The first thing Shin noticed as he stepped into the Lightning Tower was how quiet it was.
Not the Wind Tower's kind of quiet—that elegant silence, with a soft hum between the pulses.
No. This place was completely different. It felt more like a machine that had been running for centuries without maintenance.
This place... what on earth is this? Why is this place so... ugly?
It stood to reason that since similar entities made both towers, they would look at least somewhat the same. But once again, Shin was reminded that reason held no role when it came to towers.
Sigh, I should forget anything I think I know. But could it really be that different?Hmmm... wait... What on Earth is it?
The walls weren't clean-cut stone but flickering constructs of energy and matter that looked as if they were barely holding themselves together. Above them, glowing filaments of lightning coiled around the support beams like veins through muscle. At times, the architecture shifted when he blinked—as if correcting itself from some invisible blueprint.
There were no massive gates. There were no ancient murals or grand statues with welcoming symbols.
It was just a room—hexagonal in shape, faintly humming with white-blue energy that twisted without a defined reason.
Shin looked up. The ceiling was barely visible, just vague outlines of curved metal and flickering arcs. The floor wasn't stone or soil but some strange material that bent slightly underfoot like a rubberized steel.
Everything about this place said: You shouldn't be here.
He moved carefully.
Each step was light and controlled. The floor pulsed faintly with a rhythm that didn't match his own. The energy didn't buzz—it pressed against the skin, against the eyes, against the teeth. It weighed in a way that felt lighter than gravity yet just as unstoppable.
Ahead, the chamber opened into a suspended ring with no floor beneath—only thin, shimmering platforms drifting like leaves in a whirlpool.
The moment he stepped forward, the room warped—not exactly physically but definitely perceptually. The space folded in on itself like a kaleidoscope, and the hum deepened to a deafening level. "Well fuck. What on earth did I do?" Shin growled in pain.
The tower responded as if in anger.
Something above snapped. It was immediate, without any warning or message to start a trial.
Just a bolt of lightning crashing from the ceiling furiously.
Shin moved half a moment before it struck. His body reacted to the shift in pressure—his feet sliding across the curved paneling, and then immediately launching backward. Another arc—thinner this time, and curved like a whip—lashed the spot he'd just vacated.
Unlike the rest of the room, the bolts weren't random. Each bolt followed a rotation—a moving logic that Shin was lucky to deduce quickly. Five seconds of strike, then a half-second pause between bursts. But his measurements soon became outdated; Shin could feel the attacks speeding up with his every step.
He moved again—not straight, but laterally, testing. The bolt chased right after.
Man...
His reflexes sharpened with every step, and a burst of divine power flowed through his body with every breath. At last, his body began adapting to the divine power coursing through it.
He smiled. Training like this was nothing like sword drills in that empty park. This was growth—a dynamic growth that represented real progress. In this game of life and death, he became better and better at wielding the power he had, and he couldn't help but be excited for what this power could become.
But his excitement didn't last long, for every ten cycles, the lightning grew faster. By the fifth wave, the gaps between strikes were gone. The arcs began anticipating him—not where he was, but where he would be.
Shit, He thought to himself as lightning passed a hair's breadth from his shoe.
This wasn't just reflex testing anymore.
It was an execution.
Sure, he was improving. But the tower was improving, too, like a trap evolving to match its prey. Shin's breath stayed calm. He dashed again as a bolt chased after him, then accelerated immediately to move faster—only to catch a glancing hit across the shoulder.
"Fuck! You son of a b***!" Luckily, it only touched the edge of his shirt; the heat might leave a minor burn, but nothing life-threatening.
This wasn't a curated trial like Wind's, where you could safely pass if you were wise enough to understand the trick. This place had a real defense system—a reactive shell meant to eliminate the intruders, not to test them.
He quickly realized he had no other choice; there was no way he could win against something like this with his current abilities. If he was to survive, he needed to do something different.
But that was fine.
Adapt, learn, and exploit. That had always been his style.
He started noticing a subtle shift in pressure right before a strike. A brief moment of pause before the discharge. It was only a few milliseconds' warning—barely enough time to move, but it was enough to plan. He gritted his teeth, So that's how it is.
The next strike came faster, but this time he ducked low and rolled—using a gush of wind to cushion his motion. No burn. No mark. It wasn't raw lightning anymore. It was tuned, compressed, and relentless.
The moment he summoned his sword, the tower responded as if on cue. Three points on the ceiling flared, each charged with electric intent—and all aimed at him.
He dove forward, using a burst of air to lift him mid-step. He landed. Rolled. Pivoted.
And ran.
As his boots hit the new floor, the lightning behind him sparked in protest—then shut off. Trial passed.
He didn't smile. But the wind eased around him, as if even it acknowledged the pass. This place wasn't made for selection, he realized. It was made to repel. To reject or even kill invaders, not welcome explorers.
The next room opened into a large dome. The walls were faintly mirrored, but warped—like reflections trapped in storm-washed glass. At the center stood a circular platform, pulsing with faint blue lines. Shin stepped forward cautiously.
As soon as he crossed the threshold—into the spherical chamber of gleaming obsidian—the lights cut out and the darkness swallowed everything. He reached out with his senses—Wind's gift let him read space, pressure, and even sound as easily as reading a book. But here, the air was— static? It was thick, so thick he couldn't feel or see anything beyond a meter or two.
A flicker of light caught his eye. There was no sound or pressure, just one long and smooth motion—a precise cut Shin knew all too well.
He spun, his sword already raised high—and blocked.
The strike came from a blade identical to his. Held by a figure dressed in the same coat. Same height. Same stance.
He stared in apparent confusion.
It was himself.
Not a clone. Not even a projection. It was a perfect imitation. His wind technique, his movement style—even the way the fake Shin stepped into each motion was uncanny. But before Shin could decide how to react, several more figures emerged from the misted walls. All looked exactly like him.
Shin's blade came out just in time—deflecting one strike, sidestepping a second. But a third clone grazed his shoulder with a faint pulse of pressure. He didn't fall, but the recoil caused him to step back.
They weren't just fast. They were him. If he fought carelessly, he'd be overwhelmed.
But if he relied solely on instinct, he'd be matched.
He slid back, creating space and letting momentum carry him. Three fanned out, surrounding him with a tight rhythm—their coordination was unified and precise. By this time, he already knew it for sure. They weren't testing him. They were eliminating variables.
They struck one after another, but Shin parried and redirected everything. For better or worse, they were him. And that meant that just like him, their fast instincts would be dragged down by a little lack of skill due to limited practice. For now, he let his instincts guide his body and moved on pure reflex. I need to think of a solution quickly; I don't have a good way to defeat myself. But his breath shortened, and his shoulder throbbed.
They weren't getting any slower. But he was.
His muscles hadn't fully adapted to the new power, and his stamina, while vastly improved, was still human.
But so were his enemies.
"Left foot slower," he murmured under his breath, eyes narrowing. Shin had read enough novels to know the key. Clones could copy his movements—but not his thoughts.
I just need to improve faster than they adapt, he thought.
Easy peasy.
He waited for the next strike, then feinted high and pivoted low.
One clone overcommitted.
Shin slammed a wind-backed palm straight into its ribs, shattering it into sparks.
Another clone charged. Shin saw the opening instantly—as if the motion itself had forced it into his vision. His breath strained with the effort, but his blade still slid diagonally. The clone failed to react on time, and down it went.
Another fell. Then another. His blade lashed through the space like a serpent drunk on stormlight, ecstatic by its own rhythm.
But his body was taking a toll. His muscles burned, and he grew tired. His stance didn't waver, but his breath was slow and heavy.
One remained.
This one was quieter. Its eyes held a calmness the others lacked. A perfect copy? He exhaled slowly, letting his muscles relax and breathing the world into his lungs. Then, he tensed his core to the fullest.
And danced.
He let the wind guide his posture—redirecting attacks without blocking. A hair's breadth avoided every cut. Every kick was turned with a pivot. Every lunge faded like smoke. The clone grew faster. Angrier. The lightning above intensified.
Good. That at least meant he still had a chance. Who could have known randomness would be so effective?
"Hesitation, huh? You're far from perfect." Shin darted in with a single thrust—precise and perfectly placed.
The clone dodged—barely. But unfortunately for him, it was too little and too late.
The sword flicked once, and the clone shattered.
The lights returned.
The dome didn't cheer. It simply dimmed—satisfied. Shin stood in silence, catching his breath. The fight had ended, but the tower was not done. Now he could finally notice the rest of the chamber.
Is it... scraps?
Broken devices were scattered along the edges—embedded in floating slabs or sunk partway into the floor. All of them were half-rusted, dulled, or cracked. In fact, their deformation was so severe that they looked less like tools and more like discarded trash.
As expected, this wasn't a place of glory or display. It was a scrapyard.
Just slightly more impressive.
He stepped closer to one of the objects on the floor. It looked like a metal sphere fused with a compass. He approached, touching it lightly—it exploded in a sharp crackle of blue sparks. Shin withdrew his hand, unhurt but annoyed. "Well. That's that."
He looked around the chamber again. This place felt like the junk drawer of a forgotten god. And yet—it still lived. Power throbbed faintly in the walls, cracks, and broken cores of the dead tools.
He could sense it—somewhere deeper in this tower, a quiet pulse was humming from afar.
As long as he kept going, he'd find Lightning.
But this tower was significantly different from what he expected. If Wind's tower had been a trial ground meant to filter worthiness, this place was clearly meant for insulation—both electrical and divine. It was a containment cell, or perhaps even a prison. Something had locked this tower shut, not to find a successor, but to isolate a force too unstable to be trusted.
But he'd made it this far anyway. So it didn't matter any longer. Whether this place was a tower or a tomb, no one would stop him now.
No one could take his prize away.