The warm air that wrapped itself around Minho felt deceptively inviting. There was an actual stillness in the space, silent almost to the point of being maddening. He looked around to find himself in a huge, open chamber of polished obsidian: jagged spires jutting up from the floor like broken teeth, glinting faintly under the dim, sourceless light; shadows danced along the walls-twisting and stretching unnaturally, like something alive.
Minho's heartbeat slowed to the oppressive silence. His instincts screamed danger, a sensation honed from years of survival. The Tower didn't give reprieves; it fed on conflict.
He drew his sword, the blade glinting faintly as if reacting to the malevolent energy that saturated the room. He moved forward cautiously, each step echoing in the void.
The first sign of life came as a faint sound, a scraping, like metal dragging across stone. Minho froze, wheeling sharply toward the noise. The shadows pooled and coalesced near one of the spires, congealing into a humanoid figure. Its body was angular, made of shifting shards of blackened glass that refracted light with a sickening shimmer.
The creature-Shardborn, Minho instinctively dubbed it-turned its featureless head toward him. A sharp, guttural hiss escaped its nonexistent mouth and it lunged forward.
Minho barely had time to react. He sidestepped, bringing his sword up just in time to deflect a serrated claw aimed at his throat. The impact jarred his arm, sending vibrations up to his shoulder. The Shardborn was monstrous in its strength, unnaturally fast in its movements.
It spun around, claws flashing in a deadly arc. Minho ducked-the whistling wind of the attack clipped the top of his head-and thrust upward with a quick strike, his blade catching in the creature's torso. His sword carved through its crystalline body with a screeching wail, sending shards scattering across the floor.
The Shardborn staggered, but it didn't fall. Instead, it burst apart. From the shards of its body emerged two smaller figures, leaner and quicker, its form repeated.
Minho cursed under his breath. The Tower never fought fair.
The two new Shardborn flanked him, their movements unnervingly synchronized. Minho pivoted on his heel, keeping them both in view. One lunged low while the other swiped high. He rolled to the side, barely avoiding both strikes, and plunged his blade into the nearest creature's side.
Instead of recoiling, it wrapped a jagged arm around his sword, trapping it. Minho felt the weapon grow hot in his grip as cracks of light spread across the Shardborn's body. Before he could react, it detonated in an explosion of searing shards.
The explosion sent Minho flying backward. He slammed into a spire and agony sheared through his shoulder. He growled through his teeth and struggled to his feet. Blood welled from a cut on his temple, running warm and sticky. His sword was gone, buried in the rubble somewhere.
The other Shardborn stepped closer, the awkward angles of its body droning with the energy of bad will. Minho's hand closed reflexively over the only thing on his belt: a throwing dagger he tugged it free; small, in his palm.
The creature lunged again, and this time, he could tell it was aimed at his chest. Minho dodged to the side at the last second, swinging upwards with the knife. The blade caught the arm, slicing clean through.
It didn't flinch. The detached arm reattached almost immediately, pieces snapping into place like magnets. Minho retreated a step, his head pounding. These things weren't just tough-they were regenerating.
His foot brushed something solid. Glancing down, he saw his sword half-buried under shards of obsidian. The Shardborn took advantage of his distraction, charging forward with both claws outstretched.
With a desperate lunge, Minho dove for his weapon, rolling just in time to avoid being impaled. The sword he grasped, still on the ground was turned back toward him by an upward slash - the blade cleaved the torso of the creature in two.
But this time, the pieces didn't reform; they shattered into a million pieces of dead glass. Minho let out a sharp exhalation, his hands bracing onto his knees. His body screamed in protest, his breathing fitful, but the immediate danger appeared to have passed.
Or so he thought.
A low rumble reverberated through the room; the concrete beneath his feet vibrated. Shadows thickened around him, bleeding into the room like ink was spread in water. The air grew cold; every breath left clouds of mist.
From the darkest corner of the room, something gigantic stirred. Minho turned, and at what had made the disturbance, his blood ran cold.
A monstrous figure emerged from the shadows, towering over him. The body was a grotesque amalgamation of Shardborn shards that had fused together into a single hulking abomination. The head of this abomination was a jagged, asymmetrical mass with a single glowing eye in the center, which burned with a malevolent crimson light.
Minho stepped back, his grip on his sword tight. This thing was different from the others—bigger, faster, and no doubt much deadlier.
The creature let out a rattling roar; the sound bounced off the walls of the chamber. Then, in an instant, it charged.
Minho barely had time to defend himself. The creature threw him across the floor, and his sword barely deflected the blow. He struggled to his feet, swinging wildly as the creature closed in.
Each strike bit into the monster, but it was as if its shards absorbed the blow. Its counterattack came with brutal efficiency, massive claws tearing at the ground with a piercing smack wherever they touched.
Minho dodged this way and that, each movement a hair's breadth from disaster. His muscles screamed in protest, but he pushed on, knowing one mistake would be death.
The monster's eye flared, and a beam of crimson light shot toward him. Minho dove to the side, the searing energy grazing his arm. Pain erupted, but he forced himself to keep moving.
The fight was a desperate dance, his mind racing for a solution. The creature was relentless, its attacks unending. He needed an opening-a weakness to exploit.
His gaze darted to its eye, the only part of its body that seemed vulnerable. But the chance to strike would be suicidal.
When the creature attacked again, Minho saw a spire close by; an idea struck him-a crazy one, but it was his only hope.
He sprinted for the spire, the monster hot on his heels. Reaching the base, he leaped onto the jagged surface, using it as a makeshift ladder. The spire shook beneath his weight, but he climbed doggedly, the creature roaring frustration below.
At the top, he turned to face the beast. It clawed at the spire, trying to reach him, its massive frame too unwieldy to climb.
Minho steadied his breath, clenching his grip on his sword. One chance.
The creature's eye began to glow once more as it charged another beam. Minho timely jumped off the spire just in time for when the beam fired, obliterating the structure.
He dove down at the monster, his sword pointed at its eye. Time almost came to a standstill as the blade connected, piercing the glowing orb.
The creature let out an earsplitting scream, thrashing violently. Minho held on, driving the sword deeper as the monster's body began to disintegrate, shards flying in every direction.
The light in its eye flickered and died. The beast collapsed, its body crumbling into a heap of inert shards.
Minho rolled to the ground, gasping for air. His body was battered, his mind frayed, but he was alive.
The chamber began to shake violently, cracks spreading across the obsidian floor. A deafening roar filled the air-not from the creature, but from the Tower itself.
Minho looked up to see the ceiling splitting open, revealing a swirling vortex of light and shadow.
The ground gave way beneath him before he could do anything, and he tumbled into the void once more.