The aftermath of the slaughter still lingered like a suffocating fog.
The metallic stench of blood clung to the air, thick and invasive, seeping into lungs and thoughts alike. Scattered fragments of what had once been human lay across the ground, grotesque reminders of how abruptly existence could be severed within this Tower.
Some Regulars trembled uncontrollably.
Others stood frozen, their minds refusing to process what their eyes had just witnessed.
And then there were those—
Who simply watched.
Silently.
Among them stood Yang Kai.
Beside him, Jhon struggled to steady his breathing, his fingers tightening unconsciously around the axe. The bravado he usually carried had cracked, replaced by something far more fragile—fear.
He swallowed, forcing his voice to sound normal, though it betrayed a faint tremor.
"…Are you really that ugly guy?"
Yang Kai turned his head slightly, his sharp gaze settling on Jhon.
"Yeah," he replied without hesitation, tone indifferent. "But this isn't the time to talk about that."
His eyes shifted downward briefly—
Toward his own body.
It was beginning to fade.
A faint translucence crept across his form, particles of light peeling away like ash caught in a silent wind.
Jhon noticed it too.
"…What the—"
Not just Yang Kai.
Everyone.
Across the entire Public Area, the surviving Regulars began to dissolve into shimmering fragments, their bodies disintegrating into motes of light.
Panic flickered again, but this time it was muted—exhausted, hollow.
No one even had the energy left to resist.
One by one—
They vanished.
And within seconds—
The vast Public Area returned to absolute emptiness.
---
Heat.
Oppressive.
Unforgiving.
Yang Kai's form reassembled slowly, particles converging until his figure stood whole once more.
The first sensation that struck him was the temperature.
Dry.
Scorching.
The air itself seemed to burn with every breath.
He lifted his gaze.
An endless desert stretched before him—vast beyond comprehension. Rolling dunes extended toward the horizon in all directions, their golden surfaces shimmering beneath an unforgiving sun.
"It's hot," he muttered under his breath.
His eyes narrowed slightly as he scanned the terrain.
No structures.
No people.
Only sand.
So this is the second test.
As if responding to his thought, a voice echoed directly within his mind—clear, authoritative, and devoid of warmth.
"Regulars, welcome to the second test."
Yang Kai remained still, listening.
"In this trial, you need only do one thing."
A pause.
"Walk forward… and kill whoever stands in your path."
Silence followed.
The presence vanished as abruptly as it had come.
Yang Kai's lips slowly curled into a faint smile.
"So that's it…"
He began walking.
Unhurried.
Unbothered.
Each step sank slightly into the golden sand beneath his feet, grains shifting and sliding as if resisting his advance.
A test of ruthlessness.
His expression remained calm, almost bored.
This won't take long.
As he continued forward, his gaze drifted downward, observing the peculiar texture of the desert.
The sand wasn't ordinary.
Each grain glinted faintly under the sunlight—metallic, reflective.
Golden.
A flicker of memory surfaced.
"…Right."
A quiet chuckle escaped him.
"I did order something like this once."
He remembered it vaguely—an offhand command in a distant past, given without thought, fulfilled without question.
A desert forged of gold.
And now—
He walked through it.
His eyes lifted again toward the horizon.
Then—
Something shifted.
A subtle disturbance.
A presence.
His instincts reacted instantly.
Yang Kai halted mid-step and turned his head sharply forward.
There—
Standing amidst the endless dunes—
Was a figure.
A woman.
Elderly in appearance, her posture slightly bent with age. Her hair was streaked with gray, her face lined with wrinkles that spoke of time and hardship.
And yet—
She smiled.
Warmly.
Gently.
As if greeting a long-lost child.
"So, Yang Kai… you're back."
Her voice carried a strange familiarity.
Yang Kai's eyes narrowed.
"Who are you?" he asked coldly. "And how do you know my name?"
Even as he spoke, his right hand moved.
A flicker of crimson-black energy gathered—
And the staff materialized in his grasp.
His grip tightened.
First encounter… already suspicious.
The woman's expression softened further, almost trembling with emotion.
"Oh, honey…" she said, voice quivering slightly. "It's me."
A pause.
"Your mother."
Silence.
For a brief moment, the desert itself seemed to hold its breath.
Then—
Yang Kai scoffed.
"Mother?"
His lips twisted into a mocking smile.
"What a fucking joke."
He stepped forward.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Each footstep carried killing intent.
The original Yang Kai never even saw his parents.
His eyes darkened, devoid of hesitation.
"Trying to fool me with something like this…"
The staff in his hand pulsed faintly with crimson-black energy.
His voice dropped—cold, absolute.
"You picked the wrong illusion."
Yang Kai did not hesitate.
His grip tightened around the staff, veins subtly surfacing along his forearms as he raised it high above his head. The crimson-black energy coiling around the weapon pulsed faintly, as if eager—hungry.
Then—
He brought it down.
Violence incarnate.
The staff descended with crushing force, tearing through the air before colliding with the woman's skull.
A sickening crack echoed across the silent desert.
Her head caved in instantly, bone splintering, flesh rupturing under the overwhelming impact. Blood burst outward in a grotesque spray, scattering across the golden sand like spilled ink upon a gilded canvas.
Droplets struck Yang Kai's robe.
The sand beneath her darkened—gold turning crimson in spreading, irregular patterns.
Her body collapsed a moment later, lifeless.
Unrecognizable.
Disfigured beyond any trace of identity.
Yang Kai stood over the corpse, unmoving.
Not a flicker of remorse crossed his face.
Not even a hint of hesitation lingered in his gaze.
He stepped forward, planting his foot directly upon the mangled remains as he continued walking, his stride steady, indifferent.
He already understood.
This was an illusion.
A fabrication designed to exploit sentiment, to test hesitation, to probe weakness.
And yet—
Something felt… off.
Subtly wrong.
His eyes narrowed slightly as he walked.
The illusion had been too precise.
Too deliberate.
Too personal.
But he didn't slow down.
If the Tower intended to break him through emotion—
It had chosen the wrong person.
---
Elsewhere, beneath the same merciless sun—
Jhon stood frozen.
Before him stood a woman.
Young.
Beautiful.
Her features immaculate, her posture proud, her gaze sharp with authority.
His mother.
But unlike Yang Kai's fabricated encounter, this presence radiated something disturbingly real—an oppressive familiarity that clawed at his chest.
Her voice came, not as warmth—
But command.
"Jhon."
It was cold. Absolute.
"Have you already forgotten your mother?"
She stepped forward slightly, her eyes narrowing.
"Come back to me. Or you will suffer the consequences."
Jhon's fingers tightened around the handle of his axe.
His knuckles whitened.
His jaw clenched so hard it trembled.
"…No."
The word escaped through gritted teeth.
The woman's expression darkened.
"What?"
Jhon lifted his head.
Tears had begun to gather in his eyes—but they did not soften him.
They sharpened him.
"No," he repeated, voice louder now, trembling not with fear—but with rage.
"Just leave me the fuck alone."
His breathing grew heavier, uneven.
"You never cared about me."
Tears slipped down his cheeks, falling onto the sand below.
"You only saw me as something to use. A tool. A fucking profit machine."
The woman's face twisted instantly.
"Ungrateful bastard," she spat. "I raised you from nothing, and now you dare disobey—"
She never finished.
Jhon moved.
A single step.
A single swing.
The axe flashed.
And in the next instant—
Her neck split open.
Clean.
Brutal.
The blade tore through flesh and bone alike, severing her voice mid-sentence.
Her body froze for a fraction of a second—
Then collapsed.
Blood spilled freely, soaking into the sand.
Jhon stood there, chest heaving, tears still falling—but his grip never loosened.
"You never cared," he whispered hoarsely.
"When I was useless, you wanted me thrown away."
His voice broke—but he continued walking forward, stepping past the corpse without looking back.
"Only Dad… ever saw me as a person."
His figure moved deeper into the desert.
Alone.
But no longer bound.
---
Far from them—
Zoya stood in silence.
The desert wind brushed lightly against her hair, but she did not move.
Before her stood a man.
Tall.
Composed.
Dressed in regal attire befitting nobility.
Her father.
His presence carried weight—not just authority, but expectation.
Disappointment.
"Zoya."
His voice was calm.
Too calm.
"You have failed."
Her fingers tightened slightly around her daggers.
"You were sent here to grow."
A pause.
"And yet… you struggle."
His gaze sharpened.
"Return."
It wasn't a suggestion.
"Return to your family."
"Remain under our protection."
"Abandon this foolish attempt at independence."
Zoya's expression didn't change.
But something within her eyes—
Shifted.
"You don't belong here," he continued. "You were never meant to fight like this."
Silence stretched.
Then—
Zoya exhaled softly.
"No."
A single word.
Flat.
Unemotional.
Her father's eyes narrowed.
"What did you say?"
She raised her daggers slowly, her stance precise, controlled.
"I said no."
Her gaze locked onto his.
Unwavering.
"I'm not here to remain protected."
Her voice remained calm—but resolute.
"I'm here to prove I don't need it."
For the first time—
Her father's expression hardened.
"Then you are a disappointment."
Zoya moved.
Swift.
Efficient.
Her blades flashed—
Twin arcs of cold steel slicing through the air.
And in the next instant—
His body split apart.
Cleanly.
Silently.
He collapsed without resistance.
Zoya stood still for a moment.
Then lowered her blades.
"…Illusion or not," she murmured quietly, "you don't get to decide my path anymore."
And she walked forward.
Without looking back.
---
Elsewhere—
Liyo Griffin stood with his sword drawn.
Before him stood a group.
Not one figure.
Many.
Men and women clad in noble garments.
His family.
Their gazes were filled with contempt.
"Liyo."
One of them stepped forward.
An elder.
"You have shamed our lineage."
Another voice followed.
"You abandoned your duty."
"You chose weakness."
"You chose outsiders."
Their voices overlapped, suffocating, accusatory.
Liyo's grip tightened on his sword.
"…Shut up."
They continued.
"You are unworthy."
"You are a disgrace."
"You do not deserve the Griffin name."
Something inside him snapped.
"Shut the fuck up!"
His aura surged violently, spiritual energy erupting around him like a storm.
His eyes burned with fury.
"You never saw me as anything but a tool!"
His voice roared across the desert.
"Every single one of you!"
He stepped forward.
Sword raised.
"If this is what my 'family' is—"
His expression twisted into something fierce.
"I'd rather cut it all down."
He moved.
A blur.
Steel flashed relentlessly—each strike precise, merciless.
One by one—
They fell.
Bodies collapsing into the sand, their accusations silenced forever.
When it ended—
Liyo stood alone.
Breathing heavily.
His sword dripped with blood that quickly vanished into the golden ground.
He exhaled slowly.
"…Good riddance."
Then he turned—
And walked forward.
Like the others.
Toward whatever awaited next.