"Huff… huff…"

Wang Chen gasped for air, his breath hurried and uneven like a man who had been running for his life. Sweat dripped from his forehead, trailing down his jaw before splattering onto the dusty rock beneath him.

Right now, he was curled into a narrow crack in the earth—barely wide enough to fit a human body. The sharp stone pressed into his ribs with every breath. It wasn't a hiding spot for the sane; it was the kind of suffocating crevice desperate men sought when death was inches behind them.

The stench of grime and burnt ashes lingered in the air. Every few seconds, a faint tremor rippled through the ground as if the world itself was shuddering.

He didn't dare move. Hell! He didn't even dare breathe too loudly.

Minutes crawled by in silence.

Only when five whole minutes had passed without sound did Wang Chen finally let his body relax. He exhaled softly, his heartbeat slowing from a wild gallop to a tense rhythm. Then, carefully, he shifted just enough to peek through a hairline gap in the cracked rock.

The world outside was shrouded in gray.

Thick miasma drifted across the ruined landscape, twisting and churning like living smoke. The air reeked of death, the faint whispers of resentful souls blending with the howling wind. Every gust carried a chill so deep it gnawed at the bones.

There was no sign of the ghosts that had been pursuing him.

Just emptiness.

He waited another moment, his sharp eyes scanning the fog. When nothing moved, Wang Chen finally exhaled in relief. The tension left his shoulders, though his expression remained grim.

Then—crack!

He punched the cave wall in frustration, his fist connecting with hardened stone. The impact sent a jolt of pain racing up his arm.

"Damn it!" he hissed, shaking his hand, the skin on his knuckles already turning red. "How can I awaken as a Gardener class in a place where there's not even a single tree in existence?"

The irony was cruel enough to make him laugh, but no sound escaped his lips. He simply sat there, back pressed to the cold stone, his breathing heavy once again.

After a long silence, he ran a hand through his hair and forced himself to calm down. "No use complaining… think."

It took him five more minutes of silent contemplation before the pieces began to fall into place.

Chronoblade didn't fail—it was me.

He clenched his jaw. His mana reserves were pitiful. Not just low—nonexistent.

"One point of mana…" he muttered bitterly, glancing at his faintly glowing status screen. "That's as good as nothing."

If his mana was a lake, it was little more than a single drop of dew. No wonder his skill hadn't activated—it was like trying to light a bonfire with a spark that didn't exist.

Realizing this, he forced himself to shift his priorities. Repairing the Thousand Souls Flag could wait. Without power, without levels, he would die long before he got the chance to even touch that artifact again.

"Hmmm…" he muttered, rubbing his chin. "I need to reach Level 10 as fast as possible. Only then will I have enough strength to capture these ghosts properly."

The faint echo of his voice vanished into the gloom.

…

Time slipped by unnoticed in this cursed realm.

Days turned into weeks.

Every fight was a slow, grinding nightmare. Finding a single weak resentment ghost that he could safely kill without drawing the attention of stronger ones took days of patient stalking.

Most of the time, Wang Chen could only observe from afar—watching spectral entities tear each other apart in silent wars of hatred. A single misstep would have seen him consumed, his soul shredded and devoured.

To him, the first floor of the Tower was no longer a mere trial. It was purgatory.

Yet he endured.

Each victory brought him a fraction stronger. Each defeat—survived by the skin of his teeth—taught him something new. His patience became his weapon; his caution, his shield.

Even so, progress was agonizingly slow. He had to pick his prey carefully—those whose resentment flames flickered weakly, those isolated from their kin, those who would die quietly without drawing attention.

Ten days for a single safe target. Sometimes more.

Still, Wang Chen didn't complain. He had long abandoned the impatience of mortals.

If it took years to achieve his goal, then so be it.

He wasn't here to break records or chase glory—he was here to accumulate. Every drop of progress mattered.

…

Some might have called him foolish. Why cling to such a weak start? Why not simply die and begin again with a better class?

He had thought about it, of course. He had thought about it many times—each time he found himself cornered by stronger entities or nearly devoured by resentful wraiths.

But the Tower of Infinite Enlightenment wasn't a game.

Every entry into the Tower consumed a fragment of his soul essence, although there was no clear evidence of this but Wang Chen knew it in his heart.

If that ever ran out—if his soul might wither away completely—there would be no rebirth, no retries, no next run. Only eternal oblivion.

This was also one of the reasons why he wasn't able to access the tower in the past, it was only when his soul was strong enough that he could finally begin speedrunning.

That's why, no matter how pathetic his Gardener class seemed… he would squeeze every last drop of value from it.

Even in barren soil, a patient gardener could still plant seeds—and one day, those seeds would grow strong enough to tear through stone.

Wang Chen closed his eyes, feeling the faint, stubborn pulse of life still beating in his soul.

"Fine," he murmured with a bitter smile. "If fate made me a gardener, then I'll cultivate this world itself."

The miasma outside howled again, as if mocking his words. But Wang Chen didn't flinchm, but his face showed no emotion, no one could shake his determination to grow stronger, to grind levels, to live forever.

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