After leaving the edge of the crystal sphere, Skyl moved toward the nearest planet he could see. The distance between them was over a billion miles, and his speed, at best, was equivalent to an ordinary person's slow walk. Even if he moved forward without sleeping or resting, it would still take him two thousand and forty-one years to finish the journey.
That long road, enough to drive even a man of iron into despair, made Skyl prepare for death early on.
People were born to die. He had merely chosen to die on the road.
Skyl cast aside every last hesitation and paddled with all his strength, feeling the faint air current coming at him and keeping his breathing steady. The sweat seeping from his skin evaporated slowly, and he felt thirstier and thirstier, as though a hand made of sand had closed around his throat. The dry air kept stripping moisture away, making every breath feel like sandpaper scraping against his windpipe.
His lungs began secreting thick phlegm to protect his fragile alveoli. Skyl felt as if his chest had been packed with glue, making it even harder to breathe, but he did not dare cough, afraid of losing that mucus.
The vast, boundless darkness of deep space made a person want to weep again and again.
This was the journey of a speck of dust crossing an ocean.
Skyl gradually felt his strength giving out. He knew he needed to rest.
Turning back to look at the crystal sphere, he had already crossed more than a hundred miles. From where he was, he could now see the enormous magical runes on the inner shell of the sphere.
The runes were blurry and indistinct, as if viewed through thick frosted glass, but the particles of magical radiance they released were dazzling, like a colorful nebula.
"So beautiful." Skyl gazed at them for a while longer, letting his exhausted body and mind relax.
Then he put his clothes back on, curled up like a baby, and buried his face against his thighs to block out the bright starlight.
He fell asleep, his body drifting through space like a pebble, slowly spinning.
Everything around him was terribly quiet. A faint whisper sounded by Skyl's ear, guiding him down into sleep.
"High Tower King... we worship in devotion. May the light of your wisdom pierce the lost road and reveal the truth of all things..."
In a daze, Skyl found himself standing on a barren plain.
"Where is this?" he murmured.
"It seems... like a dream? Am I dreaming?"
The air of the dream world was cold as frost. Above him, brilliant stars moved mercilessly along eternal paths, explaining some supreme law of reason.
On the earth stood a column-shaped tower of white marble.
It pierced heaven and earth, stretching upward into endless heights. Bright silver radiance bloomed from the tower's peak, as though a distant, cold sun hung there.
The surface of the tower was covered with deep-blue doors. Their frames were carved with exquisite, magnificent decorations, making each glowing doorway look like a sapphire embedded in the wall. Countless illusory figures moved through the tower, and from far away came hundreds and thousands of voices praying in praise of the High Tower King, deep as fire, vast as the sea.
Skyl gazed at the tower, his mind drifting. He felt as if all that endless praise was calling to him, as if that tower was where he belonged, the place he had come from and the place he was going.
Only one decision remained in his heart: he had to reach that tower and find out what it truly was.
The white-sand road leading to the tower wound like a snake cast from silver. Along the way, extinguished candles stood everywhere, and only the one beside Skyl's foot was lit.
That candle gave off a crystalline, colorful radiance, illuminating one tiny stretch of road. Skyl moved forward, but the instant he left the range of that light, he woke from the dream.
He could not leave the light.
Skyl trembled all over. He took a deep breath and exhaled the frustration of failing in the dream.
He did not know how long he had slept. Time had no meaning here, so he might as well treat this as the second day.
Skyl felt the lining of his mouth beginning to crack and peel. He could not squeeze even a single drop of saliva from his mouth anymore, while the blood vessels beneath his skin seeped blood with a cold, metallic smell. He swallowed it all, and his starving, thirsty stomach felt a little better for it.
(Otherworldly Knowledge): You have heard of a state called cellular autophagy. When the little things that make up the body's organs cannot get energy, they begin destroying themselves. You can drink your own blood and eat your own flesh, but aside from satisfying the desire of hunger and thirst, doing so only wastes the energy your body has stored.
Skyl realized he was already on the verge of death.
A faint sorrow covered his heart.
A few tears seeped unconsciously from the corners of his eyes, and the glittering droplets formed perfect spheres in the weightless environment.
Skyl stared at those tears with disgust and frowned, then quickly opened his mouth and sucked that moisture back in.
The mixture of blood and tears slid down his esophagus, but before it even came close to his stomach, it was completely absorbed by the dry mucous membranes along the way.
He was too thirsty.
Perhaps there was no meaning in continuing to hold on. The sun remained impossibly distant, beyond reach.
Skyl moved his limbs slightly, untied his coat again, and turned it into a wind paddle, rowing left and right.
The more air the clothing caught, the more recoil it provided. Skyl gradually became skilled at the movement, like a veteran fisherman casting a net, able to fling the wide net-bag open across the sky in a splendid arc.
He gripped the corner of the garment and gently tossed it forward. The clothing naturally opened in the air, expanding loosely like an unfurled umbrella, then he slowly pulled it back toward himself. When it returned to his hand, it became a small bundle again. Then he threw it out, pulled it back, and repeated the movement.
But because of air resistance, Skyl could not keep accelerating. It was like riding a bicycle. Once speed picked up, the pedals no longer felt heavy, and there was no way to make the wheels spin faster.
The only way he could think of to accelerate was to wait for wind. With wind in his sails, he would surely be able to ride the current far away.
Skyl did not know what exactly he was hoping for. Even if he flew faster, that did not mean he would find food.
He simply paddled mechanically, again and again, until his strength was exhausted. His arms ached as if every muscle cell had been torn in half, and his lower back hurt terribly.
When Skyl discovered that his stiff fingers were as hard to bend as stone and he could no longer untie the knot, he let out a long sigh and threw the bundled clothing messily back over himself.
Once again, he curled up, trapped his arms in the bend of his knees, buried his face, and went to sleep.
The torment of his body tortured Skyl for a long time before finally fading little by little. Half asleep and half awake, he once again heard mysterious murmured prayers by his ear.
"High Tower King... we shall kindle the light within our skulls and illuminate the path to the Tower of Tomes..."
That trickling whisper drew Skyl down into the dream once more.
Although this was only his second time here, he already felt this place was extremely familiar. Skyl guessed that as long as he could reach the tower, an unexpected turning point would appear. Perhaps his hope of survival would come from this.
Then, just like reaching the sun, Skyl had to find a way to reach the tower.
He clearly remembered everything from the previous dream. He remembered how he had failed.
Only the road illuminated by candlelight could be walked.
Then the problem was very clear. Skyl had to find a way to light the candles along the road.
He crouched down to observe the lit candle. That little flame was as lustrous as white jade, and its outer glow released colorful motes of light, beautiful enough to shake the heart.
Skyl tried to pick up the candle, but it was fixed firmly to the ground, like a long nail cast from iron.
He had nothing on him that could start a fire. He tried taking off his clothes to use as fuel, but the moment they left his body, they turned into blue smoke and reattached themselves to his skin.
Could it be that he had to use his body as fuel?
He pulled out a strand of hair, but just like his clothing, the moment it left his body, it dissipated.
Skyl fell silent for a moment, then reached out and touched the flame with his finger.
The candleflame left a colorful burning mark on his skin, like a tattoo, but it did not char his flesh, nor did it ignite him.
The attempt to borrow fire had failed. He had to think another way.
Skyl still remembered the whisper he had heard before falling asleep: kindle the light within the skull and illuminate the path to the Tower of Tomes.
But he did not know what the light within the skull meant.
Taken literally, perhaps the light within the skull referred to the spark of wisdom. But where was that spark supposed to come from? From idle thinking? Or from the sudden insight brought by studying books and texts?
Skyl sat cross-legged on the ground and sank into hard thought.
(Otherworldly Knowledge): You plan to study, don't you? But your memory is like a hollow, with almost nothing left inside it. Let me recall something for you. You vaguely remember a language called English, one that once took you quite a long time to learn through bitter effort. Why not start with that? Then the first word is abandon...
Skyl shook his head speechlessly. That nonsense was completely useless.
As time passed, the light at the top of the tower gradually dimmed.
He had a premonition that once the tower went completely dark, the dream would end. The road to the tower's base lay silent and ancient, waiting quietly for him to light the candles along the way.
The light within the skull, how was he supposed to obtain it?
Skyl raised his head and looked at the bright stars in the sky.
Suddenly, he thought of the countless runes on the inner shell of the crystal sphere.
Those runes were so blurry that they should have been impossible to distinguish, yet for some reason, Skyl, while inside the dream, could clearly recall their shapes.
He pondered for a moment, then slowly copied one of the runes into the sand before him.
A complex geometric plane symbol appeared.
Skyl stared fixedly at the rune he had copied.
Then he felt a slight itch in his finger. When he raised it to look, he found that, at some point, a faint candleflame had lit at his fingertip.
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