The moment Jobaer touched the obelisk, the world around him dissolved into a swirling void. Colors danced and twisted—gold, black, and silver—forming patterns that were both hypnotic and unsettling. The air felt alive, pressing against him as if assessing his very soul.
A disembodied voice echoed, deep and resonant, cutting through the void.
"You have chosen the Trial of Heaven. This path is not for the faint-hearted. Death will be your companion, and suffering your teacher. To ascend is to prove your worth to the Tower itself. Are you prepared?"
Jobaer opened his mouth to reply, but before any sound could escape, the space around him shattered like glass, the fragments falling into an endless abyss below.
Arrival at the Staircase of Trials
The void dissipated abruptly, leaving Jobaer standing in a surreal, otherworldly realm. His breath caught as he took in the surroundings. The Staircase of Trials stretched before him, a monumental structure seemingly crafted by gods. Each step was made of a glowing crystalline material that shimmered like liquid moonlight, its surface etched with ancient runes that pulsed faintly, as if alive.
The staircase spiraled upward endlessly, disappearing into a storm of swirling clouds that crackled with golden lightning. The air was thick with energy, humming with a power that vibrated against Jobaer's skin. It was oppressive yet invigorating, a sensation that filled him with both dread and awe.
Around the staircase was a vast, desolate plain. The ground was a mixture of cracked stone and patches of glass-like obsidian, reflecting distorted images of the steps above. Jagged mountains loomed in the far distance, their peaks piercing through an eerie, blood-red sky. The horizon was both infinite and unreachable, giving the unsettling impression that this place existed outside the bounds of normal reality.
Small orbs of light hovered sporadically in the air, flickering like will-o'-the-wisps. They illuminated the area with a ghostly glow, casting long, distorted shadows. Despite their soft appearance, they buzzed faintly, releasing an occasional crackle of energy.
The environment was eerily silent, save for the rhythmic sound of thunder rolling in the distance. Each clap echoed through the realm, reverberating through Jobaer's chest like the beating of some ancient, celestial heart.
To his left, a translucent blue panel materialized, floating midair. Its glow was soft but persistent, drawing Jobaer's attention. As his eyes scanned the display, the stark simplicity of its information sent a chill down his spine:
Name: Jobaer Al-Fahim
Race: Human
Strength: 10
Agility: 10
Defense: 10
Mental Power: 13
The presence of his stats felt surreal, a tangible representation of his capabilities reduced to cold numbers. His gaze lingered on the 13 under "Mental Power," a small advantage born of his reincarnated soul. Yet, it felt pitifully insignificant compared to the colossal staircase towering before him.
In his right hand, a weapon materialized in a flash of light. It was a basic steel sword, plain but sturdy, with a leather-wrapped hilt and a blade polished to a dull sheen. Though unremarkable in design, the weight of the weapon was oddly reassuring in his grip.
The disembodied voice from earlier echoed again, resonating in the charged air:
"Climb, suffer, and grow. Each step will test your resolve. Each victory will forge your strength. Ascend."
Jobaer stared at the first step. It seemed so close, deceptively simple, yet he could feel the invisible pressure emanating from it, a forewarning of the trials ahead. The faint glow of the runes on its surface flickered like a heartbeat, as if daring him to approach.
The staircase wasn't just a physical challenge; it was alive, an entity in its own right. It exuded an ancient aura, as though it had been there since the dawn of time, watching countless challengers attempt to conquer its steps.
The skies above groaned as another bolt of golden lightning streaked through the clouds, momentarily illuminating the expanse. For a brief moment, Jobaer thought he saw faint silhouettes within the storm—phantom figures watching from the heavens, their presence both ominous and inspiring.
He glanced back at the ground where he had appeared, noticing faint traces of footprints etched into the cracked stone. Some were shallow and faint, suggesting those who had turned back early. Others were deeper, leading toward the staircase and disappearing altogether, hinting at those who had climbed and were never seen again.
The oppressive silence of the place bore down on him. No birds sang, no wind stirred, and no signs of life existed beyond the staircase and the glowing orbs. It felt like a space between worlds, a realm created solely for the purpose of testing and breaking those who dared to enter.
Taking a deep breath, Jobaer approached the first step. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat a mix of anticipation and fear. The weight of his reincarnated memories pressed against his mind, whispering doubts and insecurities. Yet, beneath it all, a single thought rang clear:
This is my destiny.
As his foot hovered above the glowing step, the very air seemed to thrum with expectation. The moment his sole touched the crystalline surface, the world shifted, and the trial began.
The First Step: Crushing Weight
Taking a deep breath, Jobaer approached the first step. The moment his foot touched the luminous surface, a sudden force pressed down on him. Gravity doubled, slamming into his body like a hammer. His knees buckled, and his chest felt as if it might collapse under the strain.
Gritting his teeth, Jobaer forced himself to stand. Sweat already beaded on his forehead, and he hadn't even begun in earnest.
Before he could adjust to the crushing weight, a whistling sound cut through the air. Arrows.
From both sides, a barrage of arrows flew toward him, their tips gleaming in the faint light. Reacting on instinct, Jobaer swung his sword, deflecting the first arrow. A notification blinked on the panel:
Strength +1
More arrows came, faster this time. Jobaer twisted his body to avoid two and raised his blade to block another.
Agility +1
Defense +1
An arrow grazed his shoulder, tearing through his shirt and leaving a sharp sting. Just as he thought he might be overwhelmed, a warm light enveloped him, healing the wound instantly.
"Every step heals me," Jobaer muttered, realization dawning. "But the pain... it doesn't go away."
The Sinful Illusions Begin
As Jobaer planted his foot firmly on the third step, the atmosphere around him shifted dramatically. The shimmering glow of the crystalline staircase dimmed, and the red sky above dissolved into a suffocating black void. An unnatural cold crept into his bones, and the faint hum of energy was replaced by an eerie, oppressive silence.
The runes beneath his feet flared to life, bathing him in a cold, white light. His surroundings blurred, and before he could react, the world transformed around him.
He was no longer on the staircase. Instead, he found himself standing in a lavish hall, gilded with gold and marble. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their crystals refracting light in a dazzling array. Tables were laden with decadent feasts—roasted meats, steaming bread, and goblets filled with wine that shimmered like liquid fire. The air was thick with the scent of spices and perfumes, intoxicatingly sweet yet suffocating.
Before Jobaer could process the sudden change, figures began to emerge from the shadows. They were draped in fine silks, their faces hidden behind ornate masks. Each movement they made was fluid, graceful, and yet unnervingly deliberate. They laughed and whispered among themselves, their voices echoing like ghosts in the vast hall.
A figure stepped forward—a man clad in a crimson robe, his mask adorned with the golden symbol of a bull. His voice was deep and commanding.
"Welcome, challenger, to the Trial of Wrath."
The words struck Jobaer like a physical blow. He instinctively gripped the hilt of his sword, his pulse quickening.
"You dare ascend the Tower, yet your soul is marred by anger. Can you withstand the fury within you? Can you conquer your wrath?"
The world around him twisted again. The opulent hall dissolved, replaced by a battlefield soaked in blood. The air reeked of iron and death. Jobaer found himself standing amidst the chaos—soldiers clashing with swords, arrows raining from the sky, and screams piercing the air.
Before he could move, an enemy charged at him, a twisted version of himself. The figure's face was contorted with rage, eyes glowing with a fiery hatred that mirrored every moment of anger Jobaer had ever felt in his life.
The fight was brutal. Each strike from his opponent felt personal, as if the embodiment of his wrath sought to consume him entirely. The weight of his sword grew heavier with each parry, and the ground beneath him seemed to sink with every step.
Greed's Temptation
When Jobaer finally defeated the wrathful figure, the battlefield faded, and he was back on the staircase—but only for a moment. The fourth step thrust him into another illusion.
This time, he was in a cavern filled with treasures beyond imagination. Gold coins were piled high, jewels sparkled like stars, and ancient relics emitted a soft, magical glow. The air was thick with the scent of wealth, a heady mix of old parchment, metal, and incense.
At the center of the cavern was a pedestal holding a single item: a golden chalice encrusted with diamonds. The voice from before echoed once more, softer this time, almost seductive.
"Take it, Jobaer. You deserve it. All of this could be yours."
As his fingers twitched toward the chalice, a shadow emerged—a twisted version of himself, this time exuding an aura of greed. The shadow laughed, its voice dripping with mockery.
"How far would you go for power? How much would you sacrifice for wealth? Prove your worth by resisting... or surrender and claim what is yours."
The temptation was suffocating. Jobaer could feel his heart racing as he grappled with the desire to take the chalice. Every step toward it felt like a betrayal of his true self, yet the allure was almost impossible to resist.
When he finally pulled away, the shadow lunged at him. Their battle was not one of physical strength but of willpower. Every blow he struck seemed to weaken the shadow, but it also drained him. By the time he defeated it, he was left kneeling on the cavern floor, gasping for breath.
Pride's Fall
The fifth step brought him into a world of towering statues, each depicting a version of himself in exaggerated glory. One statue showed him as a mighty warrior, another as a wise scholar, and yet another as a benevolent ruler. The statues seemed to radiate approval, their stone eyes glinting with admiration.
The voice returned, now laced with mockery.
"Is this not what you seek, Jobaer? To be remembered, revered, and worshipped? Climb higher, and this could all be yours."
As he walked among the statues, their expressions began to twist. What once seemed like admiration turned to disdain. Their eyes followed him, their mouths curling into sneers.
One statue crumbled to life, stepping down from its pedestal. It was him, but larger, grander, and far more menacing. The stone Jobaer spoke, its voice deep and resonant.
"You are unworthy of this glory. Prove that you can bear the weight of pride without succumbing to it!"
The ensuing battle was grueling. Each strike of his sword against the stone figure sent shockwaves up his arm. The creature's blows were heavy, leaving cracks in the ground around him. It taunted him with every movement, dredging up his deepest insecurities.
By the time Jobaer defeated it, he was trembling, his body battered and his mind reeling. Yet, he pressed forward, stepping back onto the staircase.
With every step, Jobaer's exhaustion deepened. The illusions were relentless, each more harrowing than the last. Yet, as he climbed, something within him changed. His movements became sharper, his mind more focused. The wounds he sustained from each trial were healed when he ascended the next step, but the mental scars lingered, shaping him into someone stronger, more resilient.
He was only halfway through the staircase, but the trials ahead loomed like an insurmountable mountain. And yet, despite the pain, Jobaer gritted his teeth, his resolve unwavering. This was only the beginning, and he refused to fall.
The Weight of Progress
Each step doubled the gravity. By the twentieth step, Jobaer felt as though he was carrying a mountain on his back. His muscles screamed in protest, his breath came in ragged gasps, and his vision blurred from the strain.
The arrows came faster now, more numerous and from unpredictable angles. Jobaer's movements grew more fluid as he adapted to the relentless assault.
Swinging his sword at an arrow, he felt a surge of power course through him as his strength increased. Dodging another, he felt his agility sharpen. Every action contributed to his growth, but the pain was unrelenting.
Strength: 15
Agility: 14
Defense: 12
Mental Power: 17
The Trial Deepens
By the time Jobaer reached the thirtieth step, his body was drenched in sweat, and his breaths came in ragged gasps. Each step had been a battlefield, every inch a grueling fight against gravity, pain, and an endless storm of arrows. The oppressive silence of the staircase amplified his exhaustion, and the glow of the crystalline steps seemed dimmer than before.
The moment his foot landed on the thirtieth step, the gravity doubled again, slamming into him like a tidal wave. His knees buckled, and he collapsed forward, his palms slamming against the cool surface of the step. His arms shook under the weight, and his muscles screamed in protest.
The runes on the step glimmered faintly, healing his wounds and replenishing his stamina, but the momentary relief was drowned out by the relentless pressure that bore down on him. Jobaer clenched his fists and forced himself to rise, the faint whisper of resolve driving him forward.
Above him, the staircase stretched endlessly, its crystalline surface shimmering faintly in the dim red light that bathed the trial realm. The air was thick with tension, a palpable reminder of the hardships yet to come.
The Sinful Illusions Continue
The illusions returned with a vengeance as he climbed the thirty-first step. This time, he was plunged into a nightmarish world of gluttony. Tables laden with extravagant feasts stretched out endlessly before him, the scent of roasted meats, spiced wines, and fresh-baked bread tantalizing his senses.
At first, it seemed harmless. But as he took a hesitant step forward, the food began to twist and writhe, transforming into grotesque, rotting masses. The stench of decay filled the air, and the once-inviting banquet turned into a horrifying spectacle.
Figures emerged from the shadows, their faces gaunt and hollow, their eyes glowing with an unnatural hunger. They lunged at him, their skeletal hands clawing for the food—and for him.
"Why resist?" one of them hissed, its voice a grotesque mixture of hunger and malice. "Take it. Consume. Indulge."
Jobaer raised his sword and swung, the blade slicing through the figures with ease. But for every one he struck down, another took its place, their whispers growing louder and more insistent.
"You've fought enough," another voice cooed. "Why suffer? Why endure? Feast and forget your pain."
The temptation was insidious, worming its way into his mind. His stomach growled, and the exhaustion gnawing at his body made the idea of surrendering seem almost reasonable. But deep down, he knew that giving in would mean failure—not just of the trial, but of himself.
With a roar of defiance, he drove his sword into the ground, the impact shattering the illusion. The banqueting hall dissolved, and he found himself back on the staircase, the weight of the trial pressing down on him once more.
The Endless Arrows
The thirty-fifth step marked the return of the arrow storm, this time fiercer than ever. The sky darkened, and streaks of light rained down from all directions. Jobaer's reflexes were sharpened by the previous waves, but the sheer speed and unpredictability of the arrows left little room for error.
Raising his basic sword, he deflected the first barrage, the impact reverberating through his arms.
[Defense +1]
A second wave followed, and he dodged with a desperate roll, feeling the sharp breeze of an arrow grazing past his cheek.
[Agility +1]
One arrow caught him off-guard, piercing his thigh. Pain shot through him, and he cried out, but he swung his blade in retaliation, shattering an incoming arrow mid-flight.
[Strength +1]
The notifications flashed in his vision, but they were small victories against an overwhelming enemy. His arms grew heavier with each parry, his legs burned with every dodge, and his focus was stretched to its limit. Yet, he persisted, each action building him up, pushing him closer to survival.
The glowing runes on the steps offered fleeting moments of healing and rejuvenation, but they also marked the start of a new onslaught. With every step he climbed, the arrows became faster and deadlier, forcing him to adapt or perish.
The Weight of the Climb
The fortieth step brought another surge in gravity, nearly flattening him against the ground. His vision blurred, and the air felt like it was made of lead.
Jobaer groaned as he pushed himself to his feet, every movement requiring immense effort. The crystalline steps pulsed faintly beneath him, their light a cruel reminder of how far he had to go.
His stats had risen—defense, strength, agility, and even mental power—but they felt like insignificant drops in an ocean of exhaustion. The staircase seemed alive, its presence oppressive and malevolent. The further he climbed, the more it felt as though the Tower itself was testing his resolve.
At the forty-fifth step, the illusions returned, this time plunging him into a world of wrath. He found himself standing amidst a battlefield, surrounded by faceless soldiers locked in violent combat. The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood and the deafening clash of steel.
Figures resembling people he knew appeared before him, their faces twisted in rage. Rafan, his grandparents, even his long-lost parents—they all accused him, their voices dripping with anger.
"You left us!" Rafan shouted, his voice echoing with venom. "You abandoned us for your selfish dreams!"
"You'll never be worthy," his grandfather said, his eyes cold and unyielding. "You'll fail, just like everyone else."
The accusations hit him harder than any arrow, and for a moment, Jobaer faltered. But as the figures advanced on him, he gripped his sword tightly, his knuckles whitening.
"I won't stop," he said, his voice trembling but resolute. "Not for anyone. Not for anything."
He swung his blade, the motion cutting through the illusions and scattering them into fragments of light.
Breaking Point
By the time he reached the fiftieth step, Jobaer was barely holding on. His body ached, his mind was frayed, and every fiber of his being screamed for him to stop. The gravity pressed down on him like a mountain, and the arrows had left his arms trembling and his legs unsteady.
The glowing runes on the step healed his wounds and soothed his pain, but the mental toll remained. He stood there, gasping for air, his vision swimming.
"I can't stop," he whispered to himself, his voice hoarse. "I won't stop."
With trembling hands, he gripped his sword and looked up at the staircase ahead. The climb was far from over, but his resolve burned brighter than ever.
And so, despite the pain, the exhaustion, and the overwhelming odds, Jobaer prepared to take his next step.
Midway Point: The Fiftieth Step
By the time Jobaer reached the fiftieth step, his body was battered and his mind frayed. The gravity was fifty times normal, and the arrows flew so fast that even dodging felt impossible. His arms trembled, his legs threatened to give out, and his hands bled from gripping his sword too tightly.
Yet, every step healed him, and every action made him stronger. His stats reflected his growth:
Strength: 25
Agility: 22
Defense: 20
Mental Power: 20
The trial was far from over, but Jobaer felt a flicker of hope. He had survived the first half, and while the second promised even greater challenges, he knew he couldn't stop now.
Looking up at the remaining fifty steps, Jobaer took a shaky breath.
"I will not break," he whispered, his voice hoarse but resolute.
And with that, he prepared to face the rest of the trial.