Free Web NovelPavela still remembered the scene when she first stepped into that Grey Wasteland.
At that time, she didn't know where this place was.
She didn't know what that Black Tower, eternally collapsing and eternally rebuilding, meant.
She didn't know why the ground beneath her feet, which felt like solidified ash, would ripple when stepped upon.
She didn't know why those translucent shadows wandering in the mist would look at her with such eyes.
Expectation.
Longing.
Pleading.
She knew nothing.
But there was one sentence the Gatekeeper said that she still remembered clearly even now.
Because at the time, she thought the sentence was absurd.
"You are the master here."
Master.
Her?
A piece of cannon fodder who crawled out of the Punishment Camp? Someone whose very name was borrowed?
The master of this grand, magnificent land and high tower?
Absurd.
But Pavela didn't think too deeply about it then.
Because there were more pressing matters to handle.
Like not being fooled by the Gatekeeper.
Like getting out alive.
But those words were like a small thorn, pricking into a corner of her consciousness.
It didn't hurt.
It just itched occasionally.
Later, she had actually entered several more times.
Each time, she would notice some details.
For example, when she felt angry, the ash beneath her feet would tremble.
For example, when she felt fear, the distant Black Tower would emit more violent cracking sounds.
For example, when she ran in the Mental Space, the ground would automatically become firmer under her feet.
For example, when she wanted to see a certain soul in the distance clearly, the mist would clear a path on its own.
It was very faint, but it was indeed happening.
This space itself would respond to her.
But this response was passive and blurred.
Like touching something through a thick layer of frosted glass.
She knew the thing was there.
Her fingertips could even feel its temperature.
But she just couldn't grasp it.
Pavela tried many times.
She tried to use her will to command the ground to rise.
No reaction.
She tried to imagine the sky turning blue.
The lead-grey sky remained motionless.
She tried giving commands to those wandering souls—stop, sit, be quiet.
After a moment of panic, the souls continued to wander.
She even tried standing in the middle of the wasteland, closing her eyes, taking a deep breath, and using all her mental strength to push this space.
Like pushing a wall.
The result was—nothing happened.
Well, except for her own splitting headache.
The Gatekeeper was watching from the side at the time.
That void existence, constantly collapsing and reassembling, floated in mid-air.
It had no face, but Pavela could feel it was smiling.
It was very punchable.
She knew then that the Gatekeeper was hiding something.
That fellow said she was the master, but never told her how to use ✧ NоvеIight ✧ (Original source) the master's authority.
It was like giving you a key but not telling you where the lock was.
And then standing by to watch you poke the wall with the key.
But Pavela didn't press the matter then.
Because she knew very well that every piece of information the Gatekeeper gave had a purpose.
The more she asked, the deeper she would be led.
So she chose to figure it out on her own.
She explored for a long time.
Failed many times.
Gained nothing.
Until later.
In the Mental Space of the Path of the Magician.
That golden space filled with geometric shapes.
She pinned the Gatekeeper to the ground and gave it a beating.
Well, actually more than one beating.
It was all because He was a humanoid figure made of spliced geometric shapes there.
With sharp edges and clear lines, every surface reflecting golden light.
It looked very elegant, with a sense of order.
Very suitable for being smashed.
So, Pavela smashed Him three times.
Each time He would piece Himself back together.
Each time He pieced Himself back together, He became more cooperative.
That was the advantage of the Path of the Magician.
Calm, rational, and logically consistent.
Especially useful during interrogation.
She pried many things out of the Gatekeeper's mouth.
About the operating laws of the Mental Space.
About the secret connections within the return.
About techniques for sequence advancement.
But the most crucial piece of information was about the nature of the Mental Space itself.
This Mental Space was not just her Mental Space.
It was the shadow cast by the return itself upon her soul.
When sunlight shines on the ground, a shadow appears on the ground.
The shape of the shadow depends on the object being illuminated.
But the shadow itself belongs to the light.
This Grey Wasteland, this Black Tower, this lead-grey sky.
They were not just Pavela's mental world.
They were also the world of the Path of the Tower. ƒreewebɳovel.com
They were the roots planted, the branches grown, and the fruit borne by the power of the return deep within her consciousness.
She was indeed the master here.
But she was not the builder of the house.
She lived in a house built by someone else.
To change the position of the walls, she had to follow the building's structural logic.
To rearrange the rooms, she had to understand where the load-bearing walls were.
The Path of the Tower had its own rules.
Destruction.
Then rebirth.
Both were two sides of the same action.
Like exhaling and inhaling.
Like the rising and falling of the tide.
Like the contraction and relaxation of the heart.
Pavela didn't quite understand at first; she had only ever seen the first half.
Destruction, shattering, collapsing.
So she could only passively endure this power, or become its tool when it went out of control.
Until she came here, until she saw the Winter Palace.
The Paranov Guard Knights.
They used the power of the Path of the Tower to transform the first floor of the Black Tower from collapsed bricks and stones into a palace.
Not through destruction, but through rebirth.
They re-condensed the collapsed bricks and stones, giving them a new form.
They re-wove the disintegrating space, growing new structures over the cracks.
Destruction is the soil.
Rebirth is the seed.
They built the Winter Palace upon the ruins.
...
Pavela closed her eyes, raising her arm, feeling the scent in the wind.
Boria stood behind her.
Eleven knights formed a semi-circle.
They looked at Pavela's back.
Looking at that white court dress covered in mud spots.
Looking at that long silver hair fluttering in the gunpowder smoke.
The dark red at the tips of her hair was growing deeper.
As if it were being stained bit by bit from the roots by something.
"Your Highness..."
Boria's voice was very soft.
"What do you plan to do?"
Pavela didn't look back.
She felt it.
The earth beneath her feet, the distant horizon, the lead-grey sky overhead, the gunpowder smoke in the air, the blood in the mud.
The trajectory of every bullet.
The echo of every cannon blast.
The location of every soul.
Every inch of this space, every grain of dust, every wisp of wind.
All were within her perception.
She was the master of this space.
She carried this land.
Carried these souls, carried this eternal war.
Carried all the pain, all the fear, all the despair.
Pavela opened her eyes.
The color of her pupils had changed.
The pale grey-blue irises were fading.
Like frost on ice being melted by some internal heat.
Replaced by a deep, rich crimson.
But unlike the frantic scarlet from when she lost control before.
This was a calm red.
Like the horizon at the last moment before dawn.
Like the core of a steel billet forged thousands of times in a blacksmith's furnace.
Like the deepest, quietest, hottest layer of charcoal in a winter fireplace.
Her hair was also changing.
The silver began to fade from the roots.
Dark red climbed up along every strand of hair.
This time, it was not erosion and pollution.
This was her own color.
Boria saw it, and his breath hitched for a moment.
Then, this Third Seat of the Paranov Guard Knights knelt on one knee, his iron helmet lowered, and his fist struck his chest.
The eleven knights behind him knelt simultaneously.
No one spoke.
Nor did anyone need to speak.
Because they recognized this color.
She looked up and took a deep breath.
Her chest expanded, her ribs spread, and air flooded into her lungs.
Cold, foul air smelling of gunpowder.
She spoke.
"I say—"
"The war will stop at this moment."
