> "It doesn't matter where you begin. The Tower always ends you."
---
He stood before it now.
The Tower.
It rose without end, black and breathless, like the spine of a dead god stabbed through dimensions. Its base was rooted in a crater of dust and broken time, where even sound dared not step. Lightning coiled silently around its height, as if trying to remember how to strike.
It had been waiting.
And it knew him.
He felt it—the way its stone shivered at his approach. Like recognition. Like hunger.
His hand clenched.
He didn't remember this place, but it remembered him. That was enough.
He stepped forward.
The moment his foot crossed the threshold, the sky vanished.
Gone. Just like that.
Darkness didn't fall. It rose, coiling around him like silk spun from nightmare. The world outside faded into memory. Now there was only the Tower—and whatever it held within.
---
The first chamber was empty.
A dome of black stone. No doors. No light. Yet somehow, he saw everything.
A voice echoed—not spoken, not heard. It burrowed straight into his mind.
> "You are not whole."
He didn't respond.
> "You are not worthy."
Still, he said nothing.
Then the walls shifted. Not crumbled—moved, like breathing flesh disguised as stone. From the center of the chamber, a circle of light burned into existence—blood red, flickering like fire.
He stepped inside.
> Trial One: Identity.
The voice returned—no longer echoing. Now it whispered, directly behind his ear.
> "Tell us your name."
He opened his mouth.
Nothing came.
Pain bloomed in his chest. Not physical—deeper. Like a memory being stabbed awake.
Images flickered.
A battlefield that never ended.
A woman with silver eyes and a blade forged from her sorrow.
A child crying over a grave that shouldn't exist.
He fell to one knee.
> "I… don't know," he growled.
> Incorrect.
The circle flared—and his body erupted with flame.
He didn't scream.
He remembered.
A room full of mirrors. Each one showing a version of himself—older, younger, bloodier. They spoke in unison:
> "We died for you. And you don't even know who we are."
He clutched his head.
"No... I didn't ask for this."
The mirrors shattered.
The flames stopped.
He stood alone again in the silent chamber.
But now—something was different.
On his left arm, a black mark had appeared. A spiral, etched into his skin, pulsing faintly.
> "One piece restored."
---
The second chamber was colder.
No walls. Just an endless void, stretching in all directions. Floating platforms drifted like broken thoughts. Each one had something on it—a coffin, a sword, a painting, a pair of shoes. All drenched in meaning. All out of reach.
He knew what he had to do.
Jump.
He leapt—landing hard on the first platform. The object there was a cracked helmet, bloodstained and humming with sorrow.
The moment he touched it—
> A war. Screams. Betrayal. Someone trusted him. He let them die.
He recoiled.
The void shook.
> "Trial Two: Regret."
He moved faster now, jumping from platform to platform.
A ring. A severed chain. A music box. A broken locket.
Each memory returned like poison in his veins.
By the tenth platform, he could barely breathe. Each object took more from him than the last.
He collapsed on the eleventh, coughing up shadows.
The voice returned.
> "Will you carry your regrets… or be buried beneath them?"
He reached for the twelfth.
A photograph.
Of a boy with his eyes.
Smiling.
Alive.
He screamed—and threw the photo into the void.
The world stopped.
Then the void clapped, as if amused.
> "You chose to forget. Again."
The platforms vanished.
He fell—again.
This time, into silence.
---
When he woke, he was deeper in the Tower.
The air here didn't move. The light was green and wet, like mold growing on memories.
Before him was a door.
Carved with runes.
Bleeding.
He touched it—and it opened.
Behind it?
Himself.
Another version. Pale. Starved. Eyes hollow.
And smiling.
> "You've come far," it said. "Too bad this is where you end."
They collided.
No swords.
No powers.
Just pain.
Fists, teeth, claws. A raw, brutal brawl of identity against denial.
He didn't win.
He endured.
When it was over, only one remained.
Bleeding.
Breathing.
Alive.
The door behind him closed with a whisper.
> "You may proceed."
---
As he stepped into the fourth chamber, the Tower trembled—for the first time since its creation.
Because something within it was waking.
And it remembered him too.
---
(To be continued in Chapter 5: The Memory That Refused to Die...)
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