Wizard: Starting from the Skill Tree

Through the window, he saw a baby lying in bed, with a young couple sitting beside.

He watched as the baby slowly grew up, became a backpack-wearing elementary school student, turned into a thick-framed glasses-wearing middle school student, and transformed into a youth leaving home with an admission notice and dragging a suitcase.

University dormitory bunk beds, cheap instant coffee brewed during overnight revisions in the library, graduation ceremony caps thrown skyward.

Then came Friday night, crowded subways, a dense last train crowd, with him buried among them looking at his phone, displaying a notification for weekend overtime he just received.

Then he saw a child somehow fall off the platform, subway lights approaching swiftly from the tunnel depths, and he dropped his phone to jump down.

White light swallowed everything.

Duke felt his Spiritual Sea tremble suddenly.

Those images were so clear, clear enough to hum the melody of the song played on the graduation ceremony day’s broadcast, clear enough to distinguish the details of wind sounds brought by the subway entering.

These memories had been buried in the deepest consciousness, blurry like viewed through frosted glass, some even thoroughly forgotten.

Faces of parents from the previous life were somewhat blurry, he struggled for a long time to recall even two names of his university roommates, yet the face of the girl he had a crush on throughout high school was now startlingly clear.

The Rule Baptism unearthed all memories from both lives, without reservation.

Then the scenes of fields and concrete buildings shattered simultaneously, like mirrors receiving heavy blows, shards flying in the air, each shard retaining fragmentary memory images, then the shards reassembled into a completely unfamiliar picture.

Duke found himself standing on a boundless wasteland.

The sky was bluish-gray, devoid of sun or moon, the earth cracked gray-white, without grass, without trees, without any signs of life.

The air was filled with an ancient, decay-like scent, akin to a sealed tomb just opened after thousands of years.

Then he heard a sound, a vibration more primitive than sound, acting directly on Spiritual Power.

Countless voices whispered concurrently, some male, some female, some old, some young, some praying, some cursing, some spoke so fast no single word could be discerned.

These whispers came from all directions, surged from underground, pressed down from the sky, penetrated every corner of the wasteland into his consciousness.

Initially, just chaotic noise, but soon they began to take shape.

He saw the whispers, at the horizon of the wasteland, countless indistinct figures walking towards him.

Some resembled humans, some beasts, some as large as mountains, others thin as twigs, some shapeless masses continually changing, edges shimmering in colors unknown to any known spectrum.

They walked slowly but each step seemed to fold a span of space itself, within breaths reaching near him.

Their mouths moved, or rather they were emitting sounds in some manner, the whispers were their utterances.

They extended countless hands, hands elongated in the void, reaching out to him.

Duke’s body wobbled, not physically, but his Spiritual Sea showed signs of instability for the first time under the overwhelming whispers.

The Star Sea Sheltering Dew’s light web emitted a shrill screech at the perimeter of his Spiritual Sea, desperately resisting the first wave of murmur attack, yet the light web already bore fine cracks.

The effect of the Pupil of the Rule Horizon persisted, making his perception exceedingly acute.

Yet precisely due to this, the impact of murmurs on the Spiritual Sea amplified several times.

Then among the whispers emerged a clear voice.

Not the loudest, but the clearest, clear enough for Duke to discern it singularly among the multitude screaming.

"Young friend, hold on."

On the wasteland, those indistinct figures suddenly parted to the sides, creating a pathway.

At the end of the path, a figure was approaching.

Their figure clearer than those indistinct shadows, clear enough to see every strand of hair.

It was an elder, tall and upright, wearing a snow-white robe, the robe hems fluttering gently on the windless wasteland, texture neither silk nor silk-like, reflecting a pale moonlight sheen.

His full white hair tied loosely into a Daoist bun secured with a green jade hairpin, a few silver threads hung from the temples, enhancing the ethereal look of his slender face.

The elder carried a Longsword on his back, its sheath deep black, devoid of decoration, only a faded red cord tied at the hilt’s end, conspicuously against the gray-white wasteland backdrop.

He halted three steps before Duke, a faint trace of smile surfaced on his slender face. Not a gentle smile, not a kind smile, but a knowing, superior yet compassionate calm.

"Your journey thus far, this old one sees it all," the elder’s voice clear and deep, each word seemed substantial, striking Duke’s Spiritual Sea, stirring ripples of tremor, "from that small village to Black Sail, from Black Sail to the Six-Ring Tower, from a mere mortal to now on the brink of entering the Gate of Rules, truly not easy."

He slightly tilted his head, gaze passing over Duke’s shoulder, towards an unknown direction, as if looking at an unseen sight only perceivable by him.

Then he withdrew his gaze, resting back on Duke, voice lowered to a level audible only to the two of them.

"But have you ever wondered, your Skill Tree, who planted it within you?"

Duke’s Spiritual Sea jostled fiercely, losing control of his Spiritual Power fluctuation for a moment.

The Skill Tree was his greatest secret, carried from the moment he traversed into this world, never disclosed to anyone, never found relevant information in any literature.

And now, this secret known only to himself, had been casually mentioned by a mere illusion.

"You do not know, do you," the elder sighed, not a sigh of regret, but one of foresight, tinged with a trace of pity, "Of course, you would not know, such matters are beyond the reach of mere mortals.

This old man can tell you, the Skill Tree within you is not of your own; it is a mark planted by an existence, a bait making you believe you are continuously growing stronger.

Each time you elevate your Skill Level, acquire Traits, harness its Power, you nourish it.

The stronger you become, the faster it grows.

And when it fully matures, you will become its nourishment, your life’s cultivation, insights, Rules, all serving another’s guise."

He paused momentarily, white brows hanging slightly down, as if weighing his words, or perhaps allowing Duke time to digest what he just said.

"If you do not believe me, think carefully. Each time you gained rewards from the Skill Tree, those rewards, those attribute points, Trait Fruits, knowledge feedback, did they truly completely belong to you? Or were they merely passing through your hands, serving another entity? You may feel its presence, but you have never truly mastered it.

It resides within you, yet it does not belong to you.

This old man has practiced for nearly ten thousand years, witnessed countless geniuses marked with similar imprints, every single one ultimately became another’s stepping stone."

When he spoke those words, his tone was calm, neither imposing, nor exaggerated, as if stating a commonplace truth verified countless times.

The Longsword on his back slightly trembled as he spoke, the faded red cord at the hilt end swayed gently, emitting a faint, nearly inaudible rustling.

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