"So how does this correlate with Stage Progress? As we increase our percentage, the body and mind gradually develop. Do these paths build on that, or are they independent?" I ask.

"Good question. I'm not sure," Chiara says, her expression thoughtful. "From what I can gather, these paths don't directly modify Stage Progress. Maybe a way to see it is that Stage Progress acts as a foundation—a baseline, or better yet, a measure of the resources we have available. Meanwhile, these paths serve as blueprints, showing us how to optimize those resources—how to make the most of our body and mind."

"Like turning ore into a sword," Lukas muses, his gaze fixed on Chiara. "How long until you have a solid idea of the methods? I think it'll be quicker if you process it first and then we go over everything together before diving into the information individually."

"Well… going through everything isn't realistic, but it looks like the guides are divided into clear, well-delineated steps. I can probably filter out the first step for each path… Give me a minute."

"Alright, take your time." Lukas exhales deeply, his eyes drifting toward the white stairs. "I think it'd be wise not to rush our ascent. Let's test these new paths and build our strength as much as we can while we're still in a region we understand, before we push into the unkno—"

"Lukas!"

Wang steps forward, inhaling sharply. "I just got a report from Mei." He hesitates for a moment before continuing. "It seems… my squad stationed in the Isles has observed strange activity in the region. For one, the flood caused by the boss is retreating—just as if the boss had been killed."

"What?"

"But there's more… The northern edges of the region… they seem to be crumbling."

Lukas' eyes widen. "Crumbling?"

"It's better if I send you the visuals."

Wang transmits the images to all of us.

I scan through them—first, a series of shots showing the tide receding back to normal. Then, terrain fracturing in a way that looks almost like a controlled earthquake, sinking into the waters below. But as more images come in, it becomes clear that the process is slow, deliberate—like paper burning from the edges.

Lukas exhales, shaking his head. "It seems The Tower doesn't want us to outstay our welcome."

"Can we measure how much time we have left?" Arjun asks.

"Yeah, I just checked with Mei. The rate seems to be constant. Based on the velocity and distance to this point—the center—we have a little over six days left, give or take. But knowing The Tower, I'd bet on it being closer to seven, making it 49 days total. That's the exact duration of this stage from the start—six bosses, seven days each, and then seven more days before everything sinks into nothingness. I figured there would be a mechanism to stop us from lingering and training without pressure, but… yeah, it sucks to be proven right on this one. Anyway, that's where we stand."

Lukas then connects to the other squads. "Tiger Squad, I want you to explore the southern edges of the Barren Lands and the Coastal Region—report your findings. Eagle Squad, head to the eastern part of the Molten Crest. Be cautious and check for any unusual activity. Dragon Squad, stay in position and monitor the destruction rate. If it changes, I want immediate updates. Also, refine the measurements—I want the exact remaining time down to the minute."

"Well, six days is better than nothing, I guess," he says. "Let's try to make the most of it."

"Finished," Chiara suddenly announces, snapping our attention to her. "So, where to start…"

She pauses for a moment, sorting her thoughts before continuing. "As I mentioned before, there are two guides, and so far, I haven't found any direct link or codependency between them. That suggests we can follow either one independently or both simultaneously. Personally, I'm only interested in the Pillar, but I'll go through the underlying principles I've managed to extract from the diagrams so far."

"For one, each path is divided into distinct stages, but right now, it's difficult for me to visualize what the later stages even entail or how many there are. I guess I'll have to advance first before I can fully grasp their underlying principles."

"I have a hunch we'll have seven," Lukas says with a grin. "Just a feeling."

The rest of us chuckle. Yep. The Tower's favorite number.

Chiara adjusts her stance slightly, already deep in thought.

"So, let's start with the body," she continues. "In simple terms, the first stage of the method involves channeling waves to induce controlled micro-electrical shocks throughout the body—essentially… killing your own cells. Yeah, it's a pretty masochistic process. But the idea is that this cycle of cellular death and regeneration forces the body to adapt. New cells form with residual energy from the microcurrents, making them more efficient and resilient over time."

"Now, the process itself isn't complicated. The blueprints lay it out pretty clearly. The real challenge is that every body is different, meaning blindly applying it won't necessarily yield meaningful results. From what I've deduced, the key is synchronization—each individual has a unique biological pattern, and the closer you get to a state of resonance with this pattern, the more effective the method becomes."

"Interesting. So how do we know when we pass to the next stage? Is the improvement just a slow, gradual process, or is there a qualitative change along the way? Also, does the training method change from one step to the next? And is any physical tempering we've done before still effective, or is it useless for this?" I ask.

"Well, that's a lot of ques—"

But before Lukas can finish, Chiara cuts in. "I'm not sure if there's a clear qualitative change, but each step is marked by a specific threshold you have to reach. For instance, in this first step of the Body Path, you continue using the method until it stops giving you noticeable improvement—meaning your body has adapted as much as it can to that particular approach. That also happens to be the point where your body should be capable of withstanding greater strain—basically, enduring even more destruction—so you can push further using a different approach at that time."

Lukas nods, then tilts his head slightly. "So, it's kind of like progressive overload in weight training? You push your muscles to their limit, and once they adapt, you have to increase the difficulty—like adding more weight—to keep progressing?"

Chiara crosses her arms, considering it. "Yes, that's actually a decent comparison. Except here, instead of just adding weight, we're forcing biological adaptation through controlled destruction and regeneration. And instead of just muscle fibers strengthening, every component of the body gets optimized in some way."

I nod. "Alright, that makes sense. So basically, once your body stops responding to the current method, it's time to move to the next stage."

"Exactly."

"What about my last question? Does prior exercise help in some way? Or did Imani and I just spend weeks tearing ourselves apart for no goddamn reason?"

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

"I… I have no idea," she admits.

"Well, it is what it is," I sigh. "So, what about the other path? How does it work for the Pillar?"

The Tower, Tier 2, Stage 1, Oasis

The Oasis unfolded before him.

The barricade had concealed the sheer scale of the place. What had seemed like a simple settlement from the outside was, in reality, a sprawling, chaotic expanse of wooden shafts, makeshift cottages, and towering structures pieced together with raw necessity.

Dozens—no, hundreds of dwellings crowded together, their walls crudely constructed from salvaged planks, driftwood, and animal hides, lashed together with thick rope and hardened resin. Some were stacked on top of one another, wooden ladders and rope bridges connecting the levels in tangled, haphazard networks.

No symmetry. No planning. Just whatever worked.

The air throbbed with heat—thick with sweat, unwashed bodies, the coppery tang of blood still fresh from recent battles. The stench of raw meat clung to the wind, mixing with the acrid scent of burning wood and something earthy—herbs, maybe, or whatever passed for medicine in this practically lawless world.

Shouts ripped through the air. Arguments over territory. The sharp bark of deals being struck. Laughter—some lighthearted, some dark, laced with hidden malice. Threats murmured in low, dangerous tones. A constant, layered hum of human voices, overlapping in a discordant symphony of raw existence.

To his left, a group hunched over a fire pit, roasting thick slabs of meat on crude wooden spits, the fat sizzling and dripping into the flames.

Nearby, two men stood at a stall, hacking apart something with curved blades, peeling away its dark, rubbery skin. A shark. One of the lake's creatures. Its massive jawbone, already stripped clean, hung on a nearby post like a trophy, its serrated teeth gleaming in the firelight.

Further ahead, a woman with a fresh, half-closed wound trailing across her collarbone wiped sweat from her brow. In her hands, a thick, jagged plate—scorpion scale, large and rough, its surface being steadily shaped into what resembled armor plating. She worked relentlessly, hammering it down against a stone slab, the sharp crack of each strike cutting through the noise.

To the right, a man sat on the ground, legs sprawled, casually stripping meat from a bone with his teeth, his knife resting loose in his hand. Another leaned against a support beam, rolling something between his fingers—dried herbs, ground to a fine dust—before bringing it to his lips and inhaling deeply.

Laughter spiked from a nearby group. A game of chance, tokens clinking onto a makeshift board. One man cheered, another cursed, slamming a fist against the wood. A fight was brewing.

Above them, on a second-level platform, a figure crouched, watching, his eyes sharp as he took a slow bite from an unidentifiable piece of meat. His gaze lingered on the newcomers, assessing, weighing, before flicking away as if they weren't worth the trouble.

Pablo barely noticed. It wasn't the structures, the people, or even the sheer scale of the place that unsettled him the most.

It was this. The way nothing was hidden. The way restraint simply… did not exist.

A bald man walked past, shirtless, his body lined with fresh wounds, a curved dagger strapped to his belt. A woman followed beside him, chest bare, her hips swaying with each step as his rough fingers kneaded her flesh, thumb lazily flicking across her nipple. Neither hesitated, neither cared who watched.

From one of the lower shafts, guttural moans spilled into the air, deep and rhythmic, punctuated by sharp gasps—the unmistakable sounds of bodies colliding in desperate pleasure. Further ahead, a man stood against a wooden post, his head tilted back, another man kneeling before him, lips wrapped around his length, fingers digging into his thighs as he exhaled a ragged groan.

On a fur-draped platform, a woman lay sprawled, her legs parted as another woman trailed her mouth down her stomach, hands gripping her thighs to spread them wider. She arched beneath her, a sultry laugh spilling from her lips as teeth grazed sensitive skin. Beside them, a mixed pair moved in sync, bodies slick with sweat, the scent of sex thick in the stagnant air.

A muscular figure reclined against a pile of cloth and hides, their eyes half-lidded as two others straddled them—one male, one female—grinding against their lap, hands roaming over each other as much as the person between them. One tilted their head, catching the other's lips in a deep, open-mouthed kiss, their moans swallowed by the heat between them.

Near a shaded alcove, a group was gathered, limbs entangled in a mess of writhing bodies. A woman rode another's lap—gender unclear—her back arching as they gripped her waist, pulling her down harder. A second woman knelt behind her, spreading her cheeks as she pressed forward, drawing a strangled cry that melted into pleasure.

Across from them, a man leaned back against a crate, a woman seated astride him, rolling her hips with slow, deliberate movements. She dragged her nails down his chest, his teeth sinking into her shoulder as her pace quickened. Behind them, another couple tangled in the open, their bodies moving in frantic desperation, the echoes of their pleasure joining the symphony of indulgence that filled the air.

Pablo and the others moved through it, their steps slower now, shoulders tensing as they took in the unfiltered reality of this place.

Some kept their eyes forward, ignoring the sights, pretending indifference. Others lingered, gaze flicking to the side, watching with fascination, unease, or something they wouldn't admit aloud.

Pablo, however, felt the heat crawling up his neck, his jaw clenching as he tried not to look—tried not to focus on the bare skin, the sounds, the unabashed hunger on display. His hands balled into fists, his grip tightening around the shark fang still in his palm.

This was nothing like what they had been told…

What the hell kind of place is this…?

Then—

A scream.

His head snapped toward the source, along with the others.

The arena.

If it could even be called that.

A crude fighting pit, its boundaries marked by thick wooden stakes and uneven patches of sand turned dark with old blood. A hand lay twitching in the dirt, fingers still curling as fresh blood spurted from the stump where it had been severed.

The owner of the hand—an emaciated man, barely more than skin and bone—knelt on the ground, clutching his arm, his breath coming in ragged, broken gasps.

Standing over him, blade still dripping, was a young, tanned man with messy hair and a mustache, his lips curled in open amusement.

His sword tilted toward the man's throat, his stance relaxed, shoulders loose, comfortable.

He licked his lips, the smear of blood still glistening.

And then—

He pinched the man's neck.

A short, sharp movement.

The body collapsed instantly.

No resistance. No struggle.

And then—gone.

In its place, an orb dropped gently to the ground.

The killer wasted no time. He flicked his blade, casually scooping the orb onto the flat of his sword.

And then—without hesitation—

He tilted his head back and let it roll straight into his mouth, the orb disappearing within.

Then, with a sigh, he turned his gaze outward—scanning the onlookers, as if searching for his next entertainment.

Pablo's grip tightened around the shark fang in his palm, as if it was the only thing keeping him anchored in this place.

It had barely been over a month since he arrived on the island, and yet… this had already formed.

How fast did the others reach the Oasis? Did everyone build their own cottages? Did they make others work for them?

How did this society even function?

Outside, he had seen squads of warriors—organized, disciplined—but inside… it was something else entirely. Lawless. Indulgent. The worst of human nature.

Sure, he hadn't seen any killings outside the arena, but there were multiple rings, and in the few minutes they had spent just looking around, at least two people had already been killed in them!

As his thoughts churned, he heard heavy footsteps from behind.

He turned—just like the others.

The man approaching was massive—broad-shouldered, his long, unkempt beard swaying slightly as he moved.

A smile spread across his face.

"Fresh blood." His voice was deep, carrying a weight of experience, but his tone was oddly warm. "Welcome to the Oasis."

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