November 1, 2024 - Washington, D.C., US

"This world is going to hell."

"That's a very optimistic way to start the day, Senator," Renwick replied dryly.

"Huh. Senator—for how long?" Caldwell scoffed. "Elections are coming soon. And God only knows if we'll even make it until then. The Tower, humans with superpowers, these mysterious guys in fancy suits showing up out of nowhere and calling the shots. Just a bunch of bullshit."

Undersecretary Renwick sighed, reclining in his chair, gaze drifting to the ceiling. "Things have indeed become a bit chaotic lately, haven't they? I guess no one expected seven times more summons compared to the First Ascent."

"Seven times more money to pay," Caldwell grumbled. "Who the hell is footing that bill? How much is it already? Last I heard, there were over twelve thousand in Tier 2. That's—what—sixty million a month?"

Renwick adjusted his glasses, his expression unreadable. "While I understand your concerns about the cost, Senator, I must point out that it's little more than a rounding error compared to what we spend in just a few days on the military. Their payments won't be an issue. What does worry me are the returnees themselves.

"The First Ascent had far fewer numbers, and even fewer reached a point where they could be considered dangerous. But now, we're talking well into the five digits—spread all over the world. Things are shifting, and while they've been distracting the public with the new events and climber propaganda, the reality is that factions of returnees have already begun taking control of towns and villages, rebelling against local authorities.

"We don't have the manpower to contain them all."

Caldwell exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Well, that's not my problem. We're managing fine here in the States, and even the best of those returnees isn't bulletproof. Rebellions? We can drop a couple of bombs, and that'll be the end of it."

Renwick chuckled. "I guess we're all lucky you're not the one making the decisions, Senator."

"Fuck off. If you weren't a friend of mine, you'd probably still be working that shitty IT job of yours."

"Perhaps," Renwick mused. "But I don't think violence is the right choice. Tensions are rising, and the returnees will just keep increasing in number—over and over again. What we need to avoid is a rupture between them and… let's say, the rest of us, normal humans.

"For all their mystery, the so-called men in black are doing a really good job. The media worldwide is spinning things in a brighter light, painting those in the vanguard as heroes of humanity, fighting adversity for us all. Then there's the ASCENT system, the incredible flexibility granted to returnees since the First Ascent. Every move they make shows that whoever's pulling the strings is serious about keeping things stable."

"Huh. Those guys." Caldwell frowned. "I'd never trust people who refuse to show their faces. Never liked them. Never will."

"Well," Renwick said, leaning back, "they've been hiding less and less as of lately. Makes you wonder—who are they? Where do they come from? Are they perhaps related to The Tower itself?"

"The hell do I care," Caldwell scoffed. "And speaking of these damn events, I saw the one they aired yesterday. That ugly centipede-to-fly thing with all that gore shit—how did they even put that on TV? My kids are watching, for fuck's sake. And the worst part? Now they wanna dress up like those ridiculous climbers and say they wanna be one. Brainrot, I tell you. That's what they're doing."

Renwick smirked. "Well, I'm sure it's not as harmful as social media, Senator."

Caldwell grunted. "At least social media doesn't make them think they can go punch a goddamn monster in the face and come out alive." He rubbed his temple, exhaling. "They're turning this whole mess into entertainment. Making these people—returnees, climbers, whatever the hell you wanna call them—into celebrities.

"Kids don't want to be astronauts anymore. Or doctors. Or hell, even TikTokers. They wanna climb. They think it's a joke. Why don't they show all those damned souls that come back broken? Why don't they show the guy that killed himself bashing his head against a wall? Why don't they show that young girl who never spoke again?

"The Tower is not a fucking game. Sure, give those guys at the top credit, give them riches or whatever the hell they want—but don't put them on a pedestal for the whole damn world to see. Don't just show the glory. Don't create false hope."

Caldwell scoffed, shaking his head. "I read the reports on those so-called the Seven from Gen-1, and let me tell you—almost all had a really fucked up life. If their parents weren't dead, they were either paralyzed or despised them. Hell, one of them was even found to have worked for some African mafia or warlord, or whatever the hell they call themselves.

"Say those things. Tell the truth. Don't make some kid who's had a spoiled cushy life think he's gonna throw on a VR helmet, follow a guide, and—ta-da—he's chosen, goes to Tier 2, all fun and games… until it's not." He paused, exhaling. "I've heard stories, Thomas. Stories of guys screaming in pain as their arms are ripped off. Others who come back touching their stomachs because they felt their guts spill out just seconds before.

"You don't go to The Tower to play. You don't go there to become some goddamn superhero.

"You go there to suffer."

Silence filled the office for a moment.

Renwick let out a slow breath, tapping his fingers lightly against the desk.

"Maybe that's exactly why they don't show it," he said finally. "Because if they did, fewer would be willing to climb after being chosen. And if fewer climbed… we might all be doomed after all."

"Humanity was doomed anyway, Tower or not. I just hope it lasts long enough for my kids to grow up and live their lives in peace," Caldwell sighed.

Suddenly, the phone rang.

Caldwell frowned. "Who's calling this early?"

He picked up the phone.

Caldwell grabbed the receiver with a scowl, pressing it against his ear. "Caldwell speaking."

A pause. His brow furrowed slightly. "Slow down. What?"

Silence stretched for a second as he listened, his expression shifting. His grip on the phone tightened.

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"You're telling me… an unreported returnee?" His voice was steady, but something in his jaw clenched. "Where?"

His breath hitched. His knuckles turned white around the receiver.

"When?"

Renwick watched as the color drained slightly from Caldwell's face, his usual irritation replaced by something colder—something darker.

"How many?"

A long pause. Caldwell's lips parted slightly, but no words came out. His eyes flickered, unfocused for a fraction of a second, like his mind was trying to reject whatever he was hearing.

Then, a slow exhale. His voice was quieter when he spoke again.

"…Repeat that last part."

Silence.

Renwick couldn't hear the response, but he saw it in Caldwell's face. The way his shoulders stiffened. The way his free hand, resting on the desk, curled into a fist so tight his knuckles nearly cracked.

For the first time in their years of working together, Renwick saw something in Caldwell's expression that he had never seen before.

Not anger. Not frustration.

Something raw. Something almost hollow.

Caldwell inhaled sharply through his nose. His fingers dug into the desk. "Understood."

He lowered the phone slowly, his movements eerily controlled. The faint hum of the disconnected line filled the silence between them.

Renwick hesitated before speaking. "David…?"

Caldwell's eyes flicked to him. Dark. Unreadable.

Then, in a voice quieter than Renwick had ever heard from him, he muttered:

"Helga is dead."

Renwick's stomach tightened. "What… what do you—"

Caldwell's fingers curled tighter around the receiver, the plastic creaking under his grip.

"Renwick." His voice was cold, empty. A void where his usual grumbling and irritation used to be.

"I'll kill them all."

"You have been a bit off lately. Is everything okay?"

I smile. "I'm fine. I guess I just get nostalgic sometimes. Life back on Earth feels so far away, so long ago… like an old dream."

"An old dream? Why not a new dream? Why not something to look forward to?" Ayu said, sitting next to me.

"Yes, you're right. I really look forward to going back, but… I know it's far. Very, very far."

"Then let's enjoy the journey there."

I lean back with a smile, watching her as she rests her head on my shoulder.

As I stay silent, a series of images flood my mind. Moments of us laughing, hugging, sparring, dancing, listening to each other, joking with the others—Datu singing, Lukas playing, Chiara drinking wine. One after another, she sends them to me.

"Life here isn't lost, Alonso. Sure, we suffer. We don't know what the future holds. We fight, day after day. But… life here is precious to me. All these moments will always be part of my most treasured memories. So," she looks into my eyes, "let's make more of them, okay?"

"I'm lucky to have met you."

"I know." She grins. "And thanks for the present."

I glance at the necklace she's wearing. A simple, rugged piece I had to put together quickly, ashamed that I had no idea it was her birthday—let alone that there was a party planned. Lukas had offered to cover for me, but I wanted to make something myself.

The pendant is a curved fang from a Screecher, the same kind of creature we fought when Ayu awakened.

It really looks nice on her.

"I'm glad you like it."

"Alright, let's get going. Sitting for too long will have you overthinking things. I think Wang and Imani are sparring now. Wanna go check it out?"

"Imani with… Wang?" I raise an eyebrow, trying to picture it. "Sure."

We get up and fly to the arena.

The structure had received some updates since last time, with three more sub-arenas built around it for the squads to use for sparring, since most of them had finally reached the limit in Stage Progress too.

It had become much livelier as of late, but… recent spars had been a bit dull for me.

That stage I reached during the fight with the Abyss Maws—Darius had called it the first realm of perception. Enemy as self, he had named it.

It was strange to only discover this now. First came the swordsmanship stages, and now this. Even stranger was how Darius refused to share anything about these so-called realms—how many there were, what they meant. He told me not to dwell on it, that it was just something he came up with, without any real basis.

But the name fits. The way I see movements—of creatures, of other Climbers—the more I understand them, the clearer they become.

The downside? I couldn't go all-out on the spars anymore. Not that I stopped. I still had tempering fist fights with Imani, regular spars with Wang and Ayu. But I never had to push to even full-state anymore. And the fights on the VR, while nice from a tactical sense, felt lacking, empty somehow.

As we reach the stands, Ayu and I sit, and sure enough, Wang and Imani are going at it.

But… I chuckle.

Yeah, looks right to me.

Imani stands firm, gripping his massive shield with both hands, each of Wang's strikes crashing against it like a hammer on iron. The sheer force sends vibrations through the air, but Imani doesn't even flinch. Every attack is absorbed effortlessly, his stance unshaken.

Wang, on the other hand, is a blur of motion. His single sword darts in and out, seeking an opening, only to be met with an immovable wall each time. The moment he closes in for an attack, Imani shifts—just slightly—angling the shield so the impact disperses, nullifying the force.

Then, Imani exhales and steps forward, his body glowing faintly, energy coiling around him like a pressure wave waiting to explode.

Wang is gone before the movement even finishes.

A flicker, a sharp gust of wind in his wake. He vanishes, reappearing at the other end of the arena in the blink of an eye.

Imani doesn't chase. He doesn't need to.

He simply releases.

His fist snaps forward, and the moment it moves, the air detonates.

A shockwave bursts from the sheer force of the punch, warping the space around it. A deafening sonic boom follows, a ripple of compressed air expanding outward in a violent burst.

The ground trembles beneath us as dirt and dust explode into the air, blasted away.

Of course, Imani never meant to hit Wang with that punch.

If he had, there wouldn't be anything left of him.

"That sounded louder than last time," I send to Imani.

He shifts, staring at me before nodding. "How about it? Think you can take it?"

"That's a good question, but one I'm not inclined to find the answer to," I chuckle.

Wang turns to us, eyes gleaming. "Up for a round?"

Damn, this combat freak.

I smile to myself. If there's one person who spars the most, it's without a doubt Wang.

"What about a two-on-one?" And of course, my girlfriend is the second.

I sigh but push myself up.

"Sure, let's spar."

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