For thirty days, Vastarael climbed through the spire, floor by floor, each level a descent deeper into some twisted nightmare masquerading as a trial. When he stepped onto the second floor—the first of the training arenas—he barely had time to brace himself before the arena activated.
The teleportation process was smoother than he expected. Vastarael had felt the pull of essence from the circle on the first floor. The sensation of being teleported wasn't pleasant, though; it felt like being yanked through a narrow tunnel, every part of him stretched thin before snapping back into place. When he landed on the second floor, he stumbled to his knees, his breath ragged, his body tingling as if a storm had passed through him.
But the second floor wasn't a dark hall like the first. Instead, it was a massive training arena—circular, brightly lit with an artificial glow that had no discernible source. The air was heavy with the scent of steel and blood and the moment his feet hit the ground, the arena roared to life.
Phantom obsidian warriors materialized from thin air, their weapons gleaming, their forms shifting like shadows made solid. They didn't hesitate. They came at him in droves, forcing him to draw his weapon and fight for his life.
That first day was brutal. The phantom warriors were relentless, testing every ounce of his skill and endurance. By the time he defeated the last of them, his body was screaming in protest, his essence reserves dangerously low.
The arena had pushed him to his limits, but it had also sharpened his instincts, forcing him to adapt and grow stronger. He didn't leave the floor until the training sequence ended and when he finally found the teleportation circle to ascend to the third floor, his limbs were trembling from exhaustion.
And that's when he saw them.
The first statue he came across nearly made him drop his weapon.
It was a humanoid figure, frozen mid-stride, its body encased in a thick layer of ice so clear he could see every detail. Its arms, neck, and cheeks were covered in small, glistening scales, and similar scales adorned its feet. The creature—no, the person—looked almost alive, their eyes wide with an expression of terror that made Vastarael's stomach churn.
"What the hell…?"
He reached out instinctively, his hand hovering over the ice, but he didn't touch it. Something about the statue felt wrong, like touching it would disturb whatever strange power had trapped it there.
And then he saw another. And another.
The third floor was filled with them—rows upon rows of frozen figures, all of them with those strange scales, all of them locked in varying poses of fear, defiance, or despair. Vastarael's golden eyes scanned the room, his heart pounding in his chest as the scope of the horror sank in.
"These were people…" he muttered, his voice thick with unease. "An entire race…"
He didn't know who they were or why they were here, but something about their presence felt tragic and deeply unsettling. He spent the rest of that day exploring the floor, searching for clues, but there was nothing. No murals. No inscriptions. Nothing to explain what had happened to them.
The fourth floor was the same. And the fifth. And the sixth.
From the third floor to the twenty-seventh, every level was filled with these frozen statues, their lifelike details so haunting that Vastarael sometimes had to remind himself they weren't about to start moving.
And yet, he pressed on.
Each floor had its own trials—some were physical, others mental. There were three more training arenas scattered throughout the levels, similar to the one on the second floor, but each more challenging than the last. Vastarael spent a full day on each floor, honing his skills, testing the limits of his essence, and trying to piece together the mystery of the frozen race.
He relied heavily on the Fool's Copy artifact Sirithiele had gifted him. The golden cube was a lifesaver, allowing him to recreate food from his inventory to sustain himself. Every night, after hours of grueling exploration and combat, he would find a quiet corner, summon a Heat Rune and eat a modest meal.
The lack of murals haunted him in a different way. After the chilling encounter on the first floor, he had expected to see more of them, to uncover more pieces of the story hidden within the spire. But there was nothing. The walls of each floor were bare, as if the spire itself had no interest in offering him any explanations.
By the time he reached the twenty-seventh floor, Vastarael was running on sheer determination. He had begun to notice subtle differences among them—variations in their scales, the faint glimmers of essence trapped within the ice. He even said humans amongst them.
He wasn't sure if it was his imagination or something more, but the idea that they might still be alive in some way was enough to keep him from touching them.
The twenty-seventh to the thirtieth floor was another training arena, but this one felt different. The air was colder, heavier and the phantom warriors that appeared were unlike any he had faced before.
Their movements were faster, their strikes more precise and their presence radiated an overwhelming sense of malice. It took every ounce of his skill to survive, his sapphire glaive glowing brightly as he poured his essence into it, his body moving on pure instinct.
When the last phantom warrior fell, Vastarael collapsed to his knees, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. The arena was silent once more, the only sound the faint hum of the teleportation circle waiting for him at the far end of the room.
He sat there for a long moment, staring at the circle, his mind racing with thoughts of what lay ahead. He had spent thirty days climbing this spire, and he still didn't know what it wanted from him. The frozen race, the murals, the trials... none of it made sense. But he couldn't turn back.
With a weary sigh, he forced himself to his feet, his legs shaking as he approached the circle. He placed his hand over the runes, feeling the familiar pull of essence as the circle activated.
"Here we go again," he muttered, bracing himself for whatever awaited him on the next floor.
And as the world dissolved around him, he couldn't shake the feeling that the worst was yet to come.
°°°°°°
The thirty-first floor was where he began to realize the real truth behind the spire.
When Vastarael stepped onto the thirty-first floor, he immediately felt the difference. The air was no longer cold, suffocating, or heavy with dread.
For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the lighting was…natural, almost welcoming. Warm golden light filtered down from ornate chandeliers that hung high above, casting long shadows across the polished marble floor. The room looked like the ground floor of a grand castle; tall arched windows lined the walls, but outside them was nothing but an expanse of white light, as though the world itself ended beyond this floor.
The architecture was awe-inspiring, unlike anything Vastarael had seen in the spire so far. Towering columns of black marble spiraled upward, their surfaces engraved with silver inlays that shimmered faintly in the light. The floor beneath him gleamed like a mirror, its black and white checkered pattern so pristine he could see his own warped reflection.
And yet, there was no life. No frozen statues, no phantom warriors lurking in the shadows, no lingering signs of combat or chaos. The silence wasn't oppressive though. It was the kind of silence that belonged in a sacred place, as if the room itself demanded reverence.
But Vastarael wasn't about to let his guard down. He tightened his grip on the bioluminescent sapphire spike in his hand, his golden eyes scanning the room warily as he took slow, deliberate steps forward. Something wasn't right.
It wasn't until he reached the center of the hall that he saw them.
An army of black knights.
Vastarael froze mid-step, his breath catching in his throat as they seemed to materialize out of thin air, a ripple in reality that birthed dozens—no, hundreds—of armored figures.
Their armor was identical to the ones he had seen in the mural: pitch black with jagged edges, as though forged in fire and shadow. Their faces were obscured by darkened visors and the faint glow of red light seeped from the slits of their helmets like dying embers. Each of them held a weapon—swords, daggers, knives, mage staffs—all gleaming ominously in the golden light of the room.
They moved as one, raising their weapons in unison, all pointed directly at him.
Vastarael's heart began to race. His instincts screamed at him to run, to teleport back to the last floor, to do anything but stand there. But his legs wouldn't move. The weight of their collective gaze pinned him in place and for the first time in years, he felt genuinely powerless.
The silence stretched on for what felt like an eternity. And then, they parted.
The sea of black armor split down the middle, their movements synchronized and unnervingly precise as they stepped to the sides, forming a path down the center of the room. Vastarael didn't need to guess who they were making way for.
She appeared from the far end of the hall.
The woman knight.
She was just as he remembered her from the mural, though seeing her in the flesh—or whatever form she existed in—was far more terrifying. Her black knight's armor seemed to drink in the light, making her form appear like a living shadow.
Every step she took echoed faintly in the vast room. Her helm concealed her face entirely but her posture, the way she carried herself, spoke volumes.
When she stopped a few paces from him, the knights behind her moved in unison again, slamming their weapons against the marble floor in a resounding clang that reverberated through the room. Vastarael flinched, the sound jarring him out of his frozen state.
"I ask you again, who are you?"
"I should be asking you the same thing. What is this place? What do you want from me?"
The woman tilted her head slightly, her helmet catching the light in a way that made her seem almost statuesque.
"You stand within the heart of the Spire. A sanctum untouched by the world beyond. As for what I desire… the question is not what I want, but what you seek."
Vastarael's mind raced. Her realm? Was she the creator of the spire? Its guardian? Some cursed spirit bound to it? None of it made sense and yet, staring at her now, he couldn't deny the sheer power that radiated from her. She wasn't just some phantom or projection. She was real.
"I'm here to survive. To make it through the spire. That's all."
"Survival," she repeated, the word rolling off her tongue as though it was foreign to her. "A noble yet hollow pursuit. Do you even know what awaits you beyond these walls? What purpose your trials serve?"
He hesitated. He didn't have an answer for her. The spire had been nothing but a maze of horrors and trials and he had accepted its challenges because he had no other choice.
"Does it matter? I'm here and I'm alive. That's enough."
The woman took a step closer and he instinctively raised his weapon, though she made no move to attack. Instead, she stopped just out of reach.
"You are not like the others," she said softly, almost to herself. "Your soul… it burns brighter than any I have seen. And yet, you are fragile."
Her words hit a nerve, and Vastarael's grip on his spike tightened.
"Fragile? I've fought my way through twenty-seven floors of this damned spire. I've faced things that would break most people. Don't call me fragile."
"..."
"You and your knights must have fought the phantom warriors while I faced them alone. Believe me, I'm not as fragile as you think."
The woman was silent for a moment, as if considering his words. Then, she reached up and removed her helmet.
Vastarael's breath froze. Her face was pale, almost unnaturally so, her hair blonde golden, and her features were sharp and regal. Her eyes, however, were what struck him most—they were an intense shade of crimson, glowing faintly in the light, and they seemed to pierce straight through him.
"You misunderstand. Your strength is undeniable. But your soul… it carries burdens you do not yet understand. Burdens that will shatter you if you do not confront them."
He didn't know how to respond to that. The intensity of her gaze made him feel exposed, like she could see straight into the depths of his being.