A sharp inhale.
The first thing she noticed was the silence—vast, empty, all-consuming. No growling, no flickering torchlight, no damp soil pressing against her.
Without noticing, she had returned to the white space.
Just silence.
Then came the pain.
It wasn’t sharp, not like the wolf’s fangs had been, but a deep, gnawing ache that curled around her bones. Phantom pressure lingered on her forearm, where the beast had bitten down, and for a horrifying moment, she thought she could still feel the sensation—teeth buried in flesh, skin splitting, the hot rush of blood spilling down her wrist.
Her breath hitched. She clenched her fingers, expecting agony, but there was none.
Blinking against the artificial white glow of the room, she forced herself to sit up. The motion sent a dull ache rippling through her muscles, a reminder of the battle that had nearly killed her. No—had killed her, or at least should have.
She raised her arm, peeling back what remained of her sleeve. The fabric was still torn and bloodstained, yet the wound beneath it had closed. Pink, raw, but not bleeding. The pain was there, a steady throb beneath the skin, but it lacked the urgent sting of an open injury.
Healing? No… not quite.
The familiar, floating blue panel shimmered into view before her, its letters flickering like candlelight.
[Congratulations, Entrant Y121-890310.]
[First Trial (Tutorial) Completed.]
Her throat felt dry.
Completed.
The words should have brought her relief, but instead, they felt hollow, as if spoken in a language she barely understood. Surviving that trial hadn’t felt like a victory—it had been desperation, pure and primal. The wolf had been starving, she had been bleeding, and the fight had been nothing short of brutal.
Her mind flickered back to those final moments—the wolf’s cry, the smell of burning fur, the way its body had convulsed before it stilled forever.
She shivered.
Even though the air in the room was neither hot nor cold, she felt a deep chill settle in her bones. The weight of what she had done—what she had been forced to do—pressed down on her chest like a heavy stone.
Could she do this again?
Would she have to?
A bitter laugh slipped past her lips. Of course she would. That was the whole point, wasn’t it?
She wasn’t here to survive.
She was here to escape. Ascend.
The words from the panel replayed in her mind, the ones she had read in the void before her trial began.
[Through trials, grow. Survive. Ascend.]
A sick feeling twisted in her gut.
She had survived, but she had also killed. That was the cost of survival in this place.
Her fists clenched.
If this was only the tutorial, then what came next?
The panel flickered again, displaying a new message.
[Next Stage Selection Available.]
[Select Your Path.]
Her lips parted slightly as she stared at the message, trying to make sense of it.
A choice?
A faint chime rang out, and the panel expanded. New words appeared beneath the glowing text, sharp and deliberate.
[Path of Strength]
~ For those who wish to wield power.
~ Face brutal challenges that forge your body and mind through combat.
[Path of Strategy]
~ For those who seek to outthink the Tower.
~ Puzzles, deception, and unseen dangers await those who tread this path.
[Path of Survival]
~ For those who endure.
~ With limited resources, every decision determines your fate.
Her gaze flickered between the three choices.
Strength. Strategy. Survival.
Her fingers twitched slightly at her sides. The Path of Strength seemed like the most straightforward—brute force, physical trials, battles like the one she had just faced.
But could she keep doing that?
If every stage meant another fight to the death, how long before her luck ran out?
The Path of Strategy was tempting. Deception, puzzles—it suggested something beyond raw physicality.
But what did “unseen dangers” mean? Was it worse to fight something with claws and teeth… or something she couldn’t even see coming?
Then there was Survival.
She exhaled slowly, considering the words again. Limited resources.
That meant she wouldn’t just be facing threats—it meant hunger, exhaustion, making do with what little she had.
The corners of her mouth twisted into a humorless smile.
She had already survived once before.
Could she do it again?
Her fingers hovered in the air as if she could touch the glowing panel, as if the choice wasn’t just words but something tangible.
But was this even a choice?
A bitter laugh slipped past her lips. No.
It never had been.
The Tower had already decided. She had been fighting to survive long before she stepped through its doors.
Her decision was made.
She reached forward—
[Selection Confirmed: Path of Survival.]
A shudder passed through the room, and the panel flickered violently, as though the Tower itself had reacted to her choice.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
Then, without warning—
Everything went dark.
Not the suffocating void of the Tower—a different kind of shadow. One cast by flickering lanterns, swaying above a sea of eager faces.
She was small then, no older than ten, standing on the tips of her toes behind a merchant’s stall, craning her neck to see over the gathered crowd.
It was the Festival of the Returned.
She had heard the stories.
The ones told by traveling merchants and whispered in the marketplaces—of men and women who entered the Tower and returned as something greater.
Heroes, touched by the divine.
And tonight, she would see one for herself.
A hush fell over the square as the procession arrived. A single man walked onto the stage.
She frowned.
The stories always spoke of champions—figures wreathed in light, stepping forward with their heads held high. But this man…
He looked wrong.
His robes hung loose over a frame that had withered beneath them. His shoulders hunched forward, as if the very air around him was pressing down on him.
His hair, dark at the roots, was streaked with silver despite his youth.
She had imagined something grander than this. Someone who glowed.
But instead, he looked hollow.
The murmurs around her started almost immediately.
—Is that him?
The people wanted to believe—no, they needed to believe. They had prepared songs, lit lanterns, and adorned the streets with banners.
The kingdom needed heroes.
They would not let the sight of this man ruin that.
An official stepped forward, clearing his throat.
—We honor those who climb the Tower! We honor those who return!
The cheers were hesitant at first, then louder. The official turned expectantly to the survivor, waiting for him to speak.
He didn’t.
His hands hung limp at his sides, his gaze unfocused. He stood among them, but he was not there.
A strange feeling twisted in her chest.
"Why won’t he talk?" she whispered to the old woman beside her.
The woman, a shopkeeper she sometimes helped in exchange for bread, didn’t meet her eyes. Instead, she stared straight ahead, lips pressed into a thin line.
"Sometimes, child," she said softly, "it is better not to ask."
The official stepped closer to the survivor, whispering something the crowd could not hear.
The man finally moved—his shoulders shook, and for a moment, she thought he might cry.
But then he laughed.
Low, bitter.
Like he understood something that no one else did.
The laughter sent a ripple through the crowd.
People shifted uncomfortably, but the official did not falter. He turned back to the people, voice rising above the unease.
"The Tower has granted us another champion!" he declared. "Rejoice!"
The crowd did.
Or at least, they pretended to.
The music started, the dancers stepped forward, and the celebration continued. The survivor was led away, disappearing into the shadows.
She remained where she stood, staring at the empty stage.
But she knew, even then that something was wrong.
But it wasn’t just the survivor on that stage. It wasn’t just the Tower.
It was everything.
The way the crowd cheered despite the unease in their eyes.
The way the festival continued as if the man’s hollow laughter had never happened.
The way people chose to believe in the lie rather than face what was standing right in front of them.
Even now, years later, she could still hear it—the distant drumbeats, the forced celebration, the survivor’s laughter echoing in her ears.
But the festival was long gone.
The drums weren’t playing anymore.
The sound was coming from somewhere else.
A low, rhythmic thudding.
Deep, steady. Like a heartbeat.
Her own.
She gasped sharply, the memory ripping away as she came back to herself.
The world lurched, and suddenly—she was falling.
The ground, the white walls, the very air around her vanished in an instant.
Cold wind tore past her skin.
No time to think. No time to scream.
Just the drop.
The sensation sent her stomach twisting into knots, her limbs flailing in the empty void. Her pulse pounded in her ears, mixing with the deafening rush of air—and then it stopped.
Not the fall—the sound.
Everything went silent.
Then—impact.
She hit the ground with force, hard enough to knock the breath from her lungs. Pain shot through her ribs and wound as she rolled onto her side, coughing, gasping.
Dirt.
Her fingers dug into the cold, damp soil beneath her. Not polished stone. Not the smooth surface of the white room.
The air was thick—too thick. Damp. Heavy. It carried a scent that set her teeth on edge.
Rot.
Slowly, she pushed herself up, blinking against the dimness. Shadows stretched long around her, shifting with the faint flicker of—
Firelight.
She turned her head.
In the distance, something was burning.
Not a massive blaze, but small, controlled flames, casting long, twisting shadows against what looked like… wooden structures? Buildings?
A village.
But there were no voices. No sounds of people moving.
No signs of life.
A sharp ding rang out, and the familiar blue panel appeared before her.
[Second Trial: Commencing.]
Somewhere behind her, a door creaked open.
She wasn’t alone.
A slow, heavy sound—wood groaning as if it had not been moved in years. The noise sent a shiver crawling up her spine.
She didn’t turn immediately.
Her breath came in quiet, measured exhales as she crouched lower, pressing a hand into the damp soil.
The scent of rot was thick, clinging to her skin, seeping into her lungs.
She scanned her surroundings.
The village stretched before her, if it could even be called that. Wooden houses, or what remained of them, stood in broken clusters, their walls caved in, roofs half-collapsed. The wood was dark, warped with moisture and decay.
Some structures had doors barely hanging from rusted hinges; others had been left open entirely, gaping like hollow mouths.
The fires she had seen earlier burned low in crude braziers, scattered along the dirt path. The flames crackled weakly.
But no people.
No movement.
Nothing but the wind slithering through the empty streets.
[Objective: Survive Until Dawn.]
She stiffened.
The panel had returned, glowing faintly in the dim light. The words were simple, but they carried weight.
Not escape. Not fight.
Just… survive.
Her grip tightened against the dirt. The Tower never gave anything without cost. If it only required her to last until morning, then it meant—
She wasn’t alone.
The door behind her moved again.
A whisper of motion, barely audible over the wind.
She turned, slowly.
A building stood behind her, larger than the others. An inn, maybe?
The wooden beams sagged, and its second floor looked like it had been left to rot. The door, thick and weathered, was now ajar—just enough to see inside.
Darkness pooled beyond the threshold.
A single, weak lantern flickered within.
The space between her shoulders tightened.
She wasn’t foolish enough to step inside.
Instead, she listened.
Silence.
Then—a shift.
Not a sound, not a clear movement, but a… presence. The kind that made the hairs on the back of her neck rise.
Something was in there.
Watching.
Waiting.
Her pulse quickened.
—[The First Night Begins.]
The air changed.
The wind died. The weak flames in the braziers flickered once, twice—then dimmed, as if something had sucked the warmth from them.
And then—
A sound.
Not from the inn.
From the street ahead.
Slow. Shuffling. Uneven footsteps.
She didn’t move.
Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, her breath shallow as she waited, listened.
The footsteps stopped.
Silence.
And then—
A voice.
A low, rasping whisper, curling through the darkness.
“...Are you lost?”
She clenched her fists.
She had survived the first trial.
She would survive this one.