The air was still. Not silent—still. The kind of stillness that existed before language. Ancient. Heavy. A stillness that didn't simply lack movement but swallowed it.
Lin Feng remained where he stood, eyes fixed on the massive, square-shaped tree that loomed before him. Its bark, if it could be called that, looked almost carved—like layers of smooth, black stone pressed into an organic form. The corners of the trunk were too clean, too precise, as if shaped by intention rather than nature.
The tree stretched upward beyond the reach of the torchlight, disappearing into black. From where he stood, it felt impossibly tall—like a column holding up some unseen sky.
Surrounding it, the chamber spread out in every direction. Lin Feng turned slowly, taking it in again.
It was enormous. A cathedral carved into the bones of the Earth. The floor beneath his feet was made of dull obsidian tiles, each one etched with ancient lines that pulsed faintly—faint enough to question whether they were glowing at all or if it was just his imagination. The walls—no, the cliffs—of the chamber curved far in the distance, as though the entire space was nestled inside a sphere of dark stone.
Along the inner walls, torches were mounted inside massive sconces. Their flames burned not red or orange, but cold blue, casting long shadows that stretched and moved, even when he didn't.
Above him, there was no ceiling—just layers of mist, almost like clouds hovering in a void. Occasionally, something flickered within the mist. Not light—movement. He couldn't be sure if it was a trick of the eye or something alive watching from above.
And through it all… was that presence.
That unspoken awareness that hummed in the space between each stone, each flicker of flame, each breath.
Then, it spoke again.
"You said… you were one of them. What does that mean, exactly?"
The voice was close and far at the same time. It echoed without echoing, like it bypassed his ears and went straight into the part of his brain that made language out of thought.
Lin Feng's lips parted.
"I meant… I'm human," he said slowly. "I meant I'm one of the humans."
"Then why," the voice asked gently, "did you not say I am human?"
"Why one of them?"
He hesitated. The question wasn't accusatory. It was neutral. Patient. But it felt as though the tree wasn't just asking him—it was examining him.
"I think… I was afraid," Lin Feng admitted.
The moment he said it, the words felt like a weight lifted. And yet, at the same time, the silence that followed grew heavier, like the room was holding its breath in response.
No reply. Not yet.
So he spoke again.
"If this isn't a dream… then what is it?"
"Where am I?"
"Why am I the only one?"
He took a step forward—not toward the tree, but along the circular pattern etched faintly into the stone around it. As he moved, the pulse beneath his feet grew just a little brighter. Almost like veins of light following his steps.
Still no answer.
The silence stretched so long, Lin Feng wondered if the voice was gone.
Then:
"You are in a tower."
The voice returned like a breeze through a dead forest.
"More precisely, you are within me."
He stopped walking.
"You?"
"This chamber. This form. I am called the Estera Root."
"You are at the heart of Floor One."
"A place many pass. But few see. Fewer are seen by."
Lin Feng's mouth went dry.
He turned slowly again, trying to see the whole chamber at once. But it was impossible. It was too vast. Too dark. Too full of corners that should not exist.
"Why me?"
"Coincidence," the voice answered.
"Or fate."
"Or neither. The mysteries of the tower are known to none."
"Not even me."
The voice didn't sound all-knowing. It sounded… tired. Old. Like it had existed long before Lin Feng was born, and expected to continue long after he was dust.
"So this tree… is part of the tower?"
"Yes."
"And this space?"
"Older than your kind's written language."
"Built not for function, but for reflection."
"Few find it. Fewer still are willing to speak within it."
He turned again to the tree.
It hadn't moved. Of course not. It was a tree. But the sensation that it was waiting… that had not changed.
"What happens in this place?" he asked. "What am I supposed to do?"
"What happens in the tower?"
A pause.
Then:
"The tower is many things," the voice said slowly.
"A labyrinth of power. A mirror of choice. A seed of transformation."
"Each floor teaches. Each mistake lingers."
"You are not here by accident. Nor are you here with purpose."
"You are… here."
Lin Feng's breath caught.
"And if I want to leave?"
The silence returned. This time, it was thoughtful. Not withholding—simply patient.
"Before I tell you how to leave," the voice said, "tell me who you are."
Lin Feng frowned.
"I already did."
"You gave me a name," it replied. "Not a life."
"Speak so I may know you."
He felt strangely exposed. Vulnerable.
"I'm… seventeen," he said eventually. "I live with my family. I have a younger sister. She draws monsters and dreams of magic."
"There's a girl at school. Li Mei. I don't know her. But I wish I did."
"I was jogging. That's what I do when I feel like I'm disappearing."
"It was quiet. Then the ground broke. Then… this."
The chamber said nothing. But the torches along the wall flared slightly. Not brighter—just sharper, like the room was holding on to his words.
"I didn't ask for this," he added.
"No one does," the voice said.
A long silence.
Then:
"And what do you want, Lin Feng?"
"Not what they expect of you. Not what they taught you to want."
"What does your soul reach for when no one's watching?"
He swallowed hard.
"I want… to know what I'm capable of."
"I want… to stop feeling invisible."
Another pause.
"And I want to matter."
For the first time, the tree made a sound—a faint creak, like wood expanding under heat. Or something shifting within.
The voice returned. Quieter. Closer.
"Then remember this."
"The tower does not give answers."
"It gives choices."
"Moments."
The torches dimmed slightly.
"You may leave now."
"The others are above. Waiting. Searching."
"You will see them."
"And you will understand… in time."