Extract from the -{ Tome of Light }- the divine scripture of the Church of Light.

"In the grandeur of my flawless radiance, behold the measure of true divinity. Let my brilliance eclipse the feeble glow of lesser gods, for I alone possess the power to enlighten and empower those who kneel before me." (The Perfection of Light - 2:9)

……………………………………………

True to the words of Lady Poppy, the tower was indeed entering a new era, and like any pivotal moment in history, this one began with chaos. Every being in the tower had received the same prompt, a universal announcement that shattered the status quo. The tower was now open to outsiders, and most importantly, an outsider had begun the challenge for the seat of the tower master.

The implications were staggering. Whoever eventually claimed this seat would have the power to determine the life and death of every resident. Panic spread through the populace like wildfire, each species and faction struggling to come to terms with this new reality.

The six councils that collectively ruled the first floor had called for their emergency meetings. They needed to discuss their plan of action and find ways to quell the growing panic among the people they governed. It was only a matter of time before they managed to calm the populace somewhat through various methods – reassurances, distractions, and in some cases, more forceful means of control.

Yet what would prove far more challenging to stop was the growth of extremist organizations. These groups would inevitably contest the rule of the six councils, challenging their qualifications to lead their respective unions of species through this new age. The tower was a powder keg, and the fuse had just been lit.

As various factions began to mobilize, tensions rising throughout the tower, another group was preparing to make their move.

…………………………

In the Cathedral of Saint Norgrim, the air was thick with a heavy, almost tangible sense of anticipation. Shadows danced upon the cold stone walls, their dark forms undulating with the dim flicker of candlelight. The high vaulted ceilings soared above, their grandeur cloaked in a perpetual gloom that seemed to whisper of secrets long kept hidden.

At the heart of this somber setting, the Pope was seated upon a throne of thorns, a symbol of both suffering and power. His robes, dark and regal, flowed around him like the ripples of a storm-tossed sea, contrasting starkly with the cruel contours of his seat. Despite the harshness of his throne, the Pope's demeanor was calm, almost serene, as he closed his eyes in deep contemplation.

The soft, rhythmic murmurs of prayer that usually filled the cathedral seemed to hold their breath as the Pope's eyes slowly fluttered open. The weight of centuries seemed to rest in his gaze as he surveyed the cavernous space before him.

"The time has come," he intoned, each word laced with an eerie finality. "The prophecy is upon us." His voice was rich and measured, carrying an unsettling gravity that seemed to reverberate through the very stones of the cathedral.

From the engulfing shadows emerged a cloaked figure, their presence as silent as a whisper. The follower moved with deliberate purpose, stepping into the dim light with an air of reverent urgency. As they approached the Pope, they knelt before him, their posture a mixture of deference and eager anticipation.

"Your Holiness," the follower spoke softly, their voice barely breaking the cathedral's stillness, "what is our next move in this grand design?"

The Pope's gaze, now piercing and filled with unspoken promises, met the followers. The air between them seemed to crackle with tension, the weight of destiny pressing down upon both figures.

"We must not let the outsider complete the trial for the tower master," the Pope declared, his voice ringing with conviction. "That seat can only belong to a being born within the confines of the tower, as Saint Norgrim intended."

The Pope stood up from his seat of power, his movements slow and deliberate. His gaze seemed to pierce the very walls of the Cathedral, seeing beyond stone and mortar to the grand tapestry of fate that lay before them.

"Hundreds of native beings have climbed the tower," he continued, his words measured and heavy with significance, "yet not one activated the challenge. The reason is the lack of the key which was lost to the outside world during the period when Saint Norgrim was alive. Now that the outsider has brought it back to its rightful place, we shall retrieve it for our people."

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The Pope turned his gaze back to the follower who was listening silently.

“Command the legions on the first floor to hunt down the outsider. Retrieve the key, and remove all those who stand in your path for it is a holy task. Let every cardinal know, that this is the start of a Holy crusade, find the divine key that would allow us to complete the creation of Saint Norgrim. Let us spread the light of the saint's completed creation and show the Evil Deities that rule outside how foolish they were in their great betrayal.“

……………………..

The ancient forest stood silent, its dense canopy casting long shadows across the mossy ground. At the edge of a small clearing, a solitary figure stood motionless before the entrance to the goblin dungeon. Winston, his weathered face a mask of concentration, tilted his head skyward. His eyes were closed, but his other senses were heightened to an almost supernatural degree.

The air around him seemed to crackle with tension as he waited, patient as the stones beneath his feet. Hours passed, marked only by the slow arc of the sun overhead and the occasional rustling of leaves in the breeze. Lesser beings might have faltered, but Winston remained steadfast, a silent sentinel before the dungeon's heavy iron door.

At last, a flicker of... something... appeared before him. Winston's eyes snapped open, a hint of triumph gleaming in their depths. The prompt, visible only to those native to the tower, materialized in shimmering letters:

[Congratulations! The dungeon has been cleared. Rewards await the conqueror.]

A ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of Winston's lips, the first movement he'd made in the past few hours. He turned his gaze to the dungeon entrance, studying the massive door that had kept its secrets for so long. With a gesture so subtle it was barely perceptible, Winston extended a single finger toward the barrier.

The heavy iron door, which would have taken a team of oxen to budge, suddenly flew open as if caught in a hurricane. It slammed against the outer wall with a resounding boom that echoed through the forest, sending flocks of startled birds into the air.

Winston's smile grew a fraction wider. He could feel it now – the stirring of long-dormant power within his artificial form. For centuries, he had lain dormant, his abilities sealed and diminished. But now, with each conquered floor, with each challenge overcome by his chosen master, Winston felt the old strength returning.

He closed his eyes once more, savoring the sensation. Asher had proven himself worthy, demonstrating a cunning and resilience that Winston hadn't dared hope for. It was time, the artificial being decided, to take a more active role in shaping the tower's future.

……………………………..

Meanwhile, deep within the dungeon's winding passages, Asher himself stood before a glowing prompt of his own. His breathing was still slightly labored from the final battle, and a thin sheen of sweat glistened on his brow. Yet there was an undeniable air of satisfaction about him as he called out:

"Hey, Inquisitor."

The air before him shimmered, coalescing into a pulsing orb of light. The artificial intelligence's voice resonated in the chamber:

[Hello. How may I assist you today?]

Asher's voice was steady, betraying none of the excitement he felt. "Check the inventory."

[Checking... Two items have been detected. Do you want me to retrieve them?]

"Yes."

[Retrieving the items. Please wait.]

The air shimmered once more, and two objects materialized before Asher. The first was a small crystal, no larger than his little finger. It was a deep, impenetrable black that seemed to drink in the surrounding light. The second item was a thin book, its cover adorned with elegant script that read: "Phantom Blade Art: Shadowrend Slash."

Asher's eyes widened almost imperceptibly. At last, a true technique to call his own. Unable to contain his curiosity, he sank to the ground, crossing his legs beneath him as he opened the book with reverent care.

For what felt like an eternity, Asher remained motionless, his eyes darting across the pages as he absorbed every detail of the technique. The only sounds in the chamber were his measured breathing and the occasional rustle of turning pages.

Finally, after nearly ten minutes of intense study, Asher closed the book with a heavy sigh. His mind raced with the implications of what he'd just learned. The Phantom Blade Arts is a series of techniques shrouded in mystery and tragedy. Created by a nameless master whose very identity had been lost to time, these arts were said to have shaken the populace of the realms at one point in history.

Asher's fingers traced the book's cover as he contemplated the history behind it. The creator, known only as Phantom Blade, had forged these techniques in the crucible of vengeance. His wife, murdered for witnessing a heinous crime, had set him on a path of retribution that spanned decades. The Shadowrend Slash, the very technique now in Asher's possession, was said to be capable of cutting through the intangible – silencing even those who thought themselves safe in the embrace of shadows.

With a grunt of effort, Asher pushed himself to his feet. His muscles protested, still sore from the earlier battles, but he ignored the discomfort. He retrieved his sword, Crimson Lotus, from its place at his side. The blade gleamed in the dim light of the dungeon, almost as if eager to test this new technique.

Asher closed his eyes, centering himself as he recalled the instructions from the book. The Phantom Blade style had its weaknesses – it relied heavily on the element of surprise and lacked raw power against well-defended foes. But in the right hands, against the right opponent, it could be devastating.

Using his left thumb as a makeshift scabbard, Asher positioned Crimson Lotus carefully. He took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the blade, and the coolness of the metal against his skin. With painstaking slowness, he began to draw the sword, his movements fluid and controlled despite the glacial pace.

To an observer, the display might have seemed almost comical – a warrior moving in slow motion, his face a mask of intense concentration. But Asher paid no heed to imaginary critics. He was feeling for something, a resonance between his energy and the technique described in the book.

As he completed the achingly slow swing, Asher felt it – stirring deep within him. His pneuma, that mysterious energy that fueled the impossible feats of this world, responded to the movement. It was faint, barely perceptible, but it was there. A smile tugged at the corner of Asher's mouth. He was on the right path.

Asher repeated the movement, again and again, each time focusing on a different aspect of the technique. He felt the influence of his passive skills, his comprehension seeming to accelerate with each repetition. Patterns emerged where before there had been only confusion, pieces of the puzzle slotting into place with satisfying clarity.

After what felt like hours but was likely only minutes, Asher lowered Crimson Lotus. His arm ached from the controlled movements, but there was a glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes. He had taken the first steps on a long road, but they were steps in the right direction.

Wiping a bead of sweat from his brow, Asher turned his attention to the other reward – the strange black crystal.