Before the first oath was sworn, before the first blade was raised, the Tower had already been waiting.
It rose from the heart of the world like a wound in the sky — endless stone and shadow, its base sunk deeper than any cavern, its peak lost in the clouds beyond sight. Walls so vast they dwarfed kingdoms. Halls that stretched like continents. Each floor, a world. Each world, a trial.
No one knew who had built it. Some whispered of forgotten gods, others of a civilization so advanced their monuments still lived while their names had turned to dust. And some said the Tower was no construct at all, but a thing that grew, a structure alive — testing those who dared step inside.
What all agreed upon was this:
The Tower does not welcome the weak.
It hungers for courage, for ambition, for blood spilled and blades broken. It is a forge of souls, where the nameless can rise into legends or fall into nothing.
Adventurers gathered by the millions when the gates opened. They came from every land, every nation, their hearts aflame with dreams. Some sought glory, to carve their names into the Tower's Hall of Fame. Others sought knowledge, hoping the Tower's secrets might outlast them. And some came only to survive, chasing coin and scraps in a place where every pelt, every scale, every shard had value.
The Tower promised resurrection, but never mercy. Death was not permanent, yet it demanded payment: lost coin, lost experience, time stolen in lockouts that left the reckless trembling in frustration. Every step forward was earned with suffering, and every misstep was punished without hesitation.
And above all, progression was communal. Floors did not fall to single blades but to those willing to challenge the impossible. When a Floor Boss fell, the path opened for all adventurers — but the names of those who struck the killing blow were etched into history forever.
The Tower's voice carried those names across the world in booming announcements none could ignore. The victors rose to fame. The defeated faded. And the Tower moved on.
It was no simple battleground. It was a world of worlds: forests that whispered with ancient spirits, swamps where shadows slithered, ruins where puppets and skeletons shambled, skies ruled by dragons whose wings blotted the heavens. Each floor, alive with its own ecosystem. Each ecosystem, poised to consume the unprepared.
Coins clinked in purses, but true wealth was measured in hides, ores, and monster parts, all feeding the endless hunger of the forge. Eternal Tokens — rare and sacred — were the only means to bind a warrior's name into eternity. To earn them was to be remembered forever.
The Tower itself was the arbiter. Through system announcements, it declared victories, tragedies, and discoveries. It inscribed events into its eternal memory, ensuring that every adventurer's triumph or failure became part of something larger.
Those who entered did so with trembling hearts, steady blades, or burning ambition. But none were left unchanged.
And among the nameless millions who stood before its gate on the first day, two figures paused side by side.
One was calm, precise, a man who carried his blade as if it were an extension of his very soul. Alexis — who would one day be called a Samurai.
The other was a shadow with a smile, swift as a whisper and sharp as a fang. Lyra — who would one day be feared as an Assassin.
They did not know it yet, but the Tower had chosen them. Not as chosen heroes — for the Tower chose none — but as potential. Their deeds, their failures, their sacrifices would echo far beyond their own party. They would become known as the Phantoms, though that name was still far ahead of them.
For now, they were only two adventurers, nameless among millions, stepping into a world where legends were born and lives were broken.
The gates rumbled. The light beyond shimmered. The grass of the first floor bent under phantom winds, welcoming them not with kindness, but with silence.
The Tower awaited.
And it was hungry.