XLV

The Fighting Tower—no, the World Tower—was more than just an arena. I’d heard rumors about it, whispers of its true name and purpose, but stepping inside for the first time was something else entirely. The sheer scale of it was overwhelming, a structure that seemed to pierce the heavens and descend endlessly below. Its shimmering walls pulsed faintly with aura, as if alive, as if watching.

The public called it the Fighting Tower because they didn’t know any better. To most, it was just a high-tech battleground, a flashy venue for tournaments and tests. But I knew better. This wasn’t just a stage for combat; it was a monument to ambition, a secret project that had united the world’s three greatest powers—the Hunter’s Association, the Government, and the World Order. That alone made it dangerous.

And yet, it wasn’t even finished.

As I stepped into the staging area, I couldn’t help but marvel at the tower’s capabilities. Its most infamous feature—the ability to make death temporary—was something I’d always thought was too good to be true. But here I was, standing in the belly of a machine that could turn mortal wounds into illusions, erasing the consequences of failure while leaving behind the sting of defeat.

I ran my fingers along the hilt of my sword, feeling its familiar weight. The tower’s safeguards would protect me, but they couldn’t dull the edge of real pain or the humiliation of being “killed.” For some, that was enough to keep them cautious. For me, it was a challenge.

The hallway buzzed with life as other contestants emerged from their rooms. Among them was Gerry Mansel. I spotted him immediately—silver hair slicked back, his tailored suit immaculate, not a thread out of place. He carried himself with an air of precision, every step measured, every movement deliberate.

Gerry…

The sight of him stirred something primal in me, a simmering anger that I couldn’t quite shake. He had tried to kill me once. I didn’t know why or for whom, but it didn’t matter. That he was still standing, still breathing, was a testament to his skill—and a reminder that I couldn’t afford to let my guard down.

As if on cue, the air shimmered, and a massive holographic head materialized in the center of the hall. president Bob’s larger-than-life image loomed over us, his bald head gleaming with exaggerated intensity.

“The time has come!” he boomed, his voice echoing off the tower’s walls. “128 participants will compete in this tower. Okay, where do I start?”

He scratched his holographic head, pausing as if genuinely lost in thought. The absurdity of it was almost enough to make me laugh, but I didn’t. Not with Gerry standing just a few feet away.

“Right!” Bob snapped his fingers, his expression brightening. “First things first—this state-of-the-art tower! Here, feel free to let loose because death is but a temporary reprieve in this world! This means you can push your limits, fight with all you’ve got, because if you lose, it’s not the end of the line for you—well, not entirely.”

The crowd murmured in response, a mix of excitement and unease rippling through the room. For some, the promise of a “safe” fight was reassuring. For others, it was a challenge to prove their mettle without holding back.

It was great news, considering the spiel about the No-Kill rule being enforced to the latter half of the Exam.

I stole another glance at Gerry. His expression was unreadable, but his presence alone was enough to put me on edge. Something about him felt off, more so than usual.

What are you planning, Gerry?

The hologram continued its speech, but my focus had already shifted. A ripple of tension passed through the crowd as President Bob’s holographic grin hung in the air, its mischievous energy infectious.

“But,” he continued, his booming voice cutting through the murmur of contestants, “losing just once might not mean death, but it does mean you’ll be trying again next year. Only the top sixteen earn the ‘golden pass.’ The rest of you unlucky souls—well, if you fight hard enough, you might earn a silver pass. That’ll let you skip the first half of the exams next time around.”

The room shifted as the weight of his words sank in. Some faces grew pale, others tightened with resolve.

I caught sight of Gerry Mansel, standing among the crowd, his silver hair gleaming under the arena’s artificial lights. His smirk betrayed a flicker of confidence, but his eyes darted, assessing, calculating.

But if he thought I’d make it easy for him, he was dead wrong.

“Now, onto the rules!” Bob declared, his voice light with mock seriousness. “We’re running a tournament bracket! One-on-one matches in isolated arenas—no interference, no excuses. Just you, your opponent, and everything you’ve got. The rooms you slept in last night aren’t just for resting—they’re your entry point to the battlefield. When it’s your turn, those doors will teleport you straight to the fight. No funny business, just fair and square.”

The president’s voice boomed one last time, snapping me out of my thoughts. “Good luck, everyone! May the strongest aura shine the brightest!”

I returned to my room, its sterile walls and faint hum of energy a reminder of the tower’s intricate design. Room 99—my rank so far, and a position I intended to rise from.

I stepped inside, expecting the same spartan quarters I’d left. Instead, the space dissolved around me, replaced by a sprawling arena that defied logic. The air was thick with tension, charged with the remnants of battles fought and lost. It was surreal—this vast, open space contained within the walls of what should have been a simple room.

Across from me, another door shimmered into view. Its number, “72,” burned bright, and I knew my opponent waited on the other side.

The door creaked open, and there he was—Gerry.

He stepped into the arena, his tailored suit immaculate, his expression sharp with intent. Our eyes locked, and for a moment, neither of us moved.

Gerry’s smirk widened, but I saw the tension beneath it. His gaze flicked to the blade at his side, barely concealed but glinting with an otherworldly aura. A weapon meant to kill.

I let my own calm settle over me, my body still as I studied him. No fear, no hesitation. If anything, I felt a strange clarity, as if this moment had been inevitable.

“It’s been a while,” Gerry said, his voice low and venomous. His smirk twisted into something darker. “I will make you pay for killing my fiancée.”

I stared across at the man before me. Gerry. His name was barely worth remembering, yet here he stood, radiating anger and desperation, as if he had a personal vendetta to settle.

I tilted my head, studying him. His stance was tight, his fists trembling slightly—not with fear, but with rage. A man who thought his emotions would fuel his strength. Foolish. I’d seen it a thousand times before.

I didn’t bother justifying myself. “Do you fight by wagging your tongue?” I asked, my tone flat, my gaze unyielding.

His reaction was predictable. His fists clenched, his face twisted in fury, and he lowered into a stance. Aura flared around him, sparking with intensity. He was preparing for an attack, feeding off his anger. Amateur.

“YOU!?” he snarled, as if the sound alone would shake me.

I remained still, watching him. His aura rippled with his “homing” attribute—an impressive ability, perhaps, but one that relied too much on predictability. The problem with people like him was that they believed their powers were unstoppable, that their “truth” was absolute.

It wasn’t.

“I am going to hurt you,” he hissed, stepping forward, his grin wild. “I’ll enjoy watching you crumble. My power dictates fate—my aim never fails!”

Before I could respond, he launched himself at me, his movements guided by his attribute. A flying kick tore through the air, aimed directly at my chest with pinpoint precision.

But precision meant nothing without adaptability.

I bent backward, my body moving with fluid ease, the kick slicing through the air just inches from my face. His speed was impressive, but I had seen faster. Before he could adjust, my hand shot up, seizing his wrist mid-air.

He panicked. I felt it in the way his aura surged, his body twisting in an attempt to escape. I let him go, watching as he turned the motion into a roundhouse kick aimed at my face.

The strike connected with a sharp crack, but I didn’t move. Pain was an afterthought, irrelevant to someone like me.

I caught his leg mid-swing, feeling the tremor of his aura-infused strike. With a shift of my weight, I pivoted, using his momentum against him. His body arced through the air, crashing into the wall with a satisfying thud.

He scrambled to his feet, his aura flaring brighter. I could see the determination in his eyes, the refusal to back down. Admirable, but ultimately futile.

He began to move, dashing in a wide arc, his homing attribute creating a web of energy around me. His speed increased, his movements erratic and difficult to follow.

“You’re done for,” he barked, his voice echoing through the arena. “You shouldn’t have let me finish this.”

I let my lips curl into a faint smirk, letting him see the disdain in my eyes. “You bark like a dog. Do you shit like one too?”

His aura flared violently, his rage boiling over. He shouted something incomprehensible, a name for his technique, no doubt. They always had names for their attacks, as if that would make them stronger.

In an instant, he vanished, reappearing directly in front of me. His fist drove into my solar plexus with the force of a cannon. The impact rippled through my body, but I stood firm, absorbing the blow.

The look on his face was priceless—a mixture of triumph and confusion as he realized I hadn’t moved.

“That’s all?” I asked, my voice soft, almost bored.

Before he could react, I grabbed his arm, pulling him closer. My knee shot up, slamming into his stomach with a force that made him gasp. I didn’t let go, tightening my grip as I leaned in.

“Your power may dictate fate,” I whispered, my voice icy, “but fate is meaningless when faced with someone who bends it to their will.”

With a twist, I hurled him across the arena. His body hit the far wall, sliding to the ground in a crumpled heap.

I stood there, watching as he struggled to rise, his aura flickering weakly. He was resilient, I’d give him that. But resilience without strategy was nothing more than stubbornness.

“You should have stayed down,” I said, my tone as cold as the air between us.

This wasn’t a fight. It was a lesson. And Gerry was a poor student.

Gerry’s fists came at me like a storm, each strike infused with the relentless precision of his homing attribute. I blocked and parried, my arms vibrating from the impact as I layered Fighter Aura over them. It dulled the pain but did little to mask his overwhelming strength in close combat. Every punch felt like it carried a piece of his anger, a fragment of his bitterness.

I sidestepped a wild hook, narrowly avoiding the edge of his knuckles. My eyes, enhanced by Seeker Aura, tracked his movements with meticulous precision, mapping his attack patterns. It wasn’t just his strikes that interested me—it was his intent. Every move he made was saturated with frustration, his emotions spilling over like an overfilled cup.

This wasn’t a fight to him. It was therapy.

“You’ve been holding onto this for a while, haven’t you?” I said, ducking under a spinning kick. My tone was calm, conversational, as if I weren’t fending off an opponent trying to kill me. “The anger, the grief—it’s written all over you.”

“Shut up!” he barked, his voice raw, his aura flaring in response. His next punch was faster, sharper, aimed at my temple. I caught it, my hand snapping around his wrist like a vice.

For a moment, our gazes locked. His eyes burned with rage, but beneath it, I saw something else: guilt.

I let go of his wrist, taking a step back to dodge his follow-up strike. He didn’t miss a beat, closing the gap between us with a flurry of blows. My arms ached from blocking, my ribs throbbed from the hits that slipped through, but I didn’t let up.

“You’re not even fighting me,” I said, sidestepping another attack. “You’re fighting yourself.”

His expression twisted, a flicker of doubt crossing his face before he buried it beneath his anger.

I pressed on, weaving through his attacks, my words calculated. “The Elsewhere Cult… what did they promise you? Power? Redemption? Or was it just a way to numb the pain?”

His next punch was slower, his focus faltering. “You don’t know anything about me!”

“Don’t I?” I countered, catching his fist and twisting it, forcing him to stumble. “I know you’re desperate. I know you’re clinging to their lies because it’s easier than facing the truth.”

He growled, yanking his hand free and lunging at me. His strikes were erratic now, his precision giving way to recklessness. He was losing control, and I was learning more with every move he made.

“You think they care about you?” I said, ducking under a wide swing. “You’re a pawn, Gerry. Just another expendable piece on their board.”

“SHUT UP!” he roared, his aura flaring wildly. His punches came harder, faster, but they lacked the calculated precision of before.

I grimaced as one of his strikes caught my shoulder, the impact jolting through me. He was strong—stronger than I’d anticipated—but strength alone wouldn’t win this fight.

“You don’t even know why you’re here, do you?” I pressed, sidestepping another attack. “What’s their plan, Gerry? What’s the cult really after?”

His eyes flickered, the question striking a nerve. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, and I seized the opportunity, stepping in and driving my elbow into his ribs.

He staggered back, clutching his side, his breathing ragged. “You… you think you’re so smart,” he spat, his voice trembling with rage. “But you don’t know anything. The Elsewhere Cult… they’re—”

He stopped himself, his jaw clenching.

“Go on,” I said, my tone soft but insistent. “Finish the sentence.”

He shook his head, his aura flaring once more. “You’re not getting anything from me!”

I sighed, settling back into a defensive stance. I’d gotten close, but he wasn’t ready to break—not yet.

“Fine,” I said, my voice calm. “Then I’ll just have to beat the truth out of you.”

Gerry snarled, his aura surging around him like a wildfire. He lunged at me again, his attacks wild and relentless. But this time, I wasn’t just defending—I was waiting. Watching.

I had all the time in the world, and Gerry’s frustration was only making him weaker.

~045