Morning came.
Elias ate a simple breakfast before stepping out into the city. Shein's words echoed in his mind as he adjusted his coat and melted into the crowd.
"Make sure to get your climber license first thing tomorrow. The Registration Office is right in the center. You literally can't miss it."
The city was chaos wrapped in structure, a sprawling mess of cultures, technologies, and traditions, all orbiting around the Tower at its core. It wasn't just diverse. It was multiversal.
He passed stalls selling enchanted gear, relics, glowing scrolls, and mana-tech weapons. A little girl haggled over a spellbook while a man in a cloak bartered for AI-guided spellchips. Guns and grimoires. Robots and rune stones.
The world was really different.
After nearly an hour of navigating the crowds and jumping between transport nodes, Elias finally found the Registration Office, a monolithic structure of obsidian and glass.
He stepped through its automated doors.
The inside buzzed with activity. Climbers of every kind crowded the space. Some fresh-faced and hopeful. Others hardened, carrying the weight of experience. A few had auras sharp enough to sting the skin.
Elias kept his head down and walked to the counter.
"Excuse me, miss. I'm here to register as a climber."
The clerk a young woman with a holographic badge offered a polite smile. "Of course, sir. May I have your name and class?"
"Uh… Elias Cross. I'm a Performer."
She raised an eyebrow. "So… a bard?"
"Maybe? Sort of?"
"Noted. And what was the difficulty of your Trial?"
"Well… Hell Mode."
Silence.
The clerk froze, fingers hovering over the console. Around him, the noise died. Heads turned. A few climbers stiffened.
A Hell Mode survivor?
She slowly reached for a crystal orb.
"Please place your hand here."
Elias pressed his palm against it. The orb pulsed with radiant blue light.
Level 15.
The whispers came like a wave.
"Level fifteen?!"
"Holy crap, that's legit…"
"He really did clear Hell Mode…"
"He doesn't even look that strong…"
Most new climbers emerged at level 1 or 3. 5, if they cleared Hard Mode. But fifteen? That was Hell Mode territory. And even then, only a few survived.
"So…" Elias scratched his head. "Do I get my license now?"
"Yes, sir. Just a moment—"
Before she could finish, a rough voice cut through the crowd.
"Wait just a damn second."
A man stepped forward, middle-aged, battle-scarred, and built like a tank. His aura hit like a wall. Level 25, at least. Veterans gave him space instinctively.
"That's it? He says he cleared Hell Mode, and you just hand him a license?"
"It's standard procedure," the clerk replied. "Hell Mode survivors are automatically exempted from the combat evaluation. The system confirms it—"
"System, my ass," the man snapped. "I say he proves it. Like the rest of us had to."
Elias sighed. He already saw where this was going.
The man caught the sigh and growled. "You think you're better than us, kid?"
"Honestly? I just think this is a waste of time."
Murmurs spread. Bitterness. Suspicion.
"Yeah, make him prove it."
"Hell Mode or not, nobody skips the line."
"Bastard probably got lucky…"
The tension crackled. Elias glanced at the clerk.
"So... can I take your precious test and get this over with?"
She looked uneasy. "Sir, you really don't need to—"
"He does now," the man said. "Let's duel. I'll go easy, so don't worry."
The crowd stirred like sharks circling blood.
Elias rolled his neck. "Fine... Where?"
The man grinned. "Training grounds. Follow me."
Outside, the combat arena was a wide, rune-etched circle surrounded by raised bleachers. Word spread fast. Climbers, rookies and veterans alike, gathered, drawn by the spectacle, it wasn't every day you get to see a Hell mode survivor.
The man cracked his knuckles. "Hope you've got more than flute solos, bard."
Elias closed his eyes, feeling the weight of their gazes. Their hunger for blood and their doubt.
He thought of Jack. No good, Jack wouldn't hold back. Regin? He was Immortal, but incredibly useless in a fight like this.
No. He needed a role forged not for trickery but for dominion.
King Arthur.
He had played the role in a series that demanded nothing less than absolute presence. The training had been brutal, voice, posture, swordplay. Arthur wasn't just a king. He was the king. The ideal sovereign, a man of legends.
He straightened his back, drawing on the memory.
"Cosplay: King Arthur."
Golden light appeared.
His coat vanished, replaced by royal armor, shining steel lined with gold art. A crimson cloak unfurled behind him caught in a breeze. In his hand, Excalibur materialized, radiant and sharp as divine justice.
His eyes glowed with pale gold.
He stepped forward. Regal. Unmoved.
"Thou dare set thyself against thy king? A bold jest… but a poor one."
The effect was instant.
Many in the crowd dropped to one knee, reflexively. Not from fear but in reverence. Their hearts pounded, not from pressure but in awe.
"It's like… we're in the presence of royalty."
"What skill is this? Some sort of illusion?"
The man snarled. "Quit the theatrics. You think I care about your tricks?!"
He activated buffs. Berserk, Bloodlust. Red energy surged around him, warping the air.
Arthur did not flinch.
"Come, mongrel. Show thy mettle."
With a roar, the man charged, his axe crashing down like a meteor.
Arthur raised Excalibur. With effortless grace, he parried the blow. His feet didn't even move. His wrist barely twitched. The man however stumbled from the rebound.
Arthur's voice mocked the man.
"Thy rage is crude. Thy form is unrefined. Thy soul, hollow."
Gasps echoed across the training ground.
Enraged, the man roared again. "HELL'S CLEAVER!"
Dark mana wrapped his axe. He lunged wild and all-in.
Elias's gaze hardened.
"Then suffer thy judgment."
In a blur, he sidestepped, deflected, and drove the pommel of Excalibur into the man's chest. Not lethal but decisive.
The air shuddered from the impact. The man collapsed to one knee, eyes wide in stunned defeat.
The referee raised her hand.
"Winner: Elias."
The King faded. Armor dissolved. The sword vanished. Only Elias remained.
He walked past the downed man without a word, coat fluttering behind him. The crowd parted, silent. Eyes wide. Whispers followed in his wake.
"That was a bard?"
"He didn't even try…"
And somewhere in the crowd, someone murmured the truth.
"That wasn't a bard… That was a King."