November 15, 2024 - Melbourne, Australia

Jack was unsure of what exactly he had just watched.

It wasn't the first fight against the Black Lobster he had seen. There had been several events before—most successful, a few with casualties. But the one he had just witnessed...

What the hell was that?

He hadn't seen what Gen-1 pulled off against the first boss, but he could swear—nothing could possibly be this clean.

It was like... like even he could do it. It looked so damn easy, so polished, he had to double-check that it wasn't some AI-generated sim or stylized training feed.

The way they moved—the discipline, the swiftness of their engagements and disengagements, the way the entire sequence unfolded from start to finish—it was clean as hell. Efficient. Sharp. Almost surgical.

Who were these people?

Clad in black armor, faster than any climbers should be at this stage, every step calculated, every move with purpose.

There was no hero in the group, no singular climber showing off or doing more than necessary. No. It was simply… well executed.

The group of 48 split. Two squads of ten focused on repeatedly striking the arms connected to the pincers, targeting the joints until they broke through. Meanwhile, two other squads worked on the legs—using blunt weapons to crack the shell and blades to sever the underlying tendons and muscles, one cut at a time, until the limbs buckled.

With the creature immobilized, its range of motion destroyed, a final group of eight launched volley after volley of javelins into its eyes.

And then… it died. Just like that.

No panic. No close calls. Not even a real shift in tempo. Just… straightforward execution.

Hell, one of them didn't even move. Stood there the entire time—calm, planted, right in front of the damn thing.

"MAI, can you tell me anything about the climbers involved in the event I just watched?"

"Given the number of climbers currently in the Second Ascent and the use of full-body armor and sealed helmets, it is not possible to determine the exact identity of the individuals. However, reports from Gen-2 returnees suggest this group is likely the former strongest faction from the Oasis, known as The Shadows."

"Oh… those guys. They finally moved on to the next stage. But damn, why are they so good? Why are they so disciplined? It's completely different from what I've seen from the others."

"I am unable to provide a definitive answer, but it may be attributed to a combination of factors—such as strong, centralized leadership, pre existing team cohesion, or a military background among the climbers. It may also be of interest that climber Pablo Garcia is part of this group, as confirmed by returnees."

Jack nearly choked. "Wait, what?! Why didn't you tell me before?"

"Information was not requested."

"But—but I told you to keep me updated on Pablo and Alonso… right?" Jack sighed, rubbing his temples. There was only so much you could trust a machine with… or a human, for that matter. "Alright. I want a full daily update on any new information you get on either of them. Notify me immediately."

"Understood."

"But damn, Pablo's one of them? No shit? I can't imagine him fighting like that—not this early into The Tower."

"Pablo was not among the forty-eight active combatants. Based on available data, he is not a direct affiliate of The Shadows but rather appears to be a sort of guest. Records indicate he is not a frontline combatant. He is the forty-ninth member of the group that entered this instance of Stage Two with them, but he was not present in the engagement you just witnessed."

"What? Huh? So he's just… hitching a ride? But why would they take him… unless—it's because of his connection to Alonso?"

"Most likely."

"I see... not sure I like where that's going. But oh well—Pablo should know what he's doing."

He paused.

"Hopefully."

He leaned back.

"Anyway, let's get back to those manuals they sent last week. Let's go over the last session on the mind core again."

The decision is made.

The blade moves.

A node lights, and beneath it, I feel them settle—the subnodes.

Pressure. Delay. Bait. Control.

A mix of conscious choices and feelings.

Like a star flaring to life, drawing its planets into place.

I move again. Another node ignites, and this one carries weight.

Kill sits beneath it. Not literal, not yet—but the intent hums, quiet and cold.

Timing, too—fractured, sharp. Angle, precise. The blade didn't just cut; it spoke.

A sentence in a language I didn't realize I knew.

Every movement now must carry its system.

The node is nothing alone. Without its subnodes, it's a hollow star.

Dead light.

And not every star needs a full orbit.

Some shine alone—quick steps, feints, empty motions meant to distract, not define.

Others burn with gravity—heavy strikes, weighted choices that shift the whole rhythm.

I start to feel it.

Not the fight. The shape of the fight.

The constellation we're forming, piece by piece.

Each sequence I build is a spiral of choices.

Some stars pulse quietly, orbiting a greater design.

Others lock into place, completing a pattern of my design.

There's tension now—not from fear, but from structure.

Each motion must carry meaning, or it weakens the constellation.

Breaks the orbit.

So I stop.

I breathe.

And when I move again, it's with care.

One star.

Three planets.

Control. Lure. Collapse.

The blade doesn't even need to land.

It shapes the next step.

Not his.

Mine.

The copy moves. He strikes high—fast, direct. I respond, not with power, but with balance.

A sidestep. A breath. A shift in angle that doesn't block, doesn't clash—redirects.

The constellation tightens.

A new node lights.

Three subnodes.

Delay. Trap. Disengage.

The rhythm is no longer one of action and reaction.

It's a weave.

Strikes no longer come from strength but from thought and feel intertwined.

We pass each other, blades grazing air, stars lighting behind us like trails.

I feint low. He doesn't take it. A smart choice. My follow-up would've ended it.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

Or tried to.

I'm learning him now. Not the copy. The design.

The pattern he forms. The way his constellations shift.

It's elegant.

Too elegant.

Because it's mine.

We trade another dozen sequences.

Each clash is a turn in the spiral.

A system of stars forming their final shape.

Only two nodes left.

I breathe in.

Feel the weight of the moment.

Everything slows.

The last pair hang above the map like unclaimed territory.

Distant. Still. Final.

I move.

Both blades—one step, one breath, two thrusts.

A final constellation born of just two stars, in violence and symmetry.

Intent. Timing. Closure. Speed. Overwhelming force.

Every subnode I have left pulled together.

It's not just a strike. It's a signature.

But he sees it.

One blade—he deflects. A perfect redirection, inches from his shoulder.

The other—he twists, just enough.

The strike misses.

Only just.

And then, it's over.

All the nodes are lit.

The stars burn.

The subnodes rest beneath them, full and complete, like planets orbiting around the stars—forming solar systems.

But I don't feel it.

No click.

No shift.

No resonance.

Not yet.

Just silence.

I lower my swords.

Exhale.

It's better. Sharper.

But it isn't it.

I open my eyes.

The constellation collapses in an instant.

The stars fade.

The void disappears.

I'm back in the white room.

My heart beats fast from the ups and downs of Overdrive.

I'm sweating bullets, my last set of clothes damp, hair clinging to my face and neck. My bare feet press against the cool surface of the pristine white floor.

I stare at the timer on the wall.

0:01:02:36

Only a little over an hour left.

A week already. It sure went fast.

We agreed to meet with 30 minutes left.

I should probably take a shower. And I'm definitely packing all the casual clothes… if The Tower allows it.

Before proceeding, I get curious and open my status screen. It's been a while since I last checked Houston's latest update.

Status Screen

SP: Stage 1 - 7.561%

Wave control

Personal Output (Base):

6.12 SU

Bonus (Houston - Base):

4.08 SU

Bonus (Darius - Base):

3.14 SU

Bonus from Pillar State

: 49%

Bonus from Equipment (Helmet)

: 70%

Total Output:

33.79 SU

Overdrive

Full-State Output:

138%

States

First Body State:

49% boost

First Pillar State:

49% boost

Physical Combat

Swordsmanship:

1.96 SU

Footwork:

1.84 SU

Physical Condition:

2.988

Wave-Body Synchronization

: 98.6%

Notable Equipment

2 Swords:

EM conductivity (1.0)

King Lobster Gauntlets:

EM conductivity (2.0)

King Jellyfish Seven-Piece Cape

: EM conductivity (2.0)

Lava Dragon Leg Armor

: EM conductivity (2.0)

Abyss Maw Chest Armor

: EM conductivity (2.0)

Black Centipede Helmet

: EM conductivity (2.0)

Polymorph Under Armor

: EM conductivity (2.0)

Looks good. But my wave output has certainly skyrocketed, huh? So many stacks together. Nice. And Darius should reach Houston's standard level once SP hits 7.8%—so that's another boon coming soon.

It's clear my waves are much stronger than my body, looking at it relative to the others, due to my unique condition. But honestly, it suits me. A balanced style—where the force behind each strike leans closer to a 50/50 split between wave and body—might just be the perfect fit I'm looking for.

Alright. Let's take that shower.

"Well, everyone, I hope you enjoyed your unexpected vacation—because holidays are over," Lukas says with a grin, standing in front of the 24 climbers.

I stand toward the back, arms crossed, watching him do what he does best—set the tone.

"I've heard some good progress over the past few days," he continues. "Mei reached the First Pillar State, and both Nikolai and Maurice hit the First Body State. Congrats, guys. I'm looking forward to seeing you more active in the next stage."

A few quiet nods and murmurs ripple through the group. Lukas lets it sit for a moment before moving on.

"I'm sure your captains have already gone over the possible implications of the minimum stage requirement going from seven to fourteen. So, yeah... get ready. That means more pressure on each of you—and a few shifts in how we operate."

"Now," he says, straightening up. "Hope you've all packed enough—clothes, food, water. At least a week's worth. Because once that timer hits zero, we have no idea what's coming. Except that it's gonna be tough. And demanding."

His eyes shift toward the timer.

Ten seconds left.

"Get your weapons ready," he says quietly. "And remember—if we're separated, use long wave transmission. Prioritize regrouping. Don't engage unless you have no other choice."

A pause.

Then he exhales.

"Alright... good luck."

And the moment the words leave his mouth—

The space around us shifts.

Light bends. The floor drops. The sound of breath, thought, even heartbeat gets pulled into stillness. Then—

I land.

Not hard. But heavy.

The ground beneath my feet is soft and green—too green. Verdant. Alive. A carpet of thick moss and low vines spreads in every direction, broken only by patches of towering roots as thick as buildings.

The air hits me next. Warm. Damp. Clean in a way that feels unnatural—no industrial edge, no dust, just rich oxygen laced with the faint scent of something sweet and sharp. Like citrus and pine.

I blink and look up.

My breath catches.

Trees. Not tall—colossal. Each trunk is a wall of dark bark and winding ridges, hundreds of meters high, vanishing into canopies so thick the light filters through in waves. They stretch as far as I can see, layered over distant hills like living monuments.

The sky is a sharp, clear blue. A few clouds drift lazily across it, slow and full, casting enormous shadows that crawl over the landscape.

Gravity pulls at my limbs—not painfully, but noticeably. My joints feel tighter. My arms heavier. Even standing upright demands more effort. The Tower's changed something again. Probably increased G-force by around 70%. Every step I take feels like walking through water with weights on my back.

But still, I can manage. It just feels… stiff, especially compared to the state I was in seconds ago.

I exhale slowly.

I focus on my waves and send out a long-distance transmission. The first thing I notice is that, unlike in the last stage, there's no uniform EM field spread across the zone to assist our signals. Which means our effective communication range is significantly lower.

That said, my wave output has skyrocketed since then. I can still push a signal over ten kilometers with little energy loss. Receiving, though—that's trickier.

I close my eyes and let the waves spread outward, scanning the terrain around me, extending their reach as far as I can push them.

One… two… five… no—six.

Six sources respond within range. There are more beyond that, but they're too faint to make out clearly.

Out of the six, one stands out—stronger, more defined. Another from the main team. The other five are probably from the squads.

I narrow my focus and send a tighter pulse in that direction.

"Alonso here. Can you read me?"

A second later, a distorted wave bounces back.

"I–ni, cop–"

Bit of noise, but I catch enough. Imani.

Alright.

Northwest. Somewhere between nine and twelve kilometers out.

Time to move.

I press forward, pushing through ferns the size of bedsheets and stalks tall as street lamps. The terrain begins to rise, sloping gently upward. I climb steadily, weaving through vines and stone, until I break through the last of the brush—

And step to the edge of a cliff.

And then I see them.

My mouth parts. My breath catches.

Down in the valley—far, but clear—an entire herd moves through the lush terrain.

A little over five meters tall. Compact. Dense muscle under layers of dark, metallic plating grown into their skin. Natural armor fused to flesh.

They walk on four legs. Heavy steps. Controlled movement. Long tails, armored and low to the ground. Along their backs, thin dorsal fins pulse faintly.

Each one has a pair of tall, curved antennae rising from the head. Their eyes glow dimly, unmoving, focused.

And… all of them are staring in my direction.

I whisper the only words that come to mind.

"…Dinosaurs?"

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