Chapter 3: The Tower

Chapter 3: Chapter 3: The Tower

The ride home on the old, rattling district bus was slow, but for Rowan, every bump in the road was a miraculous reminder that his spine was whole. Sitting by the window, watching the city pass by, he breathed in the dusty air with quiet gratitude.

Above the driver’s cabin, an old, magic-fueled broadcast screen flickered to life. A bright crimson banner flashed across the top:

[ SPECIAL REPORT: TOWER OF ASCENSION UPDATE ]

The booming, excited voice of the news anchor blasted through the speakers, cutting through the low chatter of the commuters.

"—a historic day for the Human Empire! Earlier this morning, the front-line expedition led by the prestigious ’Aegis Guild’ officially cleared the 81st floor of the Ancient Tower! Floor Boss ’The Obsidian Leviathan’ has been slain!"

On the screen, magical footage recorded from the front lines played. Massive, armored Vanguard warriors, high-tier Fire and Lightning Mages casting apocalyptic spells, and agile Shadow-blade Archers synchronized seamlessly against a titan made of volcanic stone.

The bus passengers erupted into hushed gasps and excited murmurs.

"Eighty-one floors..." an older man sitting across from Rowan muttered, shaking his head in awe. "To think humanity has pushed so far. The Emperor will surely bestow grand titles upon the Guild Leader for this."

The broadcast transitioned to a sleek graphic showing a silhouette of the planet, encircled by a colossal, impossibly tall spire that seemed to stretch into the infinite blackness of space.

"For new awakeners tuning in today," the anchor’s tone turned solemn and grand, "we remember the sacred history. Three centuries ago, the Ancient Tower descended from the heavens, impaling itself directly into the heart of our world. Its impact reshaped our continents, unleashed the global mana flow, and gave birth to the Awakening System."

The graphic zoomed in on the empire’s vast capital city, which was built in concentric rings directly surrounding the colossal base of the stone spire.

"Today, our modern world stands upon the foundations built around this cosmic monolith. 100 floors of unknown danger, divine artifacts, and monster realms lie within. With only 19 floors remaining, the Empire draws one step closer to unlocking the ultimate secrets of creation!"

Rowan stared at the screen, his 15 Intelligence analyzing the news with sharp, silent focus.

While the rest of the world saw the Tower as a dungeon to conquer, a source of empire prestige, and a treasure trove for combat professions, Rowan felt a strange, subtle tug deep within his soul.

When the news showed a brief exterior shot of the 81st floor’s environment—a barren, decayed wasteland blighted by ancient corruption where nothing could naturally grow—his newly awakened class reacted instinctively.

The Gardener of Eden did not look at the Tower as a battleground.

To Rowan, that colossal cosmic spear impaled into the world looked like an unkempt, overgrown, and deeply wounded structure. And a gardener’s duty... was to restore balance where things had rotted.

The bus hissed to a halt, the pneumatic doors grinding open to reveal the dusty bitumen of the suburban terminus.

Rowan’s mother reached over, her hand warm and calloused as she shook his shoulder. "Rowan, wake up. We’re at the stop."

He opened his eyes, blinking away the lingering haze of the news broadcast. Outside, the grand brass-and-neon skyline of the Imperial Capital’s core had faded into rolling green hills, dotted with modest brick houses and winding dirt trails. Public transport didn’t extend past this final ring; from here, they were still a good two kilometers from their doorstep.

"Go on ahead, Mom," Rowan said, stepping off the bus platform and stretching his arms over his head. "I think I’ll take my time walking back today. Explore the path a bit."

His mother smiled faintly, adjusting the strap of her woven market bag. "Alright. Don’t wander off into the thickets for too long—I’m heading straight back to get lunch started."

With a gentle nod, she set off down the main gravel lane at a brisk, practiced pace.

Rowan lingered by the roadside, letting the quiet rustle of the countryside swallow the lingering echo of the news anchor’s voice. Leaving the beaten trail, he began weaving through the tall grass lining the forest edge, his eyes scanning the greenery with practiced focus.

The soil out here, so far from the dense ley-line conduits surrounding the base of the Ancient Tower, was quiet—but not entirely void of life. He leaned down near the roots of an ancient oak, plucking a cluster of small, pale blue blossoms whose petals shimmered with a faint, dew-like sheen.

Further down the slope, nestled beneath a thorny thicket, he spotted a bramble of wild sky-berries, their dark violet skins plump and heavy with sweet, faintly energetic juice. He carefully harvested a handful, placing them into a small canvas pouch at his belt.

It was a slow, peaceful walk back, every wildflower picked and berry gathered a quiet reminder of the world outside the Tower’s shadow.

Rowan paused, his eyes catching a flicker of delicate color tucked between a mossy granite boulder and the root system of a wild ash tree.

It was an orchid—a striking specimen with soft, alabaster petals that bled into a deep, vivid amethyst at the throat. Even in the low, ambient mana of the outer suburbs, the blossom held a subtle, pristine radiance, its gentle fragrance carrying a crisp, sweet scent.

Before stepping off the trail, Rowan paused and swept his gaze across the terrain. He checked the immediate perimeter, scanning for boundary markers, low wooden fencing, or the carved stone crests that the suburban landowners used to designate private property lines. The hill here sloped naturally toward the public forest reserve; no fences, no ward stones, no signs of cultivation. Satisfied that it was unowned wilderness, he crossed the high grass toward the boulder.

Dropping to one knee, Rowan reached into his belt pouch and pulled out a small, flat-bladed trowel. Rather than yanking the plant by its stem, he carefully began digging a wide circle into the damp topsoil, loosening the earth around its delicate root system. He worked with practiced precision, ensuring he didn’t disturb the primary taproot or strip away the surrounding rich soil.

With a gentle lift, he extracted the orchid intact, cradling the ball of dirt and roots in the palm of his hand. He wrapped the base carefully in a damp leaf to keep it hydrated for the rest of the walk back, admiring the vivid purple veins in the sunlight before storing it safely in his satchel.𝒻𝑟ℯℯ