The morning didn't come gently.
A loud knock echoed through the wooden walls like thunder. Then another. Then—
BOOM.
The front door swung open with a crash. Wei Ran shot up from his bed, heartbeat roaring in his ears. His breath came fast, vision still fogged by sleep. He barely had time to register the cold air before voices—sharp, firm, unfamiliar—cut through the hallway.
"This is an official summons. Do not interfere."
Feet pounded on wood. His mother cried out. His father shouted something muffled. Another thud, then silence.
Wei Ran stumbled barefoot down the hallway.
The hallway stretched longer than usual, each step dragging as if the air itself resisted his movement. Cold wind rushed in from the open door, carrying dust and tension. Every instinct screamed to move faster, but his legs felt like stone.
As he neared the threshold, the light from outside burned his eyes—and the sound of his sister's voice, soft and strained, stopped him cold.
Standing in the front yard, were men in black and silver armor. Three of them. One was reading from a jade scroll.
The words were calm.
Precise.
Cold.
Wei Ran froze.
"By decree of the Sovereign Tower, and under the will of the Sovereign himself, the child Wei Yilin, seventeen years of age, rootless-born—has shown compatibility with the Dao of Life. She is to be escorted for service and cultivation to Floor 22. Resistance is forbidden. Compliance is mandatory."
Yilin stood between two guards, hands at her sides, lips pressed tight. She wasn't crying—but her eyes were wide, and wet, and locked onto him.
"No—!" he shouted, stumbling forward. "She's just a kid!"
A metal gauntlet slammed into his gut.
Wei Ran crumpled instantly, air ripped from his lungs. Pain spread like fire through his ribs. Blood touched his lip. The dirt met his cheek.
"Know your place," the guard said. "Rootless."
The word hit harder than the strike.
That word echoed in his head.
Rootless.
Wei Ran gritted his teeth, the taste of blood sharp on his tongue. His vision blurred—not just from pain, but from fury. From helplessness.
He had sworn… she wouldn't be taken.
Wei Ran's parents rushed to him. His mother, weeping openly now, cupped his face with trembling fingers. His father held his shoulders, silent and stiff.
Yilin struggled. "Let me go! Please—let me say goodbye!"
The guards didn't move.
One of them—the older one, the one with the scroll—stepped forward. His voice was lower now. Not cruel, but hollow. Like someone who had done this a hundred times.
"If it offers comfort… she's been chosen for the Dao of Life. Not the martial halls. She will be trained. Cared for. In time, she may even forget this."
He paused, then added:
"But only those who cultivate may ascend beyond Floor Nine. You are rootless. Without strength. Without a path. You will not see her again."
The words fell like chains around Wei Ran's chest.
The wheels of the carriage began to turn.
The guard stepped back. His part was done. The other men moved like clockwork, emotionless, practiced.
And Yilin… turned.
Her eyes searched for him.
"Gege—!"
And the sky above the village, once blue and open, felt smaller. Like the Tower itself was watching.
The Sovereign Tower.
That was the name of this world.
The Tower floated in the void like a forgotten god's spine—adrift in the cosmos among countless other realms. Yet of all the known worlds, the Sovereign Tower was said to be the most unforgiving.
Not just a tower, but a world unto itself. A vertical realm carved into eighty-one vast floors—each as wide as a nation. And all of them shared the same endless sky. From Floor One to Floor Eighty-One, the sun rose and fell the same. The stars wheeled overhead in patterns untouched by height. Rain came. Seasons passed. Oceans stirred. Forests bloomed.
But the higher one climbed, the less human the world became. The air grew thick with Qi. Gravity deepened. The laws of the weak no longer applied.
And above it all, unseen but always present… was the will of the Sovereign.
A tower not built, but grown. Forged from will, sacrifice, and generations of power. Some said it rose from the bones of ancient beasts. Others believed it descended from the heavens.
But all agreed: the Tower did not forgive weakness.
Nine great layers.
A colossal spire that pierced the sky—each floor ruled not by kings, but by cultivators.
The lower ones were calm. Quiet. Meant for servants, workers, peasants—the rootless, those born without legacy or strength.
Above Floor Nine, everything changed.
Only those with awakened Dantians could even breathe. Qi surged like tides. A single misstep could kill.
To climb was to evolve. To serve was to vanish.
The Sovereign himself—ruler of all—was said to dwell on the Eighty-First Floor, unseen and eternal. His will moved the Tower. His decrees shaped every life inside it.
And Wei Ran… had no place in it.
Not yet.
Dust kicked up around the wooden wheels. The horses stepped slowly, deliberately.
He pushed himself upright, arm trembling, blood still at his lip. His vision swam, but he could still see her.
Still hear her.
Still remember what she'd asked him, that night.
"Do you think… if the Tower chooses me… will I be able to come back someday?"
"…If they take you. I'll bring you back."
But now?
He hadn't stopped it.
He was too slow. Too weak. Too ordinary.
His hand clenched into a fist against the earth.
He hit the ground. Once. Twice.
Not in anger.
But to stay awake.
To remind himself this wasn't a dream.
The carriage vanished beyond the tree line.
The road grew silent.
And still Wei Ran knelt there, fists pressed into the dirt.
His chest rose and fell, slowly now.
His mother stood behind him, her tears spent. His father placed a hand on his shoulder—firm, wordless.
But Wei Ran didn't look up.
Didn't speak.
Didn't cry.
Not now.
He just stared at the road.
And promised, again—this time to the sky.
"I'll bring you back."