"We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars." - Oscar Wilde

image [https://i.postimg.cc/2SZzz4nJ/Page-break.png]

The year is 2042. The world is a withered husk, a testament to humanity's hubris, and a victim of forces beyond its control. It wasn't a bang, or a sudden apocalypse that had brought us to our knees. It was a convergence of catastrophes, a one-two punch that left civilization reeling. Climate change, once a topic of heated debate, had become an undeniable, inescapable reality. But it was the arrival of the Tower in 2036 that truly shattered the world, plunging it into an era of famine and despair.

Andreas coughed, a dry, hacking sound that echoed in the dilapidated shack he called home. Dust motes danced in the weak sunlight filtering through cracks in the boarded-up window. The air was thick with the stench of decay and despair, a familiar aroma that had permeated every aspect of his existence. He ran a hand through his matted, dark hair, feeling the grit beneath his fingernails, a constant reminder of the filth that clung to everything in this new, broken world.

The Great Famine was not merely a consequence of climate change, it was inextricably linked to the Tower. The year it appeared, 2036, marked the beginning of the end. Freak weather patterns intensified, but more than that, a strange, energy-sapping field radiated from the Tower, withering crops and disrupting ecosystems. It was as if the very life force of the land was being leached away. The once-fertile plains of the American Midwest, the breadbasket of the world, became a barren wasteland.

Andreas remembered a time when food was more readily available, though even then, it wasn't truly plentiful like in the stories of the old world. It was a time before rationing became common place. Before protein paste was the standard meal. That was just before the Tower. He remembered the day it arrived, a day that started like any other during the Long Heat. The sun had been a relentless tyrant for months, but on that day, it vanished behind a thick bank of clouds. People had initially cheered, a desperate, naive hope blooming in their hearts. They thought it was a sign, a turning point, a promise that the scorching heatwave, a brutal consequence of the changing climate, might finally be ending. But their hope was short-lived. The world grew dark under the unnatural clouds, and then the rumbling began. It wasn't just a sound, it was a vibration that resonated deep within their bones, a tremor that shook the very foundations of their world. The ground heaved, buildings swayed and cracked, and Andreas, only sixteen at the time, knew in his heart that this was not salvation, but the beginning of something far worse.

The Tower. A colossal structure that had inexplicably materialized in the heart of the American Midwest, right smack dab in the middle of what used to be Kansas. It pierced the sky, its peak hidden amidst the same swirling vortex of dark, ominous clouds that had heralded its arrival. It was a monolith of impossible scale, made of a material that defied classification, shimmering with an unnatural, internal luminescence. The very earth around it seemed to reject its presence, and the energy it emitted disrupted the weather, plants, and very essence of life around it.

Its appearance had been a global event, a singular moment that had irrevocably altered the course of history. The ground trembled for days as it erupted from the earth, causing widespread panic and devastation. Entire cities near the point of its emergence were leveled, swallowed by the earth or crushed by the sheer force of its arrival. The world was in chaos. This event, "The Arrival Of The Tower" is what they called it. The event that caused everything to change. The moment that he saw everyone who he loved get taken from him.

And then, the Message.

A voice, not heard with the ears but felt deep within the soul, resonated across the entire planet. It was a language understood by all, regardless of their native tongue or literacy. It spoke of the Tower and its purpose.

"This Tower is a challenge, a trial for the inhabitants of this world. It is a crucible forged to test your strength, your will, your very right to exist.

The one who conquers the Tower, who reaches its summit and claims the artifact that resides within, will be granted ultimate power over earth. They will have the power to shape this world, to control its destiny, to become its absolute ruler.

However, should the Tower remain unconquered within fifty years of its arrival, this world will be deemed unworthy. Its energy, its very essence, will be harvested to fuel a greater purpose. The world will be consumed, and all life upon it will be extinguished.

Choose wisely, inhabitants of this earth. Your fate lies within your hands."

The Message had plunged the world into further turmoil. Governments, already weakened by climate disasters, collapsed entirely, replaced by a patchwork of warlords, corporations, and religious zealots, all vying for control. The focus of the world turned to the Tower, now called the "Spire of Ascendancy" by the media and the "Devil's Tooth" by those who feared it. Nations, desperate to secure their future, saw the Tower as the ultimate prize.

Andreas had been sixteen when the Tower arrived, a day etched in his memory as the beginning of the end. Now, at twenty-two, he was a hollow shell of the boy he once was. His parents were taken from him two years ago, not by the famine or the altered climate, but by the iron fist of the Authority. They were caught in the crossfire during a minor uprising, a desperate act of rebellion against the brutal regime that had seized power in the chaos following the Tower's arrival. Andreas had watched, helpless, as their lives were snuffed out, their bodies left to rot in the street like so many others. That was the day the last ember of hope within him died, leaving only ashes and a gnawing emptiness.

He was utterly alone in the world now, a ghost adrift in the ruins of a dying civilization. The Authority offered nothing but oppression, their promises of order and stability ringing hollow amidst the suffering. They used the Tower as a dumping ground, rounding up the "undesirables" – the poor, the sick, the dissenters, anyone who didn't fit their twisted mold – and forcing them into the depths of that alien structure, never to be seen again. Even religious fanatics, fueled by a desperate belief that conquering the Tower would usher in a divine paradise, willingly marched into its maw, seeking salvation in the face of oblivion.

For the past few years the authority had taken to calling this the "Reclamation." They would come into towns, and cities and take anyone who looked like they could be a problem, or those who did not fit into what the authority considered "Normal." They would round them up, and force them at gunpoint onto transport vehicles. Then they would be shipped to the tower. Every month, every single town would have this. This was the governments solution to the tower problem. A problem that seemed unsolvable, so rather than risk more lives than needed, they would send those who they deemed worthless to be lost inside the tower.

Nobody knew what lay within the Tower's depths. Theories abounded, fueled by fear, speculation, and religious dogma. Some said it was a portal to another dimension, a pathway to heaven or hell. Others claimed it was a test of faith, a divine judgment designed to separate the worthy from the damned. Some whispered that it was a prison for ancient evils, now unleashed upon the world. The most popular theory, circulated by conspiracy theorists and fringe scientists, was that the Tower was an alien artifact, a weapon of unimaginable power, or perhaps a gateway to an invasion.

One thing was certain: no one who entered the Tower ever returned. Millions, perhaps tens of millions, had ventured into its shadowy depths, lured by the promise of power, driven by desperation, or forced in by the authorities. They were soldiers, scientists, adventurers, criminals, and the simply hopeless. All vanished without a trace, swallowed by the Tower's insatiable maw.

In the first few months after the Tower's arrival, a global coalition had attempted to secure the area, sending in elite military units. But it quickly became clear that the Tower was not something that could be taken by force. Any attempt to approach the structure with heavy weaponry or aircraft was met with an invisible, impenetrable barrier. It didn't fight back, it simply would not allow anything near it that it deemed to be a weapon, it didn't matter if it was a tank or a gun, no weapon could go within a mile of the tower. Helicopters fell out of the sky as they got close. Any weapon that approached the tower would cease to function, bullets would disappear, and missiles would fall out of the sky. This wasn't a hostile takeover, it was an invitation. The only way in was through the entrance, the "Mouth of the Tower" as it came to be known, an enormous archway that seemed to pulse with an inner light.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

The remnants of these failed military incursions were still visible, scattered across the desolate landscape surrounding the Tower. Not destroyed by the Tower itself, but by other nations. Russia, China, and fragmented European forces had all made their plays, attempting to establish dominance, only to be repelled, their equipment sabotaged by rival factions. The area had become a graveyard of twisted metal and shattered ambitions, a testament to the futility of trying to control something that defied all earthly power.

Andreas had no illusions about the Tower. He didn't believe in gods or demons, in heaven or hell. He saw the Tower as just another manifestation of the world's cruelty, a monument to despair. He wasn't interested in saving the world, in becoming its ruler. He had no desire for power, no ambition to reshape reality. He was empty, a vessel devoid of hope and purpose.

But what else was there? Starve to death in this rat-infested shack? Be rounded up by the Authority and thrown into the Tower like cattle? Or worse, become one of the scavengers, preying on the weak, turning into the very thing he despised?

He picked up a rusty, dented metal flask, his only possession of any value. It was a relic from his past, a gift from his father. He unscrewed the cap and took a swig of the stale, lukewarm water, the last of his meager supply. His stomach rumbled, a painful reminder of his constant hunger.

He had made a decision. A decision born not of hope, but of its absolute absence. He would go to the Tower. Not to conquer it, not to save the world, but simply because there was nothing left for him here. It was a suicide mission, a final act of defiance against a world that had abandoned him. He had no fear of death, for death was preferable to the slow, agonizing decay of his current existence.

He stood up, his legs stiff and weak from days of inactivity. He felt a strange sense of detachment, as if he were watching himself from a distance, a spectator in his own demise. He had nothing to pack, nothing to leave behind. His life had been reduced to this moment, this single, irreversible step.

He walked out of the shack and into the desolate landscape. The sun beat down mercilessly, baking the cracked earth. The air was thick with dust and the smell of burning refuse. He made his way through the ruins of what was once a bustling town, now a graveyard of shattered buildings and abandoned vehicles. Skeletal figures, their bodies ravaged by malnutrition and disease, shuffled through the streets, their eyes hollow and lifeless. These were the forgotten, the ones left behind, the ones the world had given up on.

The journey to the Tower was long and arduous. Andreas walked for days, his body fueled by a strange, grim determination. He scavenged for food, eating whatever he could find: insects, roots, even the occasional scraps left behind by other scavengers. He avoided contact with other travelers, knowing that trust was a luxury he could not afford in this dog-eat-dog world. He saw the dark side of humanity on full display, witnessing acts of violence, desperation, and depravity that chilled him to the bone.

As he drew closer to the Tower, the landscape changed. The vegetation became sparse and twisted, the ground blackened and scarred. The air grew heavy, charged with an unnatural energy that made his skin crawl. He saw the remnants of military encampments, abandoned and decaying, testaments to failed attempts to understand or control the Tower. 

Finally, after weeks of travel, he reached his destination. Before him, the Tower soared, an impossible, obsidian spire that seemed to pierce the very fabric of reality, a dagger plunged into the heart of the world. It dwarfed everything around it, a monolith that defied all earthly scale and reason. Its surface wasn't smooth, but textured with intricate, geometric patterns that shifted and pulsed with an inner, ethereal light, like a dark, cosmic tapestry. The sheer size of the structure was difficult to comprehend, making Andreas feel like an ant at the foot of a god's monument. The swirling vortex of black clouds around its peak, a permanent fixture since its arrival, crackled with silent energy, casting the landscape in a perpetual twilight.

The base of the Tower was surrounded by a wide, circular plaza, paved with a strange, black stone that seemed to absorb all light, creating a void of absolute darkness around the luminous structure. This was the "Mouth of the Tower," the only known entrance. The plaza itself was at least a mile across, anything within that mile, weapons ceased to work, and any attempt to fly anything over it resulted in the object falling to the earth. A massive, arch-shaped opening, easily a hundred feet high and fifty feet wide, gaped open like a monstrous maw, both inviting and terrifying. It pulsed with the same internal light as the Tower's surface, hinting at unimaginable energies within.

Unlike his solitary journey, the area surrounding the Tower's entrance was far from deserted. It wasn't controlled, not in the traditional sense, but a chaotic semblance of order had emerged. A makeshift camp, a squalid collection of tattered tents and ramshackle shelters, sprawled unevenly around the plaza's edge, just outside the mile radius. It was a hive of desperation, populated by a motley assortment of the hopeless, the deluded, and the dangerous. These were the Tower's would-be conquerors, its accidental guardians, or perhaps, its inevitable victims.

Andreas saw the same dead look in many of their eyes that he knew mirrored his own. Some were clad in rags, their bodies emaciated, faces gaunt, driven to the Tower by starvation and despair. Others wore remnants of military uniforms, scavenged from the abandoned encampments that dotted the landscape, a testament to failed attempts by various factions to secure the area. They clutched crude melee weapons – pipes, sharpened pieces of metal, clubs – the only arms effective this close to the Tower. The occasional firearm was present, but purely for show, a useless symbol of power in a place where technology failed.

A distinct group, heavily built men with scarred faces and cold, calculating eyes, held a section of the camp under their sway. They were likely former soldiers or mercenaries, thugs who had carved out a position of dominance through brute force. They were not in control of the tower, but they controlled who approached and when, at least to some extent, acting as gatekeepers to oblivion. They watched Andreas with a predatory gaze, assessing him, a new arrival in their bleak domain.

Further towards the entrance, a line of people snaked towards the gaping maw. They were a grim procession of the condemned, the "Reclamationed" as they were called. Emaciated, their clothes hanging off their skeletal frames, they were the dregs of society in the eyes of the Authority - the unwanted, the useless. Armed guards, their faces hidden behind mirrored visors, prodded them forward with crude, metal bats. This was the Authority's offering to the enigma, a steady stream of sacrifices into the unknown.

Near the very front of the line, a gaunt man in tattered robes, one of the self-proclaimed "Spire's Chosen," preached to the condemned, his voice a ragged, feverish whisper that was nonetheless audible over the low hum of the Tower. "Rejoice! For you are chosen! The Tower offers salvation! Embrace the glorious unknown!" His words were met with blank stares, a chilling testament to the depths of their apathy.

Andreas ignored the preacher, his gaze fixed on the Mouth of the Tower. He felt a pull, a subtle yet insistent force, drawing him towards the opening. It was a siren song of oblivion, a whisper in the back of his mind that promised an end to his suffering. The Tower itself seemed to beckon him, a silent giant calling him home to a place beyond human comprehension. He was but an insect, drawn to a light that promised not warmth, but absolute, and perhaps, eternal, darkness.

He noticed a young woman sitting alone near the entrance, her back against a crumbling section of wall. She was thin, but her eyes held a spark of defiance that set her apart from the others. She was clutching a tattered book, her fingers tracing the faded words on its cover. She looked up as Andreas approached, her gaze wary but not hostile.

"Another one come to throw themselves into the abyss," she said, her voice surprisingly strong.

Andreas stopped, surprised by her directness. "What else is there?" he asked, his voice flat.

She shrugged. "Nothing. But is this nothing any better?"

Andreas had no answer. He simply stared at the entrance, the darkness within seeming to pulse with a life of its own.

"They say no one ever comes back," the woman continued, "But I wonder... maybe they just don't want to."

Andreas considered her words. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps the Tower offered something more than oblivion. Perhaps it offered an escape, a transformation, a chance to become something else, something more than the broken remnants of humanity that lingered outside.

He looked back at the woman, a flicker of something – curiosity, perhaps – crossing his mind. "What's the book?" he asked.

She held it up, her fingers caressing the worn cover. "Something to remember the world that was. Before the Tower took it all away."

Andreas nodded, understanding. He had nothing to remember the past, except the pain and the loss.

He turned back to the Tower, his decision made. He had come this far, not to conquer, not to save, but simply to end.

"Good luck," the woman said softly as he walked past her. "Maybe you'll find what you're looking for in there."

Andreas didn't respond. He doubted he would find anything, but it didn't matter. He was done with this world.

He began to walk, his steps slow and deliberate, towards the entrance of the Tower. Each step was a victory over fear, a reaffirmation of his choice. He felt no regret, no sorrow, only a strange sense of peace.

As he crossed the threshold, a wave of energy washed over him, tingling his skin and making his hair stand on end. The air grew colder, the darkness deeper. He could hear a low, humming sound, growing louder with each step he took. It was the sound of the Tower, the sound of the unknown, the sound of his own impending demise.

He walked deeper into the darkness, the Mouth of the Tower closing behind him, sealing his fate. He was swallowed whole by the blackness, the last vestiges of the outside world vanishing from view. He was alone now, alone in the belly of the beast.

And then, a voice, not heard with his ears but felt deep within his mind, resonated within the darkness. It was the voice of the System, the voice of the Tower itself.

{System Initializing...}

{Welcome, Andreas.}

{Your journey begins now.}

{Prepare to face the trials of the Spire of Ascendancy.}

{Your life... and the fate of your world... hang in the balance.}