Silas lay motionless, his eyes closed against the weight of the darkness around him. The stillness of the room was absolute, save for the faint hum of his shallow breathing. He wasn't certain it was night, but the silence and absence of his mother's presence suggested it. The pain, sharp and unrelenting, surged through him like a relentless tide. It was a cruel constant, a twisted reminder that he was alive, even as his body lay unmoving.
At least I feel something, he thought, bitterness curling at the edges of his mind. The pain was a perverse kind of solace, a cruel tether to the shell of his existence. He wished it were music time—the moments when his mother played something soothing, filling the air with sounds that dulled the sharp edges of his reality. But there was only silence now, the kind that pressed down on him like a smothering weight. It had to be night, he assumed. His mother, Alice, was likely giving him space to sleep, or at least to try.
And then it came.
The sound was subtle at first, a faint hum reverberating in his awareness. Then came a voice, clinical and detached, neither loud nor soft, as if it bypassed his ears and etched itself directly into his consciousness.
"Greetings, humanity. You may have noticed that technology has failed across the globe."
Silas's brow didn't move—couldn't move—but his thoughts stirred. Technology? Failed? He knew nothing of it. His world was confined to this bed, this room, this unyielding existence of stillness. Planes crashing, cars stalling, guns failing—it might as well have been another reality. The voice pressed on, its tone unfeeling, indifferent to the chaos it described.
"This failure marks the arrival of spiritual energy at a critical threshold. Your world will awaken, and cultivation will now be possible."
Cultivation. The word settled into his mind like a heavy stone, unfamiliar and yet full of unspoken meaning. The voice, cold and deliberate, continued without pause.
"In three hours, all those classified as minors will be automatically transported to one of the twelve main Pagoda Towers."
Transported? He could barely comprehend the term. His body was rooted, immovable, bound by its brokenness. How could transportation even apply to someone like him? But the voice pressed on, relentless.
"For those who are not transported, you will be given two options:
"Option one: You may enter a Pagoda, where you will be introduced to cultivation and provided the opportunity to ascend its seven floors.
"Option two: For individuals with injuries or debilitating physical conditions—regardless of severity—you will have the option to be healed completely, but you will be unable to enter the main pagoda and will face the awakened world"
Silas's chest tightened. Healed. The word struck him like a thunderbolt, reverberating through his thoughts. Could it be true? Could it mean him? Could it mean freedom? Life? He'd face an awakened world? He face anything if it meant his body was whole again.
But the voice wasn't finished.
"Those who do not choose to enter a Pagoda will face the Awakening. Good luck."
And just like that, the voice disappeared. The silence that followed felt heavier, denser, as though the air itself had thickened. Yet, there was something else—an energy, faint but palpable, humming through the room like a distant vibration. The words echoed in his mind, impossible to dismiss. Cultivation, healing, Awakening.
Healing.
The possibility seemed both cruel and beautiful. To imagine a life without the prison of his body was almost too much. But the cost—the thought of enduring this mysterious Awakening—was a shadow that loomed over the fragile hope taking root in his mind.
The pain in his limbs flared again, familiar and sharp, as if reminding him of the years he had endured. This shell of a body might find relief, freedom, through this chance. But was the price one he could bear? Could he, in his broken state, survive a world unraveling and reforming into something entirely unknown?
He tried to speak, but no words came. His body betrayed him, as it always had. Yet his mind churned, alive with questions, doubts, and—somehow—a spark of longing. He clung to one word as if it could anchor him to something real.
Healing.
For the first time in years, the void that surrounded him didn't feel endless. Somewhere, in its depths, a fragile ember flickered—a dangerous, fragile ember that he hadn't felt in so long.
Hope.
Alice Creed POV
Alice Creed burst into her son's room, her pulse racing as the message replayed in her mind, glowing faintly like an otherworldly status screen hovering in her vision. The words had been clear, clinical, and unyielding—spoken not aloud but embedded directly into her awareness, as if delivered by some omnipotent system.
"Welcome to the Cultivation Assist System."
The announcement had been cold and mechanical, followed by a series of statements that seemed to scan the world itself, assessing and categorizing with detached precision.
"Scanning… No debilitating physical conditions detected."
Her personal notification had come shortly after, floating unobtrusively in her sight like a transparent overlay in her mind's eye:
"Do you wish to be transported to the Pagoda Tower for cultivation tutoring and the opportunity to challenge the 7 floors?"
"Timer: 2 hours, 56 minutes."
It wasn't intrusive—it lingered in her peripheral vision, clear if she wanted to focus on it, yet easily ignored in the haze of her panic. But it wasn't this message that had shaken her to the core. It was the broader system announcement, heard by everyone, that promised something she hadn't dared dream of: healing.
"For those with critical injuries or debilitating physical conditions, an option to be healed will be provided. No matter how severe."
Healing. The word had struck her like a physical blow, a spark of impossible hope piercing through the fog of despair she'd lived in for the past two years. Her son, Silas, had been paralyzed, trapped in his own broken body, and no doctor, no specialist, no experimental treatment had been able to help him. The idea that something—someone—could fix him felt like a cruel joke, yet the message had been undeniable. The system didn't ask for belief or faith; it simply stated facts. Cold, logical, automated facts.
Alice's breath caught as her eyes fell on Silas. He lay still in his bed, his face pale and unmoving, as it had been every day since the accident. Only the faint rise and fall of his chest told her he was still alive.
The candles she had lit earlier flickered softly, casting long shadows on the walls. The world outside was descending into chaos—she'd heard the distant shouts, the confusion, as people grappled with the sudden failure of technology. Cars, planes, phones, even lights—all had stopped working in an instant. But none of that mattered to Alice. The timer in her vision ticked steadily down, a reminder of the decision she had to make.
She knelt by Silas's bed, smoothing the blanket over him with trembling hands. Her fingers brushed his forehead, cool and still, though she thought she felt the faintest trace of warmth—so faint it could have been her imagination. Tears stung her eyes as she stared at him, her heart breaking all over again.
"Silas," she whispered, her voice cracking as she spoke his name. "Could it really be true? Could you... could you be healed?"
Her mind spun as she tried to reconcile the surreal message with the unyielding reality she had known for so long. Two years. Two years of pain and stillness, of hoping and waiting, of watching her once-vibrant son fade into silence. The thought that he could be restored, that he could escape this prison of flesh, was almost too much to process. And yet, the message had been so matter-of-fact, so absolute.
The status box in her vision lingered, glowing faintly as the timer counted down:
2 hours, 53 minutes.
It wasn't about healing. It was a separate notification, one directed specifically at her. A choice she could make with a single thought: consent to be transported to the Pagoda Tower, a place she didn't fully understand but that promised transformation and growth. The system didn't pressure her; it simply waited, patient and impartial, for her decision.
But how could she leave? How could she even think about herself when Silas needed her? Even with the promise of healing hanging in the air, she couldn't bear the thought of being separated from him—not now, not when everything could change in an instant. She tightened her grip on the blanket, her knuckles whitening as she fought to keep herself from falling apart.
"Please," she murmured, her voice barely audible over the faint crackle of the candle flames. "Please let this be real."
The air in the room felt heavier now, charged with something she couldn't name. The faint warmth she thought she'd imagined earlier seemed to grow stronger, radiating from Silas's still form. Her breath caught as she leaned closer, her hands trembling.
"Silas?" she whispered, her voice breaking with equal parts hope and fear. "Are you… are you coming back to me?"
The status box remained steady in her mind's eye, its timer counting down with quiet persistence. But for the first time in years, Alice Creed didn't feel trapped by despair. A fragile, flickering light had pierced the darkness—a sliver of hope she hadn't dared to believe in.
And she would stay by Silas's side, waiting, watching, until she knew for certain. Something was happening. Something real.
Silas POV
Silas lay in his unrelenting prison of pain and stillness, the air around him heavy with the silence he had long come to know. The message had come earlier, the same automated, surreal voice that his mother had described. Terms like Pagodas and spiritual energy had felt like fragments from a distant, unknowable world. He had dismissed it, as he did most things—irrelevant to his broken body and static existence.
But now, another message appeared, distinct from the first. A glowing box hovered in his mind, impossible to ignore.
"Scanning... debilitating physical condition detected."
The words pulsed faintly in his thoughts, clear and steady.
"Do you wish to be healed?"
"Note: If the host agrees to be healed by the Cultivation Assist System, the host will be barred from entering the Pagoda and must face the Awakened World."
The message was precise, clinical, and deeply unsettling. Healing. Silas latched onto the word with a mixture of disbelief and desperation. It wasn't a word he allowed himself to think about anymore—it was a cruel, unreachable fantasy. But now, here it was, glowing insistently in his mind like a lifeline cast into his personal void.
The terms lingered like a quiet warning. Barred from the Pagoda. Face the Awakened World. He didn't know what that meant, but the unknown didn't scare him. Not anymore. He had lived with the worst kind of certainty for two years, trapped in his own body, watching his life slip through his fingers. What could be more punishing than this?
The glow of the message pulsed softly, its words unchanging but expectant. The decision rested solely with him—a choice he hadn't been given since the day his life had collapsed. It felt strange, almost alien, to have a decision to make. For so long, choice had been a luxury reserved for others.
Healing. The promise of freedom, of escape from the pain, from the stillness. He clung to it like a drowning man to driftwood. Could it be real? Could it mean the end of this relentless suffering?
The cost hovered at the edge of his mind. The Awakened World. He couldn't begin to imagine what dangers that entailed, but a flicker of rebellion stirred within him. Anything was better than this half-life. He was tired of being a ghost, tired of letting the pain win. If there was even a chance, he had to take it.
The box pulsed again, waiting for his answer. Silas didn't hesitate anymore.
Yes.
The thought echoed with quiet finality. As the message faded, leaving a hum of energy in its place, Silas felt something shift deep within him—a spark of possibility, fragile yet undeniable.
For the first time in years, he felt alive.