Time ticked by at a glacial pace, each second stretching into eternity as Wang Chen stared at the empty air before him. The silence of the Tower pressed in from every direction—thick, endless, and absolute.

He waited.

For his final reward.

Years of grinding, years of sweat, blood, and ghosts had led him here, and yet… somehow, it all felt too quiet.

Wang Chen's lips twitched, curling into a faint smirk that betrayed the storm brewing inside him. A single skill? After everything he'd gone through, the idea felt almost insulting.

A laugh, soft and bitter, escaped his throat.

"Is this too little?" he muttered under his breath, his voice echoing faintly through the vast, dim space. "Why don't you let me inherit the strength of the Avatar instead?"

His tone was half jest, half prayer—but his eyes burned with raw hunger. Twin flames reflected the void before him, sharp and unrelenting. If he could truly inherit the Avatar's strength—every shred of it—he could sweep the entire cultivation world within days. No sect, no empire, no deity would stand in his way.

He imagined it for a fleeting second: standing atop mountains of ruin, his name echoing across heaven and earth.

But the Tower gave no reply.

No hum. No flicker of light. Not even the faint vibration that usually followed a command.

It was as if the Tower itself had chosen to ignore him—like an ancient god turning its back on the pleas of an ant.

Wang Chen's expression darkened.

"Hmmm, how arrogant," he muttered, folding his arms and pouting slightly like a child denied candy. "A little Tower not even acknowledging your master's words. What kind of subordinate are you, huh?"

His complaint barely faded before the air in front of him began to distort. The void shivered. Then, with a sound like a distant chime, a golden wheel slowly emerged from the empty space.

It floated there—massive, radiant, rotating ever so slightly. The symbols carved along its rim pulsed like living veins of sunlight.

Each rotation seemed to twist reality itself. Ripples spread outward, bending light and sound. Within the wheel's luminous surface, faint scenes began to unfold—moments replayed from Wang Chen's journey inside the Tower.

There he was, slaying resentful ghosts. There, unlocking new skills. His triumphs and failures flickered by in rapid succession, painted in shimmering gold and shadow.

Wang Chen's breathing grew heavier as his gaze swept across the spinning circle, scanning every engraved name etched upon its surface. Each word glowed faintly, representing a skill he had earned through pain, persistence, and perhaps, a touch of madness.

Then his eyes caught it—Garden of Eternity.

His heart skipped a beat. His pupils shrank.

"Please… let it be this one," he whispered, his voice barely audible. His hands clasped together instinctively, his posture almost reverent. If anyone were watching, they'd have mistaken him for a devout monk praying to his god.

The wheel spun on, the hum deepening, a rhythm like the beating of a celestial heart. The needle shimmered, darting from name to name—Blessing of Gaia!

Guardian Treant Summoning!

Wild Harmony!

Each title that flashed past made Wang Chen's heart pound harder. His breathing grew ragged. His chest rose and fell with nervous anticipation.

When the needle edged closer—closer—to Garden of Eternity, his eyes lit up like twin suns.

And then—The wheel slowed.

The sound of grinding metal and whispering wind filled the vast, empty space as the needle trembled, gliding past one skill after another.

"Stop right here…" Wang Chen murmured, voice tense, almost desperate. "Please! I want this skill so bad!"

His entire body leaned forward involuntarily, as if sheer willpower could bend the Tower's mechanism to his favor.

Ring! Ring!

The sound was deep and metallic, echoing endlessly through the Tower's void.

As the massive golden wheel turned, reality itself seemed to shiver—as though the universe was being rewritten by invisible hands.

Wang Chen's gaze never left the needle. It hovered dangerously close to the Garden of Eternity, trembling with each slow rotation. The light from the wheel flickered across his face, washing him in alternating hues of gold and shadow.

And yet—

it didn't stop.

His expression began to darken.

Every revolution was agony, every second stretched unbearably thin. His breath caught in his throat. He didn't even dare exhale, as if holding his breath might somehow change fate's mind.

But the Tower, as always, was merciless.

The wheel continued to turn, inching past the skill he desired most.

Wang Chen's heart sank. "No, no, no… it can't be," he muttered, his voice trembling. Then, louder, he shouted, "Tower! I want this skill—no matter what!"

His composure shattered completely. Gone was the calm, ancient cultivator who had braved centuries of trials. In his place was a man throwing an undignified tantrum in the middle of a divine space.

He stomped his foot, his fists clenching and unclenching. The energy around him rippled with each frustrated motion.

After all, hadn't he earned it?

Decades of suffering under that vexing, infuriating woman—each day spent walking the razor's edge between insanity and survival. Surely the Tower could show him a shred of mercy after that ordeal.

But deep down, a cold, resigned truth sat heavy in his chest.

This wasn't the first time.

Every time he'd begged, every time he'd reached out for the one thing he truly wanted, the Tower had turned its blind, mechanical gaze elsewhere.

Still, he refused to give up hope.

Even if it was foolish, he clung to it like a starving man clutching crumbs.

He squeezed his eyes shut and muttered, half-prayer, half-plea. "Just this once… please, let me have it."

A few moments passed.

Then curiosity got the better of him.

Wang Chen cracked one eye open—just slightly—to peek at the wheel.

And froze.

The needle had already moved on.

His mind went blank, his expression collapsing into deadpan disbelief.

All that emotional drama, all that performance—it had been utterly pointless.

The wheel hadn't even paused for him.

"...Fuck you, Tower," he cursed silently, his face remaining outwardly calm and unmoved, though internally he was screaming loud enough to shake the heavens.

Just as despair started to settle, a strange sound filled the air.

Clank!

The wheel lurched.

It came to an abrupt, violent stop.

The golden light flared, momentarily blinding him, and when it dimmed—he saw it.

The needle had stopped exactly between two skills.

Balanced on the razor's edge of fate.

Half inside the border of the Garden of Eternity.

For a heartbeat, he couldn't even breathe. His mind couldn't process what had just happened.

But before he could react—

the world dissolved.

The Tower's light folded inward, and his consciousness was ripped away like mist in the wind.

When the world stabilized again, Wang Chen found himself back in the meditation hall—seated cross-legged on the cold stone floor, the faint scent of incense lingering in the air. The soft glow of dawn spilled through the open window, illuminating the faint golden mark still flickering on the back of his hand.

For a moment, he simply sat there in silence, blinking at the tranquil space around him.

And then, in a dry, exhausted tone, he muttered to no one in particular—

"...If that wheel gave me 'Harvest Blessing' instead, I'm burning this entire Tower to the ground."

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