Cold. That was the first sensation he felt. A biting chill that wrapped around him like a veil of fog, stirring him from a sleep that seemed to have lasted forever. His eyelids flickered, heavy with the weight of dreams he couldn't remember, and as his vision sharpened, he found himself lying on a smooth stone floor, staring at a ceiling that stretched impossibly high into shadow.
"Where… am I?"
The words tumbled from his dry lips, but the room did not answer. Only silence greeted him, thick and oppressive. He sat up slowly, every muscle stiff, as if they had forgotten how to move. His heart pounded in his chest, a wild, frantic beat. He was alone in a vast, circular chamber, dimly lit by a faint, eerie glow that seeped from cracks in the stone walls.
The boy looked down at his hands. They were pale and trembling, unfamiliar somehow, as though they belonged to someone else. His clothes—simple, tattered fabric—did nothing to shield him from the cold. But the worst of it wasn't the cold. It was the emptiness in his mind, like a book with pages ripped out. There were no memories. No name. No past.
"Who am I?" he whispered, the panic rising in his throat. He searched his mind frantically, but it was like trying to grasp smoke. Nothing remained. Nothing except… the Tower.
He didn't know how, but he knew it was called that. The Tower. It loomed over him, ancient and vast, and stretched endlessly upward, its top lost in a swirling mist that veiled the ceiling. The air here was thick, almost suffocating, as if the place itself was alive, watching, waiting.
Slowly, the boy got to his feet, his legs shaky. In the center of the room was a single door, massive and made of dark iron, with strange, twisting symbols etched into its surface. The symbols glowed faintly, pulsing like a heartbeat, as if calling to him.
Instinct drove him forward. His bare feet shuffled across the cold stone, echoing in the emptiness. He placed his hand on the door, and the moment he touched it, warmth surged through his palm. The symbols flared brighter, then dimmed, and with a groaning creak, the door began to open inward.
Beyond the door, a spiraling staircase wound upward into darkness.
The boy hesitated. Something deep within him whispered that this tower held the answers he sought—that if he climbed it, he might find out who he was, why he was here, and why his memories were locked away. But the same instinct also warned him of danger. The Tower wasn't just any place. It was a labyrinth, a trial, a place that tested those who dared enter.
He had no choice.
With one last glance at the empty room behind him, the boy stepped through the door and onto the first step of the staircase. As he did, the door slammed shut with a thunderous boom, sealing him inside.
The Tower had accepted him.
Each step was narrow and worn, but solid beneath his feet. He ascended cautiously, his heart beating louder with every twist and turn. The higher he climbed, the more oppressive the air became, thick with something he couldn't place—an ancient magic, perhaps, or something far more sinister.
Time seemed to slip away. He had no way of knowing how long he'd been climbing, minutes or hours. The silence was broken only by his shallow breathing and the faint hum of energy that seemed to grow stronger with every step.
Then he saw it.
A light—small and flickering—up ahead, just beyond the curve of the stairs. The boy quickened his pace, his legs burning with the effort. When he reached the source of the light, he found himself in another chamber, smaller than the one below, but just as eerie. A single torch flickered in a sconce on the wall, casting long shadows that danced across the stone floor.
And in the center of the room stood a pedestal.
Upon the pedestal rested an object: a book, old and bound in cracked leather, its cover engraved with the same strange symbols he had seen on the door. As he approached, the symbols began to glow faintly, reacting to his presence. His breath hitched.
This book… it was meant for him.
With trembling fingers, the boy reached out and touched the cover. The moment his skin made contact, the book sprang open, its pages flipping wildly as if blown by an invisible wind. His eyes widened as strange, shimmering letters began to form on the page, arranging themselves into words that he could somehow understand, though he didn't know the language.
**"To reclaim that which is lost, you must ascend. The Tower remembers, even if you do not."**
The boy's heart raced. He turned the page, eager for more, but the rest of the book was blank. Frustration gnawed at him, but the message was clear enough.
Ascend.
Suddenly, a name flickered in his mind like a candle's weak flame. It was faint, as if buried deep under layers of fog. But it was there—his name. He could remember **that** much at least.
"Igarashi… Shoichi," he murmured, the words feeling foreign on his tongue but familiar at the same time.
The realization struck him with a strange sense of comfort. His name was **Igarashi Shoichi**, but that was all. No other memories surfaced. He didn't know where he came from, who his family was, or why he had been placed in this tower.
With a deep breath, Shoichi tucked the book under his arm and turned back to the staircase. There was only one way forward, only one way to find the answers that eluded him. He had to climb, face whatever awaited him on the next floor—and every floor after that.
For somewhere, high above, lay the truth.
And perhaps… his memories.
Without another thought, Igarashi Shoichi continued upward, his footsteps echoing in the ever-darkening tower.