Chapter 164: Endless Movement

Outside the small tower, aside from the carriage Charles had arrived in, there were no other traces. Twilight and mist dyed the carriage body a deeper shade of gray.

Charles stepped down from the carriage. His weight caused it to tilt slightly, the vintage vehicle emitting a faint creak. As Charles's feet touched the ground, the carriage righted itself—like a roly-poly toy bouncing back upright.

Charles adjusted the robe he wore. The garment resembled Middle Eastern traditional clothing, yet was different. The robe's material was incredibly smooth—touching it felt like running your palm through gently flowing water, soft with a barely perceptible coolness. Embroidery adorned the cuffs and collar, but looking closely, the embroidered patterns weren't static—they constantly shifted, even their size continuously changing.

This was from Xavier—supposedly a robe created in the Main World, made from some unheard-of material that automatically regulated body temperature. For precisely this reason, in the Main World's unpredictable climate, such robes were highly popular—nearly every trial participant owned one.

"Charles, this is your only shot at survival. I'll wait for you at Xavier's. If after twenty days..." Logan's voice drifted from inside the carriage.

Charles turned back, meeting Logan's gaze through the carriage's side window.

Logan didn't need to finish that sentence. Everyone knew the rest—if he didn't emerge after twenty days, it meant Charles was dead.

"Don't worry. I'll make it out." He turned his head, his fingers brushing the voice recorder in his pocket. The cool touch sharpened his mind.

Charles raised his eyes to the small tower before him. A thin layer of dust had settled on the wooden lattice windows above. The pitch-black windows revealed nothing useful. Not far away, garden lamps swayed in the wind. The sole light source flickered on and off, casting wavering shadows on the ground—as if heralding the approaching danger.

The tower's door stood slightly ajar. A copper bell hung from the lintel, rust-spotted, swaying gently in the evening breeze, yet making no sound—the clapper seemed stuck on something.

Charles took a deep breath and walked into the tower with slow, steady steps.

The moment he stepped inside, torches hanging on the stone walls ignited without warning. Starting from where he stood, the lighting torches formed a dragon's trail, winding upward along the spiraling stone walls. Charles's gaze followed the trail of fire, stopping at the corner above the stone steps where a curved wall blocked his view from going further.

He climbed the stairs slowly.

Moss grew on both sides of the stone walls—dark green moss like premium carpeting spread across the rough stone surface. After a few steps, gradually approaching the first torch, the shortened distance allowed Charles to clearly hear the sound of flames burning. Sparks occasionally leapt from the torch's flame tip, landing on the damp moss below, where they instantly died, leaving only small scorched marks as evidence of their brief existence.

Charles reached the halfway point and slowed his pace. His fingers touched the stone wall beside him—at first cold, then oddly warm, as if the icy, hard stone wall was merely some creature's shell, hiding a behemoth beneath.

The thought flashed through his mind only briefly.

The torches behind him flickered, threatening to go out—probably urging Charles to move faster upward. Charles had no desire to climb in darkness, so he continued upward.

The stone steps seemed endless.

Charles had lost track of how long he'd been climbing. He kept ascending, yet somehow never reached the stairs' end. Even the scenery before him remained completely unchanged. The same curved stone wall. Climb a bit higher—the same curved stone wall again.

The air inside the tower felt frozen. Even the sound of burning torches beside his ears became monotonous and repetitive. Combined with the unchanging steps and walls, it gradually created the illusion of being trapped in a loop.

Charles braced his hand against the wall beside him, sighing as he rubbed his brow. He seemed exhausted. The hand braced against the wall pushed slightly harder, allowing him to take another step forward.

But this time, Charles didn't continue. After just a few steps, he stopped—the air around him seemed to carry a faint, elusive fragrance.

The moss smell that had filled his nostrils was instantly diluted by this new scent. There was no wind inside the tower, yet the fragrance seemed to drift on an invisible breeze, flowing slowly along the stairs' curve. Initially faint as tea, it quickly intensified like an opened honey jar, sweetness surging suddenly.

The intense smell allowed Charles to immediately identify its components—a mixture of dried roses and lavender, so concentrated it made his head throb.

Charles shook his head, but couldn't shake off the cloying scent. His palm pressed against the nearby stone wall. The cold moss left a wet mark under his palm, the slippery texture spreading between his fingers, instantly clearing his mind somewhat.

Charles withdrew his hand, fingers rubbing together. His palm still retained the moss's damp coolness and fine particles from the stone wall. Even the cloying scent in the air seemed to fade somewhat.

The torches behind him began flickering again, seemingly trying the same trick to make Charles continue climbing.

However, Charles didn't move forward. Instead, he turned around and walked toward the flickering torch.

Strangely, as Charles approached, the flickering torch instantly stopped moving, as if the previous movement had been just his imagination.

Charles stopped beneath the torch, his gaze lingering on the dancing flame core for a moment—the core burned steadily, without even the slightest flicker.

He withdrew his gaze and was about to continue when his eyes were drawn to a mark below the torch.

There was a scratch in the shape of an 'F'. The scratch was deep, with several shallower scratches around it. Someone had clearly carved this deliberately, and in their panic, had left scratches around it that weren't part of the 'F'.

His fingertip traced the 'F'. The letter's edges were rough from excessive force, the coarse texture making Charles raise an eyebrow slightly. He withdrew his hand and glanced at his fingertip—it was dusted with grayish-white lime.

Seeing the lime, Charles raised an eyebrow slightly and bent down for another look. Sure enough, in the groove of the 'F', he saw a bit of grayish-white that hadn't fully oxidized yet.