The gate hissed open, revealing a long stone corridor bathed in golden-red light. Ayato stepped inside. Each footstep echoed like a sermon in the hollow silence. A low, monastic chant played in the distance, backwards and warped, like time unspooling out of order. The air was heavy with the scent of dust. The walls were lined with upside-down crucifixes, each bearing a student's face—unmoving, expressionless. Names scrawled beneath in elegant calligraphy: Haruto, Airi, Mio, Daichi, Kenta. The Tower's version of sainthood—or sacrifice.
Ayato's breath caught. 'This place is a cemetery masquerading as a chapel. Every "saint" here is just a memory of someone I let down.' Grief and shame mingled with resentment as he walked, each name pressing memories into his chest—a weight he knew he would never shake.
He remembered the first guilty secret: the casual way he left Yui behind to save Kazuki, justifying it as the only logical choice. The night he watched Mio Sakamoto cry quietly in her bunk, and he said nothing, already closing his heart. Letting Daichi die—telling himself there was no other way. Killing the mimic with Airi's face, all the anger and horror turned into a single moment of violence. Every mistake, every cruel or cowardly decision, here stretched out along the walls.
At the end of the chapel stood a pulpit. Behind it, a figure in crimson and black cleric robes waited—faceless beneath its hood, a blackened crown floating above. Ayato's heart hammered. 'This is the Tower's version of a god. Or maybe a devil. Or maybe both.'
"Approach, sinner."
Ayato's footsteps felt thick and sticky, each movement harder than the last. The air itself seemed to clutch at his shoulders. He could feel Karma twisting inside him, pressing against his ribs like invisible wires: 'If I lie here, I'll break. If I tell the truth, I just prove I'm as flawed as they always said.'
"State your faith."
He opened his mouth. Hesitated. The words clung to his tongue, sticky with fear. He could feel the Karma threads within him—vibrating, hungry for contradiction, ready to snap if he lied.
He remembered it all. Leaving the people he should have saved. Pretending righteousness when he was simply desperate to survive. Judging people's actions while excusing his own. Wallowing in guilt but refusing to let go.
What did he believe in, really?
Not salvation. Not justice, not anymore. Maybe… remembrance.
"I believe people don't need to be perfect to be worth saving," he said, voice raw and tight. "I believe guilt is proof that something mattered. And I believe in remembering the ones I failed—even if remembering hurts."
The figure nodded, once. "Such faith binds you in rusted iron, but binds you still."
With a bone-rattling groan, the aisle beneath his feet shifted, transforming into a thin, brittle bridge over a yawning pit of gnashing teeth. Each tooth was etched with a sin: liar, coward, selfish, manipulator. They screamed his name, each shriek warping the air. Ayato braced himself against the wind of accusation and guilt.
He walked the bridge anyway. Every step was another memory, another confession. 'This is who I am. I can't accept absolution from something that doesn't know what I lost.'
He recited his beliefs like a mantra. With every accusation flung his way, he answered, not with denial, but with the truth he'd torn from himself: "I failed. I lied. I survived when others didn't. I keep going, not because I believe I'll be forgiven, but because someone should remember what was lost here."
He reached the pulpit.
The faceless figure reached out. Resting in its palm was a black flame, writhing and pulsing like a living heart.
"You may burn away one memory," the figure intoned. "Absolve one guilt. Carry a cleaner conscience forward."
Ayato reached out. The flame flickered, a soft warmth promising oblivion, the mercy of forgetfulness. He paused.
Then withdrew his hand.
"No," he said, voice shaking but stronger than it'd ever been. "I keep all of them. Every scar, every shadow, every failure—they're mine. I earned them. I don't want to forget anymore."
The flame guttered, then died. Chains melted at his wrists and ankles. The aisles straightened, the teeth vanished. The chapel seemed to dissolve, and he was left standing in a shaft of golden-red light, alone, sweat cold on his back, trembling but upright.
He was lighter—but not free. His sins were still his. But they were his, not the Tower's.
Somewhere in the distance, the Tower's voice whispered: 'The crown burns, but never consumes.'
System Update:
Floor 22 Cleared.
Trait Reinforced: Iron Creed.
Karma Adjusted: +2 Integrity, +1 Willpower.
Next Floor: Floor 23 — The Red Garden.
Ayato walked away from the chapel, into another unknown hallway. The weight on his shoulders was still there, but so was a strange new lightness. 'Maybe I'm not broken. Maybe I'm just forged. In fire. In truth.'
He looked back once. The chapel was gone.
He kept walking.
He was ready.
(Chapter 29 End)