Minho stepped into darkness.
The heavy door groaned behind him, then sealed shut, releasing the echo into space. A shiver ran down his spine. The air was thick, almost tangible, pressing upon his skin like some unseeable weight. Every breath was sluggish, as if he was moving through something thicker than air. The silence wasn't empty-it *held* something. Something huge and unseen, waiting for release.
Faint light fluttered ahead, not fire, not glowstone, but some dim, pulsing illumination that shifted hue with every second. As he drew closer, it became clear the space was unlike anything he had previously encountered within the Tower. The walls were endless, black, and smooth, like polished onyx, yet covered in twisting, spiraling symbols that pulsed-in, *breathed*-in rhythm with his own heartbeat.
The only structure stood at the very center of the chamber. Obsidian-like, impossibly smooth, yet shifting as if alive. Its surface pulsed like slow-moving ink, tendrils of light and shadow coiling within. Something about it gnawed at Minho's senses-a feeling not of danger, but inevitability.
Then, a whisper.
It didn't come from the air. It didn't pass through his ears. It *bypassed* them, slipping into his mind like a thought that wasn't his own.
*"You have come far… But you were always meant to return."*
Minho straightened rigidly. His fingers wrapped tightly around the hilt of his sword, scanning for any movement, but there was nothing-no enemy, no figure speaking. Just the void, the shifting walls, and that looming structure before him. The voice bore no weight, no tone, neither male nor female. And yet, it felt deeply *familiar*.
Then, the walls *changed*.
A ripple spread across their surface, and the darkness *bled* into something else. Images formed-not carved, not drawn, but moving like reflections cast upon water. At first, Minho saw a *city*. Vast spires of silver and stone stretched into the sky, their surfaces glowing with ethereal light. At their center stood a familiar shape-the Tower. Not broken, not a prison of shifting floors, but whole. A monument to something grand.
Then suddenly, the light dimmed and the scene *warped*.
The people who had gathered in reverence started to *twist*. Flesh melted into metal, bones sharpened to blades, their bodies contorting into unnatural shapes, mouths stretched in silent screams as their humanity was torn away. What had once been a city of awe became a writhing pit of horrors. And then it was as if the city *collapsed* into its own making.
A sickening certainty settled in Minho's gut.
This was not a vision.
It was *history*.
The voice returned, quieter now, almost sad.
* "The Tower wasn't built. It was born."*
Minho's breath hitched.
Not built. *Born*.
The weight of those words flattened every assumption he'd had about this place. He'd thought of the Tower as a test, a maze, a thing constructed to sift through warriors-a device built for a purpose. This-this was it, was *much* *older*. That it existed long before ever a human *climbed*.
The beings he had fought-the Wardens, the shifting horrors of flesh and metal-they weren't just *guardians*. They were *victims*.
The Tower had *made* them.
Minho's hands curled into fists. He thought back to the Warden's words before their brutal fight. *"You never had a choice."*
Was this what it had meant? That all who entered the Tower were on the same path of doom, that they, too, would become part of it-twisted, shaped, molded into something beyond themselves?
A deep, resonant hum filled the chamber. At the center of the room, the obsidian structure pulsed.
Then-
A notification fluttered before his eyes. The color was different from before, not the sharp, artificial blue of the Tower's system. Words shimmered-twisting in some ancient script-but Minho understood. Like they were *etched* into his bones.
---
>
> **The Heart of the Tower stirs.**
> **Your path has been decided.**
---
Minho retreated a step, his heart thundering against his ribs.
*"My path?"*
Every battle he had fought, every floor survived, every creature torn to shreds-he'd done it all for a reason: to make it through. But now, with crawling recognition, one realisation crept into his mind. His battle-or was it that he was being driven to this very place?
The Tower had marked him. Rewarded him in ways it hadn't rewarded others. The strange, nameless status window. The healing. The *recognition*.
This wasn't just some grand mechanism observing him from a distance.
The Tower was *choosing*.
And it had chosen *him*.
The obsidian structure *shuddered*.
A deep, resonant crack split down its center, jagged as a wound. From within a swirling *void* was revealed-not blackness, but something deeper. Something that did not merely *lack* light, but *devoured* it. The same eerie glow pulsed within, the same shifting light that bled through the walls of the floors below.
And from within that void-
Something *stirred*.
Minho didn't budge. His body wouldn't. Not from fear, but from something more deeply rooted in his being-a sense that whatever it was beyond the entrance knew him well. Not as some kind of invader. Not as a fighter. But as one of its own.
A slow exhalation came out of his mouth.
Everything within screamed for him to turn back.
To press the ignore button on this.
To not go this route.
And yet, turning back wasn't an option anymore.
There never had been.
He stepped forward.
The darkness *welcomed him*.
---