Chapter 487: Acknowledgement of Tower

As the golden sword came to a halt in the first floor of the Tower of Truth, Lenavira’s feet gently touched the ancient stone ground. Her arms tightened protectively around Max’s charred, barely-held-together body.

Her golden hair, blown wild by the wind, slowly settled as silence fell around her. She stood there, eyes scanning the grand entrance of the floor, her breath shallow, her heart pounding—not from the speed, but from the helplessness clawing at her chest.

She didn’t move. She didn’t speak. She simply waited. Waited for something—anything—to happen. For the tower to respond, for a light to appear, for some ancient power to stir and reach out to Max.

At the same time, gasps filled the air behind her.

“Look, she arrived on a sword… carrying someone… Who is dead?” a voice whispered, stunned.

“That’s Princess Lenavira!” another elf exclaimed, as a group of elves quickly moved to surround her. Their eyes widened in horror as they caught sight of Max’s lifeless form, blackened and broken beyond recognition.

“What happened, Royal Princess?” one of the older elves asked, his voice full of worry as he stepped forward.

But Lenavira didn’t answer. Her face was pale, lips pressed tight, eyes trembling as they continued to glance around the tower’s interior like she was silently pleading for it to wake up, to recognize Max’s presence and save him.

Her grip on him tightened slightly, as if afraid he would fade away the moment she let go.

The elves exchanged glances, some reaching out to help, but hesitating when they saw the intensity in Lenavira’s expression.

She wasn’t just holding a dying friend—she was holding onto hope that the Tower of Truth would offer something, anything, before it was too late.

Just then—

“Is that… Max?” The voice was soft—too soft—and yet it struck like thunder in Lenavira’s ears. Trembling slightly, she turned around to see Alice standing not far behind her. Her face was pale, her eyes wide and glistening with horror as they fixated on the charred, broken body lying across Lenavira’s golden sword. Her lips trembled, her hands clutching the hem of her dress tightly as though trying to stop herself from falling apart.

Lenavira opened her mouth to respond but nothing came out. She didn’t know what to say—what could she say? That he was dying? That there was almost no hope? The words stuck in her throat like jagged rocks.

She stood frozen, blank and speechless. She knew how close Max and Alice had grown. She knew how fiercely Alice cared, how deeply her world was intertwined with his. And it made the truth unbearable to speak.

But before Lenavira could even try to find the words, something impossible happened.

Max’s broken body suddenly glowed faintly with golden light. Without warning, it lifted from the sword in a slow, almost weightless rise. The air around him shimmered with ancient energy. Then, in a blink, his body vanished—completely disappeared from the first floor.

The golden sword dimmed beneath her.

Gasps filled the air around them as the elves instinctively backed away, stunned.

Alice stepped forward instinctively, reaching out with a trembling hand. “Where… Where did he go?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, breaking with emotion. Lenavira stared at the now-empty space above the sword, her breath caught, heart thudding wildly.

“I… I don’t know,” she said at last.

Alice’s voice was barely steady, trembling with the weight of dread clinging to her chest. “What happened to him? Is he… okay?” Her eyes were wide, rimmed with unshed tears, her lips pressed together as if bracing herself for the worst.

She had seen the state of Max’s body—charred black, skin flaking into ash, his features barely recognizable—and yet something within her refused to accept it. She couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Max couldn’t die. Not like that. Not now.

Lenavira exhaled deeply, her gaze lowered for a moment as if searching for the strength to speak. Her hands curled slightly at her sides before she lifted her eyes and met Alice’s.

Then slowly, with painstaking effort, she began to recount everything that led to this moment.

***

Meanwhile, far above the noise and grief of the first floor, Max’s charred body floated in an eerie silence. The room was unlike any other—vast, endless, and blanketed entirely in blue tiles that gleamed softly under an unseen light.

It was too quite, too silence feel area just like Max’s Dimension of Time

There were no walls, no ceiling, no identifiable boundaries, just an infinite stretch of pristine blueness and silence so absolute it felt almost sacred. A hidden floor in the Tower of Truth.

His body hovered there, suspended midair, the last remains of his clothes fluttering in a breeze that didn’t exist.

Then, without warning, a sphere of red energy bloomed into existence and wrapped itself around him like a living cocoon. It pulsed slowly, rhythmically, as if mimicking a heartbeat.

The energy wasn’t violent—it was warm, enveloping him gently, like arms cradling something too broken to hold itself together.

In the center of the vast space, the tower spirit—Xolo—stood watching, his usually expressionless face laced with quiet solemnity.

His spectral form of golden colored figure of a middle aged man shimmered faintly, golden eyes locked on the cocoon that held Max. “The tower… is acting on its own… once again,” Xolo muttered, his voice low and contemplative, echoing slightly in the emptiness.

“So there are still parts of it beyond my jurisdiction.” He said it not in anger, but in wonder, like a servant finally witnessing a secret of their ancient master.

He took a step closer, his hands folded behind his back as he gazed upon Max’s burnt form, now hidden completely inside the scarlet sphere. “You’ve done more than most who ever climbed these halls,” he whispered. “Rest now. Heal. I hope… you get well soon.”

Then, as if in response to his words, a radiant golden light bloomed in the room. It was soft at first, like a ripple across a still lake, then sharpened into form—an elegant golden key spinning gently in the air.

It hovered quietly before the red sphere, waiting—glowing—its presence serene yet powerful, as though signaling the beginning of something long awaited.

“This key!” Xolo’s voice, usually calm and composed, trembled with something rare—genuine shock. His eyes widened as the golden key spun slowly in the air, casting soft, shimmering rays across the blue-tiled expanse.

“So the tower finally decided to recognise someone… after all this time?” he muttered, almost as if he couldn’t believe the words leaving his lips.

His gaze shifted from the key to the red cocoon enveloping Max, then back again, disbelief etched across his glowing face. “For centuries… no chosen one, no wielder, no recognition… And now, when the boy is hanging between life and death, when he’s nothing but will and bones, the tower chooses him?”

He stepped forward, his form phasing soundlessly over the floor as he stood directly beneath the key, watching it rotate like a celestial artifact. “You… are truly different, Max Morgan,” he whispered. “Even the heart of the tower acknowledges it.”

And then, he disappeared from blue colored expanse.

Your gift is the motivation for my creation. Give me more motivation!