The eighth level was a void.
No light, no sound, no floor. Lin Tian stood on nothingness. Pressure descended on him, not physical, but spiritual. It was the weight of the Spire itself, the accumulated sword intent of millennia, pressing down to see if he would break.
It sought his will, his core. It tried to find the singular, unwavering blade it was built to honor.
Lin Tian didn't give it one. He opened himself up. He let it feel the ice of Bai Xueya, steady and majestic. He let it feel the ember of Su Lan, fierce and protective. He let it feel his own stubborn, adaptive resolve, the glue that held the contradictions together. He didn't have one pure will. He had a symphony of them, and they were all his.
The pressure intensified, crushing. He felt his knees want to buckle. His breath came in short, sharp gasps.
No. I didn't come this far to kneel.
