Nathan found himself lying on the cold, polished marble floor of an immense chamber. The air was thick with the acrid stench of smoke and scorched stone. An incessant beeping echoed through the vast space, mingling with the distant crackle of still-burning fires. His thoughts moved with a sluggishness he hadn’t experienced in a long time. His body felt numb, and each breath came in sharp, painful bursts that stabbed into his chest.

For a while, he lay there, disoriented, as swirling colours and glaring lights in his vision slowly sharpened into recognizable shapes. No coherent thoughts formed in his mind, but a profound sense of wrongness gnawed at him. The source was elusive, but the feeling grew stronger with each passing moment.

Then, as if a bubble had burst, a flood of memories and pain surged through him all at once. He gasped as his head felt like it was about to split open. He had been battling the guardian of the 43rd floor. Something must have gone terribly wrong—it must have directly hit him with an attack. Though the precise reason for his current state was unclear, he knew one thing for sure: he needed to get up. His team needed him, or Tom would have to face the guardian alone to protect Mia and Adam.

Groaning from the mental strain, he attempted to prop himself up with his right arm—only to find that nothing happened. It took him a moment to realize that he was still sprawled on the floor. He commanded his battered body to move again, but when nothing happened, he finally turned his gaze to where his right arm should have been—and froze in horror.

The entire right side of his body was missing. His arm and leg were gone, and his torso was marred with horrific burns. It was then that he became fully aware of the searing pain still throbbing through his head. He moved his left hand to his face and discovered, to his horror, that it felt like melted wax—his right eye was missing, just like his extremities.

Nausea surged within him, bile rising in his throat, but he fought it down. He had always known he might end up like this, he reminded himself. People far more skilled than he had perished against lesser foes. Gathering his mental strength, he activated one of his skills: Spectre's Mind. Instantly, the pain and his emotions receded into the background. He was still aware of the agony and dread, but for now, they were subdued.

He checked his qi reserves—enough for about three hours if he continued using this skill. That was the time he had before everything would come crashing back. He had three hours to devise a plan, and of course, he had one. He had always anticipated this possibility.

He took a moment to assess the situation. The guardian must be dead; otherwise, he wouldn’t be alive. The absence of his party members meant they were either critically injured or dead. He needed to search for survivors—having another perspective would make planning easier.

Slowly, he forced himself to his feet and inspected his reflection on the floor. His short black hair was mostly singed away, and one side of his gaunt face was charred to the point of looking skeletal. Burns covered most of his body, so severe that he could no longer feel them, his nerves obliterated just as thoroughly as the rest of him.

Surveying himself, he had to admit he fit the title the tower had bestowed upon him—the Phantom Spear. He resembled a dead man walking, a spectre returned to haunt the living. As he scanned the room, he didn’t see his spear—it must have been destroyed or lost. A disappointment, though he was in no condition to wield it.

His gaze took in the vast chamber now that his thoughts were clearer. Hellfire still roared in several places, the flames hotter than physical fire should ever be. Shattered marble columns lay in ruins, with enormous chunks of stone scattered across the floor. Thorny plants had erupted through the ground in numerous spots, likely summoned by Mia during the fierce battle.

Emotions churned in his mind as he spotted a charred husk huddled behind a tangle of enormous vines. It was undoubtedly one of his party members, though the body was so thoroughly incinerated that he couldn’t identify who it had been. He knew the sight would haunt him in the days to come, though it wasn’t the first time he faced the loss of comrades. From his time in the army to his struggles in the tower, he did what he always did—lock the memories away in a mental box and shove it into the depths of his mind. So long as he kept moving, kept occupied, the memories wouldn’t trouble him. But he knew that when he finally let his guard down, when he sought rest, there would be yet another ghost to pursue him until the day he died.

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Finally, he found the guardian—a towering titan of a being. Even in death, it loomed large, its massive frame defiant. Two of its colossal arms still held weapons, propping it up, while the other two were raised toward the sky. Its skin was a deep, angry red, marred by veins of what seemed to be molten metal, though their once-brilliant shine had faded. Clad only in tattered furs, its physique was a display of inhuman muscle, and its facial features were brutishly distorted by any human standard.

Its mouth was locked in a final, silent scream, and six twisted horns crowned its head like a grotesque diadem. Impaled through its eye was his spear, with smouldering blood still dripping from the wound. A demon warlord—one of such immense power it could have annihilated every human on old Earth. Yet, Nathan had managed to defeat it. He allowed himself a grim smile—at least he wouldn’t face the afterlife alone. Though, if everything went as planned, he wouldn’t be dying at all.

A faint sound reached his ears, coming from a part of the room hidden from view. Slowly and with great effort, he dragged his battered body toward the noise.

At last, he discovered a living member of his party. The man was slumped against a massive chunk of marble. His shattered shield lay beside him, and his armour had melted and fused with large patches of his skin. His entire lower body appeared to have been severed, leaving him in a state perhaps worse than Nathan’s own.

“Nathan,” Tom croaked, his voice barely a whisper. “Tom,” Nathan replied. They locked eyes and stared at each other in silence.

Finally, Nathan focused on a spatial ring embedded in his ribcage, one known only to him. A round object materialized in his hand. It seemed to undulate ever so slightly, existing in dimensions beyond human comprehension. “Inspect it,” Nathan said.

Mythic Consumable: Mithril Golem Core – Chronomancy

The undamaged core of the Golem guarding the exit of the 40th floor. Sacrifice all Skills, Levels, Perks, Titles, and Classes in order to revert your subjective timeline to the moment the Tower first arrived on your world. Using this grants the perk Lone Wolf. Only one Mithril Golem Core – Chronomancy can exist per subjective timeline.

Perk: Lone Wolf

The User can no longer form or join any parties, clans, or organizations. The user’s stats are reduced by 50% if not alone in combat. Upon death, the user’s soul is erased in all timelines.

Tom took a moment to read the text before a quiet chuckle escaped him. “You bastard,” he said, “always had a way out, didn’t you? So why are you still here?”

“Well, I need a way to beat the tower, and I need to do it on my own. Figured two minds might have better ideas than one.”

Nathan lowered himself to sit beside Tom. He used his spatial ring again, producing a cigarette. It was a handmade creation, something he had meticulously crafted. With a flicker of qi, he ignited it. The use of qi meant his Spectre's Mind would end a few seconds sooner than it otherwise would have, but he judged it a worthwhile use of his remaining energy at that moment.

Taking a long drag and letting the smoke drift over the devastated battlefield, he began to speak. “So, I figure I need to multi-class early. Can’t have a Healer or Mage trailing me.”

Tom took a moment to think. “You should take Spearman first—you won’t survive without the physical stats. The class is underwhelming on its own, though.”

Nathan inhaled another lungful of smoke. “An Alchemist class might be able to keep me alive. Maybe something with a healing aspect.”

Tom closed his eyes, deep in thought. “Hey, you know that Drake guy? The one who first beat the 20th floor? What was his class called again?” he finally asked.

Nathan paused to think before snapping the fingers on his remaining hand. “Sanguinomancer. That might just work. Healing aspect or strengthening?”

“Nah,” Tom said, “you need regeneration. If you multi-class, you won’t have enough to invest in mana.”

“Damn, that’s good,” Nathan mumbled. “So I enter the tower, get to a village, and take Spearman first.”