Gaunt and worn, the young man’s peach-beige skin carried the unmistakable signs of a life spent teetering on the brink.
His knuckles, roughened and callused, spoke of hard labor, while faint, crescent shadows beneath his eyes betrayed sleepless nights spent chasing meager threads of survival.
He stood at the very heart of an immense arena—an architectural marvel framed by towering white pillars and a pristine floor polished to mirror-like perfection.
Above him, streams of ethereal blue light flowed gracefully, forming ghostly figures and hazy scenes that flickered briefly into existence before dissolving into nothingness.
Each illusion faded gently, only to be immediately replaced, filling the air with an endless dance of phantom silhouettes.
Yet Myrddin couldn’t savor this breathtaking spectacle.
Pressed from all sides by a vast, restless crowd, he could barely draw breath, let alone move freely.
The sheer number of bodies created a suffocating pressure, their combined voices rising into a thunderous murmur that vibrated through his bones.
His pulse raced, anxiety mingling with awe at the immensity of Stage 10—an expanse so immaculate and grand that it felt utterly alien compared to the cramped gloom of Stage 6.
“There must be more people here than in all of Stage 6 put together,” he muttered softly, brushing stray strands of dark brown hair from his forehead.
His fingertips lingered briefly at his temple, massaging away the stirrings of an inevitable headache. "How long do they plan on keeping us waiting?”
Minutes crawled forward like hours as he endured the oppressive heat and clammy discomfort of too many bodies pressed together.
He scanned the crowd, noting the remarkable variety in dress and appearance.
Many wore plain black attire similar to his own, their skin tones and hair colors echoing familiar shades.
But scattered throughout the sea of faces were others whose vivid clothing and eccentric hairstyles marked them as outsiders from distant stages, their expressions all unified by the same weary desperation he’d known his whole life.
Fragments of whispered conversation drifted above the clamor, catching his ear.
“Do you think this is about those rumors?”
“What rumors?”
“They say there’s going to be a new Monarch of the Tower!”
“Quiet! Are you trying to get us executed?”
Myrddin’s heart quickened at the murmurs.
A new Monarch of the Tower—could such an absurd rumor even hold truth?
Life in Stage 6 had taught him caution: stories from above rarely reached them without distortion.
But still, something about this one resonated deeply, igniting a spark of impossible hope within him.
It was exactly that hope—the promise of a future worth fighting for—that had compelled him here in the first place.
If these whispers contained even a sliver of truth, it could mean a life defined by more than merely surviving each day.
Yet if the entire event was a cruel farce, merely an excuse to cull the growing ranks of lower-stage dwellers, then he’d still face that bitter truth head-on.
Either way, Myrddin had finally found what he’d longed for most:
A purpose beyond mere survival.
It was unprecedented—a moment without parallel in recorded history, where every inhabitant from Stages 6 through 9 had been simultaneously summoned.
The gates to Stage 10—a bridge suspended between the despair of the lower stages and the hope promised by the higher ones—opened with whispers of an "unforgettable event," pulling countless desperate souls who grasped at even the thinnest thread of fate’s mercy.
Representatives from the great Houses—the mighty families whose influence defined the Tower’s rigid hierarchy—were confirmed to attend.
For anyone born in the lower stages, even glimpsing a House member was a once-in-a-lifetime event.
Actually joining one? Practically a fantasy.
Yet, the dream stubbornly persisted.
Earning a House’s favor meant being granted a transfusion of its blood—the key to obtaining a Thorn.
This precious infusion bestowed physical prowess and abilities far surpassing ordinary human limits.
To those starved for opportunity, that alone was worth any danger—worth willingly placing themselves at the mercy of whatever trials awaited at this mysterious gathering.
Their ambitions stretched beyond the suffocating mediocrity of the middle stages, beyond even the fabled highest reaches of the Tower.
They craved its pinnacle, a place rumored to promise genuine power, absolute freedom, and truths hidden from all below.
Others might dismiss them as mere dreamers, chasing fantasies.
Yet Myrddin recognized something deeper: he saw the same raw, unyielding determination reflected in every gaze around him.
These were people who had survived the brutal realities of the lower stages—hardships that forged their will into iron, sharpened their resolve into a weapon.
And now, they would seize this chance, whatever it might cost.
As the minutes crawled by, Myrddin briefly considered sitting on the polished arena floor.
His legs throbbed from standing for hours, and the relentless crush of bodies only worsened his fatigue.
But would that be… disrespectful? Inappropriate? He honestly couldn't tell.
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Before he could decide, a soft hum resonated through the immense coliseum.
Overhead, massive ceiling panels slid gracefully open, revealing an immaculate sky so brilliantly blue it stole the breath from his lungs.
“How… beautiful…” he breathed, eyes wide with awe.
All around him, murmurs of wonder rippled through the crowd, their voices blending into a shared, reverent sigh.
Even hardened survivors from the lower stages—accustomed to darkness, dust, and despair—were spellbound by the crystalline clarity of a perfect sky.
From that dazzling blue expanse, pristine white platforms gently descended, drifting serenely like divine chariots borne on invisible currents.
Each carried figures of otherworldly grace, robed in silks and adorned in finery so intricate that human hands seemed incapable of creating such splendor.
The mere presence of these ethereal beings radiated quiet authority, settling upon the crowd like the gentle press of an unseen, inevitable tide.
Myrddin’s chest tightened with a strange mixture of hope and intimidation.
Even at a distance, the newcomers' flawless features and the elegant precision of their movements suggested a beauty that transcended limits.
Whispers rustled through the massed crowd like leaves stirred by a gentle breeze:
“Those… they must be from the Houses.”
“They’re incredible…”
“To glimpse them just once… I could die happy.”
As though guided by an invisible hand, the hovering platforms swept in graceful arcs around the arena, settling into positions at opposite ends.
Only the center of the azure sky remained conspicuously empty.
No—not entirely empty, Myrddin realized with a jolt.
Squinting, he caught sight of a minuscule speck floating impossibly high, no larger than a single marble.
In an instant, that tiny speck burst outward in a dazzling explosion of luminous blue light.
Before Myrddin could even react, a towering figure composed entirely of radiant brilliance took form, hovering regally in midair.
The apparition shaped itself into the majestic figure of a bearded man, features noble yet stern, framed by flowing hair that shimmered like liquid starlight.
Despite his ethereal form, his presence was overwhelmingly real, exuding an aura of absolute authority.
“You stand honored,” the glowing figure declared, his voice a powerful yet soothing resonance that filled every corner of the vast arena.
“Accept my gratitude for gathering here today. I am Ygdrion Domus Yggdrasil—Monarch and Guardian of the Tower.”
A collective gasp of disbelief swept through the crowd.
Even Myrddin—raised far from civilization, in the isolated bleakness of Stage 6—recognized the legendary name. Ygdrion, the Tower’s Monarch, ruler of all Houses. Considered by many the strongest and most revered figure alive.
But before awe could fully take hold, a second voice crashed into them like a tidal wave:
"BE SILENT."
The command slammed into Myrddin’s skull with brutal force.
He doubled over, a lance of pure agony piercing through his mind.
All around him, people screamed in anguish, falling to their knees or collapsing outright. Some clutched their bleeding ears, others slumped unconscious. The raw power infused within those simple words was devastating.
“My… ears—!”
“Stop… please!”
A low, indulgent laugh resonated from the towering Monarch, rich with mild amusement.
“Hahaha, gently now, Sylvaris. Fault them not for their awe. They are merely unaccustomed to the majesty of their Monarch.”
His tone softened, becoming almost fatherly. “Child of the Lotus—grant them restoration.”
Through a haze of pain and blurred vision, Myrddin glimpsed threads of vivid green light weaving gracefully along the gleaming white floor.
He couldn’t see the conjurer clearly, but the sensation that followed was unmistakable.
Warmth, tender and healing, enfolded him like an embrace, easing away the searing agony from moments before.
Around him, gasps of relief echoed softly as people gingerly touched ears no longer bleeding, bodies no longer wracked with pain.
Myrddin straightened slowly, heart hammering in awe and fear. Whatever awaited them, one thing was now terrifyingly clear: this was no mere ceremony.
They stood at the threshold of something extraordinary—and profoundly dangerous.
For several agonizing seconds, no one dared disturb the silence.
“Now then,” the Monarch resumed, his voice smooth yet absolute, cascading through the air like ripples on still water. “Let us delay no further.”
His words hung in the arena with the solemn weight of finality, each syllable etched into the minds of those listening.
“I shall now impart the knowledge you require. Quiet your hearts—and speak no further.”
He paused deliberately, allowing anticipation to coil like a serpent in the breathless quiet.
Then, when the suspense was at its peak, he spoke words that set the crowd trembling with a cocktail of awe and fear:
“All who stand before me have been kissed by fate. This day heralds your destiny—a pivotal moment that will not merely shape your lives, but also the lives of your descendants for generations yet unborn. Yet, to seize this destiny—to tread the path of power—you must first demonstrate your worth.”
Myrddin’s heart raced, each heartbeat hammering the Monarch’s words deeper into his chest.
Demonstrate your worth.
The phrase echoed relentlessly.
“We must observe you,” the Monarch pressed on. “We must discern your true selves. And above all else—we must find favor in you.”
With an elegant flick of his fingers, the Monarch summoned the floating platforms to move once again.
They drifted with graceful, synchronized motions, displaying the regal, silent figures atop them in clearer view.
“As you can plainly see, esteemed high-ranking members of the Representative Houses have graced us with their presence. They have come to assist an aging Monarch in guiding the Tower’s future.”
A breathless quiet settled, profound enough that even heartbeats seemed too loud.
When he spoke again, it was with the force of a sovereign decree: “However, the future is reserved solely for those who prove themselves deserving. I—and the Houses—shall evaluate your every decision in the trial to come. Your fate shall be determined not merely by survival, but by the potential you reveal.”
Myrddin swallowed hard, his mouth dry with apprehension.
The air pressed in around him, heavy and expectant, silently questioning if he carried within himself even a fragment of that elusive potential.
“Step forward,” the Monarch intoned, his voice ringing like a bell tolling judgment.
“Demonstrate your worth. Earn the favor of the Houses. Seize this moment to forge destiny itself—to unlock the path toward power, and awaken the Thorn that lies dormant within.”
His words ignited a whirlwind of conflicting emotions within the gathered thousands—excitement, dread, uncertainty. Myrddin’s mind spun furiously, caught between hope and suspicion.
“Now—” the Monarch’s voice suddenly shifted, cold and sharp as a blade, “having accepted your fate, your trial begins immediately. On this stage—the Tenth Floor—you shall face beasts, horrors, and indeed… your fellow humans. Some stand beside you now; others await you in shadow.”
He paused briefly, allowing the dread of his words to fully seep in.
“Understand this,” he continued mercilessly. “Survival alone is insufficient. You must unveil the greatness within. Prove it to us.”
Then came his final, haunting benediction:
“May destiny favor you.”
No further explanations came. Instead, the colossal figure of luminous blue began to flicker, dimming slowly as if overcome by a silent wind.
It wavered and warped, dissolving in cascades of sparkling azure motes drifting gently downward like embers caught in the breeze.
Myrddin stared in disbelief, his pulse pounding in his ears. He blinked rapidly, fighting off the surreal sensation of awakening from a feverish dream.
What just happened? Was that real?
Then the floor beneath his feet split open.
A bone-chilling crack tore through the stunned silence like thunder.
For one breathless instant, confusion paralyzed him—until his eyes widened, horror-stricken, at the gleaming white floor fracturing violently, splintering as though crushed beneath a titan’s foot.
“Wha—!?” was all he managed, the breath ripped from his lungs as reality smashed into him with merciless force.
With an earsplitting CRACK, the floor shattered, erupting in a hailstorm of glittering fragments.
Thousands of figures vanished instantly into darkness, their cries lost amid chaos.
In a heartbeat, Myrddin felt the earth vanish from beneath his feet, replaced by a gut-wrenching plunge into oblivion.
They were falling.
Wind shrieked in his ears, deafening, merciless.
His dark hair whipped violently around his face, the rushing air searing his eyes and stealing his breath.
Panic exploded within him, an overwhelming surge of primal terror that crashed through every nerve and fiber.
He gasped desperately, choking as air battered his lungs. His vision blurred, the chaotic spiral of bodies, debris, and dazzling shards blinding him with overwhelming sensation.
This can’t be real…!
Yet it was undeniably real. He twisted in the air, helplessly tumbling amid screams and howls of despair.
Thousands fell around him, a horrific storm of thrashing limbs and shrieking voices, melding together into one monstrous sound of chaos.
His mind screamed questions—Is this the trial? Was it all a trap?—but each thought splintered beneath raw terror, barely coherent in the overwhelming rush of falling.
Then, amid the storm of panic, one terrible realization pierced his mind with ruthless clarity: I’m going to die.
The thought resonated through every fiber of his being, utterly inescapable.
Even as he spun helplessly downward, he tried instinctively to brace himself for an impact he couldn’t yet see or even comprehend.
But terror soon gave way to rage. Fury surged up from deep within him, a final, defiant roar tearing from his throat:
“DAMN YOU AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAALL!!!”
