The blue window flickered into existence above her.
[Second Trial: Completed.]
The words barely registered.
She was lying on her back, staring at nothing, her breath coming in slow, uneven pulls.
Dawn had begun to stretch across the sky, painting the ruins in muted blue light. It was an unnatural dawn—not golden, not warm. Just pale and cold.
She inhaled. The air smelled stale. Still.
Everything ached.
Not in the sharp, immediate way of fresh wounds, but in the deep, all-consuming way of exhaustion. Like she had been wrung dry, inside and out.
Her limbs felt like dead weight. A heavy, sluggish thing, her own body betraying her. Even breathing took effort. Like her lungs were reluctant to expand, reluctant to draw her further into wakefulness.
She shifted slightly, and a new wave of dull pain rolled through her limbs. Not agony—nothing sharp or unbearable. Just deep, lingering soreness, like her muscles had been stretched beyond their limit and left to wither.
Then, as she moved, she felt her body sting.
A sharp, stinging heat.
Her arms. Her legs. Scratches.
She turned her head slightly, her gaze tracing the thin, shallow cuts along her skin. The tumble she had taken—the fall down the incline, the scraping dirt and loose stone—had left its mark. Small lines of red had dried over her forearms, her palms, her knees.
She pressed her fingers lightly against the worst of them.
They burned faintly under her touch but didn’t bleed. The pain was an afterthought now, something her body had chosen to ignore in the face of greater threats.
‘Superficial.’ she thought.
She was lucky.
If she had landed just a little differently—
If she had twisted her ankle—
If she had hit her head—
The thought made her swallow.
She forced herself to flex her fingers, her toes. She bent one knee, then the other. Everything moved.
Her body hurt, but she could move.
That was enough.
A slow, deep inhale. Her chest rose, then fell in a careful rhythm.
Then, she remembered.
Her arm.
The place where the entity had touched her.
Her stomach tightened.
It wasn’t painful. Not even sore. But it was cold.
Not skin-cold. Not like a winter chill. It was something deeper, settled beneath the surface. Like a bruise she couldn’t see.
She lifted her hand, pressing her fingers against the spot.
Nothing.
No wound. No scar. No indication that anything had happened at all.
But the sensation remained.
It hadn’t faded.
She exhaled sharply, willing herself to ignore it.
She could worry about that later.
Right now, her body felt like lead. Her limbs refused to listen, her head pounded with the weight of exhaustion, and the world around her had blurred at the edges.
She just needed to close her eyes for a moment.
The blue window pulsed again.
A new message.
[Third Trial Pending: Await Further Instructions.]
Her breath left her in a quiet, bitter laugh.
Of course.
Her vision swayed.
The exhaustion in her body finally won.
And as her limbs gave in—
The world lurched.
One moment, she was lying on the cold dirt, her limbs too heavy to move—
And the next, she was somewhere else.
She recognized it instantly. The White Space.
Endless. Empty. Silent.
It stretched in all directions, a vast and sterile void. There was no ceiling, no floor—just an unbroken expanse of white.
Her breath left her in a slow, shaky exhale.
The Tower had brought her back here again.
After everything—the chase, the voices, the weight of her own exhaustion pressing into her bones—
It didn’t seem real.
Her fingers twitched slightly against the smooth nothingness beneath her.
She swallowed, but even that motion felt distant.
A breath.
Then another.
The tension in her shoulders loosened, her limbs sagging slightly.
Her body refused to lift.
It felt heavier than before.
The weight of everything—the exhaustion and fear that had rooted itself in her since she stepped into the Tower felt too much.
She had pushed herself to the edge, barely keeping herself upright against the constant pull of survival.
She had fought, she had run, she had bled.
And now, for the first time since stepping into the Tower, her body was giving in.
The stillness of the White Space wrapped around her.
There was no immediate danger here.
And because of that, her chest rose and fell in slow, shallow breaths.
For the first time since entering the Tower—
She slept.
. . .
. . .
A slow inhale.
Her eyes opened.
The White Space hadn’t changed.
It was still vast. Still silent.
She exhaled, letting her fingers brush against the surface beneath her.
It was smooth. Cool.
She pushed herself upright, rolling her shoulders, stretching out the stiffness in her arms.
Even the smallest motion sent a dull ache through her limbs.
She had barely moved, and already her body protested.
She had fallen. Ran. Fought. Bled.
And yet—
Here she was.
Her scratches still stung, thin, sharp lines across her skin.
She ran a hand along the worst of them, feeling the scabbing under her fingertips.
Not deep. Not dangerous.
They would heal.
She had gotten lucky.
Again.
She started rotating her wrists, then her ankles, loosening the tightness in her joints.
This wasn’t instinct.
It was habit.
A habit she had hated.
A habit she had been forced into.
At the barracks, where the kingdom trained Tower entrants before sending them to die,
The instructors had drilled it into them.
—"When you first get in, you won’t have weapons. You won’t have allies. You’ll have your body. That’s it."
She had resented the torture they put her through.
The morning drills.
The grueling physical training.
There were no gentle explanations.
No encouragement.
Just orders.
—"If you can’t move, then consider yourself already dead."
The instructors had stated it like it was a fact.
There was no coddling.
Nor any sympathy.
And she had been too stubborn to believe them at first.
She had thought—what did it matter?
What difference would a few stretches and push-ups make within the Tower?
But she still pushed herself.
Not because she wanted to, but because of what happened when she had watched others drop out, one by one.
Some had even tried to escape the barracks. And they were quickly caught.
But no one went home.
They were sent north.
To the war.
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And none of them came back.
So she had forced herself to wake up earlier. Move more. Train harder.
Because even if she hated it, even if her body screamed in protest, she wasn’t about to die because she was too weak to lift her own limbs.
She had suffered for it then.
And now—
It was the only thing keeping her steady.
She let her muscles stretch, drawing in slow breaths, taking stock of her body.
Her body was worn, but functional.
Her instructors would have called that a victory.
She let out a slow breath, steadying herself.
Then, the blue window flickered to life.
[Third Trial Pending: Await Further Instructions.]
She stared at the words.
The White Space had given her just enough time to recover.
But not enough time to prepare.
She exhaled.
Then—
The world lurched.
Not like before.
The air around her twisted, warped—
And then—
She was somewhere else.
The first thing she noticed was the air. It was thick, almost suffocating, pressing against her skin like a presence. She took a slow, steady breath, but even that felt weighted.
She took a moment to regain her footing, her muscles tense from the sudden shift.
The second thing she noticed was the silence. It wasn’t the eerie stillness of the White Space, nor was it the oppressive quiet of the ruined village from the last trial.
This was something different. It was the silence of a place untouched by time, a silence that stretched so deep it felt sacred.
She looked up.
The chamber around her was enormous, stretching far beyond what her eyes could immediately take in. Towering stone walls framed the vast space, carved with symbols and faded inscriptions she couldn’t read. The ceiling arched high into darkness, vanishing somewhere beyond the reach of the dim light that illuminated the space.
There were no doors. No windows. No way in or out.
And ahead of her—
Rows upon rows of stone pedestals.
She stared, her breath caught somewhere in her throat.
There were hundreds of them. Maybe even thousands.
Neatly arranged, stretching deep into the temple’s vastness. Each was carved from the same smooth stone. They stood in perfect formation.
She took a hesitant step forward. The chamber did not react.
Her fingers brushed against the surface of the nearest pedestal. The stone was cool under her fingertips. She traced the lettering and looked at the words carved into the smooth rock.
[Swordsman]
Her eyes flickered to the next.
[Lancer]
She let her gaze shift further down the rows.
[Archer]
[Brawler]
[Mage]
The realization settled over her slowly. These were professions. Paths to follow, skills to claim.
Her instructors have informed them of this, that depending on one’s aptitude and the tower’s decision, we would be able to visit this place in as soon as after the first trial. But that was only the lucky cases. There were even entrants who had to endure more than five trials.
Considering this, she was quite lucky.
Finally, the tower allowed her a true choice.
She let her fingers graze the stone again, her breath slow, controlled.
[Knight]
[Duelist]
[Warrior]
She moved forward, scanning the rows.
Each pedestal represented a different path.
[Rogue]
[Monk]
[Cleric]
Each title carried weight. Each one held meaning.
It was overwhelming.
There were so many choices. So many different branches she could step into.
She closed her eyes for a brief moment, inhaling deeply.
What did she want?
What did she need?
Her fingers hovered over another stone pedestal once more.
And then—
The Tower reacted.
The pedestals started shattering.
It started slow—a single pedestal to her right cracked with a sharp, splintering noise, the engraved name of [Knight] breaking apart into nothing.
Then another.
The destruction rippled outward like a wave, racing through the rows of stone.
The chamber thundered as the weight of countless paths collapsed around her, reducing choices to dust.
She turned sharply, eyes darting across the chamber, watching as the Tower stripped away her possibilities.
It felt like the Tower was looking at her.
At what she had done.
At how she had survived.
And it was now limiting her choicecs.
The first to go were the warriors.
She saw the two-handed greatswords crumble into nothing, the pedestals of knights and battle-mages cracking apart.
All paths of overwhelming force, of standing on the battlefield and taking hits meant for others—gone.
She was fine with this.
She wasn’t a wall.
She wasn’t a hero.
The next to break were the hunters.
The archers, the rangers, the beast-callers.
The Tower had seen her escape.
It had seen her run, hide, evade.
But she hadn’t fought from the shadows. She hadn’t set traps, hadn’t struck unseen.
And so the Tower took those away too.
Then came the magic users.
The destruction slowed, the shattering of stone punctuated by long stretches of silence.
She turned, watching as the intricate names of fire-callers, storm-weavers, necromancers, and frost-binders broke apart like brittle glass.
It took magic away.
And when the dust settled, she saw what remained.
The dust settled.
The chamber, once filled with countless choices, had been reduced to a scattered few.
She turned slowly, her breath unsteady, her gaze drifting across the remaining pedestals.
Gone were the warriors and the mages, the archers and the assassins.
Gone were the paths of strength, of power, of elemental forces bending at one’s command.
What was left behind felt… quieter.
She took a slow step forward, her fingers brushing over the stone as she read the names.
[Survivor]
[Pathfinder]
[Lone Wanderer]
She had expected these.
These were paths for those who could slip through the cracks, who could live on when others would fall.
But the others…
She frowned.
[Wordbearer]
[Poet]
[Teller]
Her lips parted slightly, but no sound came.
Why these?
Was it because she was once a teacher?
But for some reason, her intuition stirred.
She had learned to listen to that feeling a long time ago.
It had been the same instinct that screamed at her when a deal had gone bad before she even saw the knife.
The same instinct that had carried her through the ruined village, guiding her away from the wrong turns, away from the whispers that wanted her to respond.
It had saved her. Again and again.
And now, that same feeling was pulling her toward one of the pedestals.
Not toward Survivor.
Not toward Pathfinder.
But toward a single word carved into stone.
[Loquere.]
She frowned.
It wasn’t like the others.
The name felt… old.
She said it under her breath, testing the weight of it on her tongue.
"Loquere."
It was Aethric. A language spoken centuries ago from a well-off nation.
She recognized the root of it. To speak. To converse.
Her frown deepened.
Why?
Why were her instincts pushing her toward this?
Her instincts didn’t pull her toward Survivor, even though it made the most sense.
That quiet, persistent part of her was whispering—this one.
That this was the right choice.
But why?
Because she had known when to talk. When to lie. When to say just enough to buy time.
When the debt collectors had been breathing down her neck, she hadn’t fought them.
She had talked her way out. Slipped through their fingers with a word here, a misdirection there.
Even in the last trial—she hadn’t fought the voices.
She had ignored them. Refused to acknowledge them.
She knew that conversing with them meant death.
A slow breath escaped her lips.
It made sense.
Not in a way she could explain, not in a way she fully understood—but her gut knew.
Her intuition had carried her this far.
And now, it was telling her that this was the right choice.
Her fingers hovered over the stone.
She pressed her palm against the stone.
Her choice was made.
The stone was warm beneath her palm.
A deep, resonating chime echoed through the air, vibrating through her bones. The pedestal beneath her hand shuddered, cracks splitting across its surface, glowing faintly with some unseen force.
Then—
It crumbled.
Not violently, not like the shattered remains of the other pedestals.
The stone collapsed inward, dissolving into fine dust that swirled in the air before reshaping itself into something new.
A book.
She blinked.
It was old, the cover smooth and bound in deep, dark leather. No title. No markings.
Yet, the moment she saw it, she knew it was hers.
Her fingers hovered over it for a moment before she picked it up. The weight was comfortable in her hands, heavier than she expected but not burdensome.
She opened it.
And there, inscribed in elegant, flowing letters, was her first skill.
[Vox Animus]
"Congratulations, you have been granted an extraordinary gift! A once-in-a-lifetime ability that allows your words to be just slightly less misunderstood! Behold—now when you speak, people might tilt their heads a little less! Maybe even nod as if they totally get it!"
Effect: Your words carry a faint resonance, making them slightly easier to understand. This does not persuade, does not compel, does not guarantee people will listen. But now, when you say something confusing, people will at least try a little harder to follow along instead of immediately assuming you’re an idiot.
She stared.
Then stared harder.
Her fingers tightened around the book, her eye twitching.
"This has to be a joke."
She flipped the page.
Blank.
She flipped another.
Still blank.
Her lips pressed into a thin line.
This was it?
This was what she got?
She let out a slow, controlled breath, but the frustration curled hot in her chest.
This wasn’t an ability that let her fight.
This wasn’t something that made her stronger, faster, more adaptable.
No—it just made her a little less likely to be ignored.
"Great,"
She muttered, rubbing a hand down her face.
"So if I ever get into an argument, at least they’ll think about what I said before dismissing me."
The book didn’t respond.
It just sat there. Smug.
She groaned.
Her instructors’ words rang in her head.
—"Most people will get something that actively helps them."
One of them—Sir Alric, a man whose arms were as thick as tree trunks but whose lectures could lull anyone to sleep—had spoken about it during one of their rare moments of rest.
—"The Tower doesn’t just throw you in without something to work with. It gives you tools. Helps you refine what’s already there."
He had stood in front of the recruits, rolling his shoulders before sitting heavily on an overturned crate.
—"A mage will often gain something that attunes them to mana better—especially if they already had a connection to it before entering."
She remembered him stretching out a scarred hand, his fingers moving through the air as if tracing something invisible.
"Some feel mana like heat. Others like a song they just barely remember. Their first skill helps them shape it faster. Makes them better casters. More refined."
The hopeful mages-in-training had soaked in every word.
To them, this was proof that the Tower wasn’t just some death trap.
But it wasn’t just mages.
Even the warriors had something waiting for them.
—"Martial classes tend to awaken something else," Alric had continued, adjusting his bracers.
—"Not mana. Not something external. Something from within."
A few recruits had shifted where they sat, listening closer.
—"Aether. But the eastern continent calls it Qi. It lets them push beyond normal limits. Their weapons feel like extensions of themselves. They hit harder, move faster, last longer. It’s how a swordsman becomes more than just a brute swinging steel around."
But what about her?
Even before entering the Tower, she had seen reports, stories, and records of what first skills often looked like.
And she—
She had received an upgraded conversation starter.
Out of frustration, she shut the book hard enough to echo.
And it suddenly vanished.
In its place, a new sensation spread across her skin—warm, pulsing, weighty in a way that wasn't entirely physical.
Her breath caught.
She looked down.
A small mark now adorned her forearm.
It wasn’t just a random symbol.
It was a book.
Not a perfect, detailed illustration, but something stylized—an open tome, its pages curling outward.
She reached out instinctively, running her fingers over it.
Her skin was smooth.
No raised edges. No burning. No lingering discomfort.
But the moment her fingers brushed against the sigil—
The book reappeared in her hands.
Her grip tightened around the leather binding.
She touched the sigil again.
The book vanished.
Another tap—
It returned.
Her jaw clenched.
She repeated the process a few more times, watching as the object blinked in and out of existence at her command.
A trick.
That’s what it felt like.
Not a weapon.
Not a shield.
Not something that made her stronger, faster, better.
Just a trick.
She exhaled sharply through her nose, pushing back the rising frustration.
Was this really it?
She had read that recruits would receive orbs, weapons, and even staves as tattoos.
And she?
She got a book that came and went like a bad stage magician’s prop.
There was more to this skill.
There had to be.
Even if she didn’t understand it yet—
Even if it felt useless now—
It should at the very least mean something.
She let out a slow breath.
