘The Astral Seal!’ Zamian thought, his body faltering for a moment. But before he could react, the stump he stood on shifted, merging seamlessly with the stump beneath the grotesque creature.

  More than noticing it, Zamian felt the creature’s gaze. Its four green eyes fixed on him. “Your soul is stronger than a Farmer’s should be, disciple,” it said without emotion behind its tone.

  With a deliberate motion, the vine-legged creature raised its claw and flicked the tiny green orb toward Zamian’s shoulder.

  The impact was immediate and brutal. The force hurled Zamian to the edge of the stump, where an invisible barrier stopped his fall with a jarring thud. A sharp, searing pain radiated from his left shoulder. He gasped, his eyes widening as he saw a glowing green, almost hole-like wound. Before he could comprehend it, the wound sealed itself, leaving a small green leaf sprouting from his skin.

  “ARGHHHHHH!” Zamian screamed, clutching his shoulder as the pain burned through him.

  He sensed the tiny green orb absorbing his essence, growing inch by inch inside his body.

  He wanted to keep screaming, but his voice failed him. His mouth hung open as he lay helpless on the ground.

  ‘My… esse… essen…’ His thoughts became sluggish, the pain far beyond anything he could comprehend. His mind wavered on the edge of unconsciousness, and his body felt drained of all strength. The orb, now larger than a fist, pressed relentlessly against his muscles and bones.

  His body turned rigid as the orb grew more and more. He heard loud noises of bones breaking, as his skin and muscles were torn, and the little leaf transformed into a sapling.

  Zamian’s essence had long been depleted, and now the orb feasted on his blood, muscles, bones—everything it could consume within him.

  ‘I… I can’t… no…’ Amidst his despair, he struggled to turn his eyes toward the creature that had hurled the orb.

  The vine-legged monster was watching him intently, its voice carrying a note of surprise.

  “Your body is weaker than a Farmer’s should be, disciple,” it said, its tone laced with amusement but entirely devoid of concern. It made no move to stop the technique.

  The others gathered there didn’t seem alarmed. Their expressions were curious, and attentive, as though they were studying a lesson. Some even mimicked the creature’s movements, murmuring softly among themselves.

  Noticing those people's reactions from below, the despair consuming his mind took a shift to another two emotions—disgust and anger.

  With bloodshot eyes, he gnashed his teeth in rage. ‘Bli-blighted mon-mon-monsters,’ he cursed inwardly.

  As the corners of his vision darkened, and he felt as if he was taking his last breath, the scene seemed to pause.

  The blue sky’s color paled, and everything was engulfed by a white light, before disappearing, solidifying into a familiar white crystal.

  Looking at the crystal in front of him, Zamain could clearly see one of its drawings fading away. Still shaken, he instinctively left his dark space, opening his eyes to the Cleric Chosen’s garden.

  He arched forward, supporting himself with trembling hands, and threw up. His stomach convulsed as he dry-heaved, tears streaming from his bloodshot eyes, and sweat pooling on his back.

  In a hoarse, broken voice, he muttered, "D-di-did my mortal cycle… end?"

  He needed to be sure he was safe.

  Still trembling, Zamian willed the White Dot to display his stats.

  STATS POINTS

  Body: 54/54

  Mind: 50/50

  Soul: 90/100

  Huffing, he stared at his stats points.

  And then he stood up, dazed, and muttered, “I felt my current cycle ending…”

  Glancing at the White Dot, he clenched his fists. “You!?” he flared up, his face twisting as he recalled the searing pain.

  He wanted to scream, to rip the White Dot from his vision and chew it before spitting it on the hideous monster’s face and ending that creature’s mortal cycle!

  Instead, Zamian punched the vine-covered wall. “Blighted thing!” he cursed, his voice trembling with fury. He kept punching, his fists striking the trembling wall over and over until blood dripped from his knuckles.

  The first dozen punches were swift, driven by rage. The next dozen slowed, his strength waning. After a few more strikes, he stopped. Collapsing to the ground, he sat, breathing heavily, trying to calm his storming thoughts.

  “I don’t have time,” he muttered, his cold gaze lifting to the white-leafed ceiling above him.

  His life was a mess. His mother was gone, his father was losing his sanity, and these last two days felt like the start of an unending curse. He kept making mistakes, and the number of questions piling up seemed taller than a Colossal Tree.

  But amidst the mess, there was a silver lining.

  Or better yet, his white lining—The White Dot had given him hope.

  Ever since the quest involving the Level 4 Calamity, Zamian had been certain the strange companion in his head was helping him—even if it demanded a price in return.

  But he had let his past experiences blind him.

  It was simply too easy to be mesmerized by the quest’s rewards. They all seemed to serve him perfectly, fulfilling his needs, and as rewards, he believed they were his right after completing a quest. He shouldn’t have to fight for them afterward.

  “I thought all your rewards would come like this. I’m a fool,” he muttered bitterly.

  Unnoticed by Zamian, white essence began to gather around him, invisible to his eyes. Inside the dark space of his soul, the white motes of light shone brighter than ever.

  Finally calming down, Zamian sat cross-legged, his gaze sharper.

  “No worries, White Dot,” he said, a smirk tugging at his lips. “I’ll figure out your blighted rules and learn how to turn whatever you throw at me into an advantage.”

  Closing his eyes, he willed himself into the dark space.

  ‘No time to rest, no time to dwell. Forget thirteen days—by tomorrow, some Chosen might show up at the garden and demand my head,’ he thought grimly. His focus shifted to the humanoid figure, zooming in on the white crystal above its head.

  ‘Only fifteen drawings now,’ Zamian noted. ‘Interacting with it was a mistake. When I received the technique, the text said to study it. I need to figure out how to do that.’

  He concentrated on the scribbled markings, trying to decipher their meaning. As his gaze lingered on one of the drawings, it suddenly shone with intense brightness.

  ‘Wh—!?’ Zamian’s instincts screamed, and he tried to leave the dark space, but it was too late.

  Once again, he saw the white tower and the sprawling city below. His perspective shifted abruptly, placing him atop the rooftop, where the crowd of cultivators was gathering once more.

  Zamian glanced around and began walking toward the crowd, hastily suppressing his surprise and anger. ‘It seems I’m always summoned to the same place. Is this even real?’

  Pretending to stay calm, he lowered his head and looked at his clothes and skin. ‘Same white robe as them, but on my pale, weak body. I look like a specter from a storybook,’ he jested inwardly, trying to steady himself as he observed his surroundings.

  None of the cultivators—human or monster—paid him any attention. ‘Last time, they only noticed me after that blighted creature spoke.’

  Zamian blended into the crowd, noticing only a few among them spoke. Yet, he couldn’t understand a word. Their voices were rough, their language entirely unknown to him. ‘But how could I understand that disgusting monster before?’ he wondered, frowning as he kept his head lowered and his gaze fixed on the open space in the middle.

  When the crowd had fully gathered, Zamian’s attention was drawn to a green leaf sprouting from the smooth, white floor. In less than two breaths, the leaf grew into a dozen twisting vines. Before he could fully grasp what was happening, the vines formed a humanoid torso. As green essence flowed through the form, two scaly arms took shape, followed by thousands of tiny insects clustering together to create a head—a hideous, all-too-familiar sight.

  A white robe materialized out of nowhere, draping over the creature as it spoke. Its voice was a collective symphony of countless tiny buzzing sounds, resonating as one.

  “Greetings.”

  Zamian felt his face twist in disgust and anger but quickly forced himself to adopt a neutral expression, serene and unreadable.

  “Sit,” the creature commanded.

  Without hesitation, Zamian sat down along with the rest of the crowd. So far, every action mirrored his last experience, but now, no one looked at him.

  Zamian smirked, ‘As I thought.’ Casting a quick glance at the White Dot, then at the crowd and the creature in the center, he nodded.

  None of them had any text above their heads!

  “Rejoice,” the monster buzzed. “Today, you learn.”

  The gathering remained silent, showing no reaction as the creature continued.

  “Lin Zhi shall teach you.”

  A few cultivators gasped in surprise, while others shook their heads in dismay. Zamian swore some of those gasps sounded fearful and mournful.

  “To learn, we must first struggle,” the creature began, its eerie voice echoed.

  ‘Is he going to choose me to fight against him, again? I sat down this time,’ he thought, narrowing his eyes.

  “But the first struggle is the most unfair one—our birth,” the monster continued, unmoving. “Without consciousness, much less self-awareness, most of you were born without being asked. You had no choice, yet you were forced to prove to the world you had the right to exist.”

  The speech caught Zamian off guard. ‘Why isn’t this monster fighting anyone ?’ he wondered, but his curiosity shifted to the swirling green essence forming around Lin Zhi.

  “After the first struggle, which is never the same for each of us, there are always more. We struggle to grow, to avoid decline, and even in death, we struggle. We must respect these aspects of the natural cycle, accept them—and, of course, struggle against them,” Lin Zhi continued, his voice steady and commanding.

  Midway through the speech, Zamian decided to focus. The green essence above the hideous teacher swirled and began forming vivid images: seeds sprouting into plants, roots breaking through rocks, trees spreading their seeds far and wide, consuming nutrients from nature to fuel endless growth. The scene didn’t just depict life—it showed a relentless struggle to overcome decline and death, to grow at any cost.

  ‘What is death?’ Zamian thought, his brow furrowing. He couldn’t fully grasp it, like a mental barrier, which didn’t let him associate death with anything he knew.

  Lin Zhi paused between phrases, giving the white-robed beings time to ponder. The crowd seemed deep in thought, their gazes fixed on the swirling essence.

  “Cultivation isn’t about power,” Lin Zhi said suddenly, the buzzing in his voice making Zamian’s ears ring. “Our cultivation—our path—is about proving to the world that we deserve to have been born and to keep growing.”

  The creature’s four green eyes glowed darkly as it surveyed the crowd. “So tell me, disciples,” it continued, its tone sharper, “What are your struggles to prove your right to avoid death?”