Chapter Seventy-Two: The Tower of Death

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(I’ve caught a cold these past few days, with a fever that got a bit scary. I’m feeling better today, so I’m writing a chapter. Let’s see if I can get the internet set up tomorrow. Word count is a bit short; hope you don’t mind.)

Westwind, one of the Four Sword Saints, is a renowned drunkard across the continent of Arad.

He usually lives near the Gate of Time and Space in the kingdom of Virtual, waiting for his beloved Alice.

Occasionally, he visits the tavern, indulging in a few drinks, savoring the wine from his gourd even in the midst of battle.

Xie Jing was in no rush; he slept soundly at Seria’s inn, and only the next day did he make his way to the tavern.

The proprietress was as enchanting as ever—graceful and elegant. She greeted Xie Jing warmly.

He ordered a glass of Elven Fragrance. Lifting his gaze, he spotted the man he was looking for at a table.

Dressed simply in plain cloth, the man sat alone, taking hearty swigs of a strong, clear liquid.

Xie Jing carried his drink over. Westwind nodded to him, showing none of the pride one might expect from a Sword Saint.

Of all the famous experts Xie Jing had met in Arad, he felt they were all quite agreeable, without a trace of celebrity arrogance.

“Westwind?”

“You’re here for me? What is it?”

He was direct, sparing no words.

Xie Jing raised his glass, clinking it with Westwind’s.

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“I’d like to understand what awakening truly means.”

“Awakening, huh?” Westwind smiled. A droplet of wine suddenly floated up from his cup and shot straight toward Xie Jing’s heart.

A burst of light erupted, blocking Westwind’s strike.

There was a sense of martial poetry in the moment. Xie Jing could feel an unparalleled, fierce sword aura from that droplet—something he could never have learned from GSD.

“Awakening means unleashing the body’s power completely, so that you can wield that strength with greater ease.”

Westwind took a sip from his drink and smiled. “Sounds simple, doesn’t it?”

“How exactly does one awaken?” Xie Jing was eager to know the specifics.

“Try your hand at the Tower of Death!” Westwind drained his glass in a single gulp, stood up, and swayed slightly.

“Only in a duel between masters, in the moment between life and death, can you grasp the secrets of awakening!”

He took the gourd from his waist and tossed it to the tavern’s proprietress.

“Fill it up; this young man will pay!”

Xie Jing paid no mind to Westwind’s freeloading, instead pondering his words.

In the game, he knew that the awakening quest required clearing the Tower of Death. He had thought it was just a game mechanic, but in this real world, he had to walk that same path.

Perhaps the Tower of Death was not as simple as he had imagined.

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Westwind laughed heartily as he strode out of the tavern. Before leaving, he turned back with a smile to look at Xie Jing.

In this young man, he sensed a formidable power—far stronger than even the curse of Kazan he once witnessed.

“I hope you succeed. If you wish to awaken, there’s no escaping that trial.”

Xie Jing sat in his chair, catching a whiff of fragrance.

The tavern proprietress, Sophia, approached him.

“The Tower of Death isn’t far from here. You can give it a try—everyone seeking awakening must face it.”

Xie Jing thanked her, rose, and walked out of the tavern as well.

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A land shrouded in mist lay ahead, where the silhouette of a towering spire pierced the clouds. Countless souls lingered around it, while the moonlight was smothered by sorrowful, oppressive clouds—a scene both bleak and mysterious.

This was the Tower of Death. The souls of warriors within had been imprisoned for countless years.