"Once upon a time, a man sat under a tree, perfectly content to watch the world go by. Then someone told him the village was on fire, and everyone was counting on him to fix it. He sighed, got up, and grabbed a bucket. Not because he wanted to be a hero, but because nobody else had bothered to fill the damn bucket. Moral of the story: sometimes, doing the bare minimum still makes you the most competent person in the room." The Te of Slacking, Book 7, Verse 12:

“If you’re looking for a way to kill yourself. I can just get someone to cut your head off right here. Quicker, cleaner, and your death will be a welcome XP boost for someone who actually deserves it. Why not be a team player? Take one for Lazytown?”

Scar had caught up with me as I was kneeling by one of the absurdly ornate chests in the Lofty Perch, rifling through gear I’d barely looked at since tossing it in there after the last big fight.

The room was ridiculous—vaulted ceilings, tapestries I’d never asked for, and an enormous fireplace crackling away like I was a medieval king about to summon his court. Every detail screamed Important Person Lives Here, which only made me feel more out of place.

It was like wearing a crown that didn’t quite fit—awkward, heavy, and painfully obvious.

Scar leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, wearing that specific brand of exasperation he seemed to save just for me. It was part disapproval, part disbelief, and a healthy dose of “What the hell are you doing now?”

I paused, dropping a bunch of health potions into my inventory. “Tempting. But you know me, Scar. I’m all about the theatrics. What’s a good death without a little flair?”

“Flair, is it? So this is less ‘noble rescue of Fair Maiden’ and more ‘suicide with a generous travel budget’?”

“Mate, I’ve got three days until the Maker kills Lia and brings about the apocalypse. I might as well use the time productively.”

“Productively? You?” Scar said with more surprise in his voice than I thought was strictly necessary. I mean, he’s not wrong, but timing is everything. “Rogue, I’ve seen sloths with more ambition than you. And the fact you keep, despite this, ranking up is something we’re all a bit aggrieved over. If you now go and boost some rando Monster by walking headfirst into this trap, no one here is going to be praising your name.”

“Rude,” I said, dusting myself off and standing up. “And inaccurate. I’m full of ambition. Just selective about how I use it. The search for high-quality pizza is an entirely acceptable life goal.”

“’Selective’,” Scar repeated, “Like deciding to waltz off to challenge the Tower of Perdition? How much do you know about what you’re trying here?”

I decided the coolest of all things was to feign nonchalance. “Something big, mean, and having more teeth than anything should reasonably have at the top.”

“At the top? You’ll be lucky to even get inside. The entrance is warded with puzzles so mind-bendingly absurd they’d make the Maker’s Priests look like toddlers fumbling with a Rubik’s Cube. That’s also on fire. And if you think you can brute force your way through, think again. Screw up even one sequence, and you don’t just get locked out—oh no—you get whisked straight into some sadistic pocket dimension for a ‘trial.’ And by ‘trial,’ read a never-ending grind of monsters so over-levelled they’d happily snack on a lazy hero for breakfast and still have room for dessert.”

I opened my mouth to speak, but it turned out he wasn’t done. “Let’s say you do make it through, which you won’t. The Tower for real starts now. From what we know, the first floor is a pure gauntlet—razor traps, swinging pendulums, collapsing floors. And that’s before you meet the patrols of high-level constructs. You know, the ones with glowing eyes, endless stamina, and zero mercy? They’re programmed to kill anything warm-blooded on sight. Get past them—somehow—and congratulations, you’re at Floor Two. And that’s where the fun really begins. Floor Two isn’t just traps and enemies; it messes with your head. Endless loops, hallways that stretch for miles, doors that lead back to where you started. You’ll start seeing things—illusions so real you’ll swear they’re happening. People lose days, weeks in there, running in circles until they collapse. And if the Tower decides it doesn’t like you, it’ll start pulling memories—bad ones—and shoving them in your face, just to see if you’ll crack.”

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

“Okay, so it’s a fixer-upper.”

“James,” Scar’s voice was serious now. He even leaned over and put his hand on my shoulder. Proper Mentor-like. Who knew he cared? “Nobody even knows what’s beyond Floor Two because no one’s ever come back from it. Maybe it’s endless floors, each worse than the last. Maybe it’s some gigantic eldritch horror at the top that laughs in your face while it tears your soul apart. Nobody knows. What we do know is that if you walk into that Tower, you’re not walking back out. Not as you are. You think Berker was bad? The Tower doesn’t give you one boss. It gives you a dozen, maybe more. And it doesn’t play fair. You think you’ll be ready for it because you’ve levelled up? This thing doesn’t care. You’re just meat for the grinder.”

The way he said it – as much as what he said – landed.

For a moment, I stood there, my pack half-packed and my thoughts spiralling.

The idea of walking away hovered at the edge of my mind, a tempting little whisper. Not from Lazytown, not from Lia, but from the notion that this—charging headfirst into a death trap masquerading as a tower—was the solution. That I was the one who should solve this.

What right did I have to think I stood a chance here? Was it just arrogance? Desperation? Some misguided sense of responsibility?

The truth gnawed at me: maybe I wasn’t a hero. Maybe I wasn’t even particularly clever or resourceful. Maybe I was just a guy who’d stumbled his way through every crisis so far, propped up by dumb luck and the people around me.

What if this was it? What if the Tower of Perdition wasn’t just a challenge I couldn’t handle—it was the thing that would destroy me? Not just kill me, but rip me apart so thoroughly that there’d be nothing left to save or remember.

The urge to drop everything and walk away swelled, a wave of self-preservation that was almost impossible to resist.

But then Lia’s face cut through the noise in my head. I thought about the way she’d fought—fought for this village, for its people, for me. The way she’d put herself on the line time and again. No questions asked.

I thought about the new faces in Lazytown, the people who’d come here battered and broken by a world that hadn’t given them a chance. People who now walked the streets with something they’d never had before: hope.

Hope that this place was different. Hope that we were different.

And the Maker wanted to take all that away from them.

And wasn’t that the kicker? That they thought I was different. That somehow, in spite of everything, they believed in me.

Maybe I wasn’t the right person for this. Maybe I wasn’t equipped, prepared, or even remotely qualified. But I was here. And I owed it to them—to Lia, to Lazytown, to myself—to try. Even if the odds were stacked against me. Even if the Tower chewed me up and spat me out.

Three days.

I straightened my pack, the weight feeling heavier than it should. But my steps felt steadier as I turned back toward the door. No clever quip came to mind, no sarcastic line to lighten the mood. Just one thought repeating itself in the back of my mind: If not me, then who? “Sounds like it’s going to be a bit of a challenge.”

“A challenge? Rogue, it’s not a challenge. It’s a death sentence. And you’re signing up for it with a bloody smile.”

“Scar, if I’m going to get eaten by something, might as well be memorable.”

“Chokes?” Scar threw up his hands. “Bloody brilliant plan, that. ‘Hope the monster gets indigestion.’ Why didn’t we think of that during the Battle of Lazytown?”

“Because it’s a solo, XP-gathering strategy,” I replied. “I wouldn’t want to share the glory.”

“Glory? More like guts,” he said. “Probably all over the floor.”

“Aw, Scar,” I said, feigning a look of mock affection. “I didn’t know you cared.”

“I don’t,” he said. “I just want it noted in the record that when you inevitably get yourself killed, I told you it was a bloody stupid idea.”

“Duly noted,” I said, giving him a lazy salute. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a destiny to meddle with.”

He shook his head. “You’re either the bravest idiot I’ve ever met, or the stupidest hero. And I’m not sure which.”

“Why not both?” I said, winking.