His English was clear but carried an unmistakable South Indian accent.

"English—I heard from your chat with Steve. Good. Fewer people speak it here than you'd think." He gestured around lazily. "Anyway, I let you kids take in the sights first. Pictures say a thousand words, don't they?"

Pablo swallowed, unsure how to react. The man's presence was imposing, but he didn't seem hostile—quite the opposite.

The man gave them a moment before continuing.

"Oh—where are my manners?" He smirked. "Rajdeep's the name, but just call me Raj. I do the whole welcome wagon bit. Walk you through the basics. Kind of my job around here."

He glanced around, scanning the Oasis like he had seen it a thousand times and still found it amusing.

"Now… where to start?"

Raj tapped his chin.

"Hmm… Yeah, let's go first things first. Steve should've given you the rundown—rules, ASCENT regulations, your ID fang. But that only tells you so much. Like… where to sleep, for instance?"

He spread his arms wide, motioning toward the structures surrounding them.

"Well, anywhere you want. Gather some wood, rope, vines—whatever you can get your hands on—and make yourself a roof. Too lazy? Sleep on the ground. Strike a deal with someone to build it for you. Or, you know, find a partner and share a bed. Your call."

His grin didn't falter as his tone took on a mockingly serious edge.

"And let me point this out first—as awful as it seems, this place is safe. No need to sleep with a knife under your pillow. At first? Yeah, it was a mess. But the top factions made it very clear what happens when people don't follow the few laws we do have. So don't be afraid. At least not of violence, rape, or that kind of thing."

Then, his smile widened—wicked, amused, eyes glinting with something unsettling.

"But… do be afraid of scams and lies."

He let that hang for a second before chuckling.

"See, there's no rule against scamming. No rule against robbery either. So keep your wits about you or—better yet—join a faction. Then you'll be just fine."

"A faction?" Lina asked, eyes narrowing in interest.

Raj nodded, his tone dipping between casual and darkly amused.

"Oh yeah, plenty of groups out here want to keep climbing. Some do it for money—but the really capable ones?" He tilted his head. "They don't care about money at all. They're after something else."

His grin faded slightly, just enough for the weight of his next words to settle in.

"Power."

A pause.

"Some of 'em? Probably psychos back on Earth. But here? They thrive. You can tell which ones I'm talking about—not the first time they've held a blade, I'll tell you that much. For them, The Tower is a paradise they have no intention of leaving."

Raj exhaled, then shrugged.

"Anyway, that's the worst batch. Luckily, they aren't the top dogs out here. That spot belongs to one single faction—ridiculously strong and insanely well-organized."

His voice dropped slightly, just enough to make it clear.

"The Shadows."

He glanced at them, gauging their reactions.

"They'll be easy to spot. All of them wear, black, panther-hide cloaks, and they own the eastern quarter of the Oasis. That's less than fifty people taking up space in a settlement with over two thousand still alive. That should tell you something."

A smirk tugged at his lips.

"So yeah. Don't mess with them. And don't get your hopes up about joining—seems like a very closed circle."

He rolled his shoulders.

"Now, if you're looking to join a faction, I'd suggest Black Thorn, The Varaha, or Iron Branded."

He let the names settle for a moment before continuing.

"Plenty of others, of course—but most of 'em are Chinese and don't take outsiders. So unless you happen to speak fluent Mandarin and have a way in, don't bother."

Raj smirked.

"But if you're just looking to be a ticket…" His grin widened.

"Well, I got a few recommendations for that too."

"Steve mentioned something about the ticket," Eric said, frowning. "Like, we go with them, and they kill us after reaching the next stage for the orb?"

"Smart lad, yes." Raj nodded. "That's basically it. Lotta people here are in just for the cash, too bloody scared to keep climbing—but still greedy enough to want more. They won't willingly step into the arena, and no one can kill 'em outside it either—that's against the laws. So, they cut a deal. Find a faction with members lacking human orbs, tag along to the next stage, get offed, and boom—orb collected. Simple."

His gaze flicked between them, pausing briefly on Lina, eyes narrowing just a fraction.

"Now… don't get your hopes up. There's plenty of competition just to be a ticket. So," he exhaled sharply, tilting his head, "unless you've got something worth offering, they ain't takin' you for free. ASCENT regulations mentioned a possible limit on how many can move to the next stage together, yeah? We know Gen-1 took forty-six. That's not a lot. No faction's gonna stack up on too many tickets—that'd only weaken them in the long run."

He lazily gestured toward the arena, where blood still stained the ground.

"Besides, as you can see—the ring's very lively. Human orbs come in dozens by the hour."

Pablo swallowed hard.

He had already made up his mind over the past month—he would keep climbing, push forward, all to try and meet up with his friend.

With Alonso.

But the path to do it…

It didn't look anything like he expected.

If he wanted to go far, he needed to join a strong group. But… would they even take him? What could he offer? If even being a ticket was hard, then how much harder was it to be accepted as a warrior?

His thoughts spiraled—until something shifted.

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The air changed.

The laughter, the shouts, even the moans of pleasure—all of it cut off.

The Oasis fell into a hush.

Pablo stiffened, glancing around.

Even Raj's ever-present smirk had faded, his gaze sharpening, his posture straightening just slightly.

Then Pablo saw it.

The source.

A figure walking toward them—cloaked in smooth, black fur.

"Full names."

The figure's voice was smooth, steady—neither harsh nor welcoming. Their face remained obscured beneath the black fur cloak, but the tone carried the cadence of a middle-aged man.

Pablo's chest tightened, his heartbeat hammering against his ribs. A knot of unease coiled in his stomach, but before the silence stretched too long, Eric stepped forward.

"My name is Eric Montoya, sir."

"Mine is Lina Moreau."

One by one, the others followed, giving their names in tense succession.

Pablo swallowed, steadying himself.

"Pablo… Pablo Manuel García Rodríguez."

The figure remained silent, head tilting slightly to the side.

Something about the gesture unsettled Pablo. It wasn't just a casual movement—it felt like…

And then, the figure turned, locking onto him.

A chill ran down Pablo's spine.

"Are you related to the Gen-1 Climber Alonso Shemson? Do not speak. If so, just nod your head. If you are found lying, you will be killed."

Pablo's breath hitched. Not just because of the words themselves—but because the man hadn't spoken at all.

And yet, he heard him.

The voice echoed in his mind, clear as speech, ringing through his skull with absolute certainty.

Telepathy. The rumored ability of high-stage Climbers.

But there was no time to process that, because the weight of the question slammed into him like a hammer.

Alonso.

How did they know? How could they possibly know he was related to him?

Who were these people?

Raj's words echoed in his mind. The strongest faction in the Oasis. The top dogs. The Shadows.

Pablo was sure—absolutely certain—that just one word from this man, one silent command, and he'd be dead on the spot. Rules be damned.

His throat felt dry. His body stiff.

Slowly, awkwardly, he nodded, barely aware of the trail of sweat slipping down his forehead.

"Come with me."

The words echoed in his mind once more.

The figure turned without another word, walking away, making no acknowledgment of Raj or the others. No further explanations.

Pablo's breath hitched, his pulse hammering in his ears.

His gaze flicked to Eric, Lina, then to the others. Their expressions mirrored his own—uneasy, confused, wary.

But what could he even say?

Goodbye? Thanks for everything?

No words came.

The figure kept walking, his pace calm, constant.

Pablo took a steady breath, gave a slight nod—more to himself than anyone else—and stepped forward.

Then—

"Pablo—"

Eric's voice was cut off.

"Do not intervene."

Raj's tone was heavy, absolute.

"He is no longer your concern."

Pablo caught up with the man, keeping a fair distance behind him.

As they advanced, he noticed how most people avoided looking at them, their gazes dropping, their movements shifting aside. But not all. Some lingered. Some watched. A few even smiled in amusement.

Then, as they rounded a bend between structures, Pablo caught sight of it.

The lake.

The ASCENT handbook described it as covering the center of the Oasis, a 3-kilometer radius body of water. And yet… Pablo couldn't shake the feeling that something was off.

He stared at the horizon, at the subtle curvature, at the way the far shore seemed just a little too distant.

His mind began working. Reference points. Heights. Comparisons. Extrapolation.

The number clicked into place.

7 kilometers.

More than twice the size recorded in the ASCENT database.

A cold unease settled in his gut.

Had the challenge changed? Had the Tower already begun deviating from Gen-1?

He didn't like it.

But beyond the lake itself, another thought pressed into him.

His ID.

That was the number scratched into the shark fang. Did that mean more than 4,500 people had reached the Oasis already? Even with the VR helmets, media and preparation, that number felt… wrong. Gen-1 hadn't even had a hundred reach the Oasis, and of them, only 46 had passed to the next stage. So how the hell were there over 4,000 here?

No.

There were 4,000.

Raj had said just over 2,000 were still alive.

The realization was unsettling.

That meant nearly half of them had already died.

The arena? The sharks? The spiders? But Pablo had a feeling most of those deaths hadn't come from creatures.

The reason was simple.

The orbs.

That was why ASCENT permitted controlled killing. Because for anyone to climb, they needed human orbs.

Seven orbs per person. Seven lives per climber.

Each fight in the arena—

For some, an end.

For others, power.

And for the rest…

Just entertainment.

Pablo kept walking, his steps slow, measured behind the cloaked man, as the Oasis unfolded before him.

The wooden structures sprawled in every direction, rough yet sturdy, each bearing its own distinct character. No pattern. No order.

The air was thick. Heavy. The scent of blood lingered, clinging to everything, never far. It mixed with the briny tang of the vast lake stretching out before him.

He watched as climbers worked the waters, their movements practiced, harpoons launching, nets dragging against the surface. The sharks thrashed violently before they were pulled onto the shore, their bodies hacked apart within moments, stripped down to bones, flesh, and scales.

His gaze shifted. The rings.

He had counted four so far—makeshift arenas carved into the dirt, some enclosed by wooden barriers, others left open for all to see. Three of them were active, blood and torn flesh splattering the ground, the air thick with the scent of iron.

Pablo clenched his jaw.

It reminded him of the history books he used to devour in his spare time, the ones stacked high in his studio, pages worn from restless hands flipping through them. Rome. The Empire that had fascinated him for years, despite his path into biotechnology.

Because no matter how much he studied genes, evolution, or the complexities of the human body—there was something undeniable in history.

Something unchanging.

The architecture was different. The weapons had changed. But the nature of man? It remained the same.

The arenas, the duels, the blood spilled in the name of spectacle—there was no difference between the Oasis and the Colosseum. Between the climbers here and the gladiators of old.

Back then, it was for the amusement of emperors, of the roaring crowds, of the people who wanted to see men fight, struggle, die.

Now?

Now it was for survival. For power. For the sheer brutality of the climb.

And yet—

It was still entertainment.

Men and women still cheered. They still gathered, still placed bets, still watched with rapt attention as blood hit the dirt.

Pablo exhaled, his fingers tightening around the shark fang still clutched in his palm.

Thousands of years had passed. Civilizations had risen and fallen. Humanity had conquered the skies, the seas, even space itself.

But here, inside The Tower—

It was the same as it had ever been.

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