Silence.
Then… the air stirred.
And something began to descend.
From a spiral of black mist above the platform, a figure emerged—larger, heavier, infinitely more terrible than Veyrax.
It didn't walk. It simply Floated.
Shadow-like skin clung to an inhuman frame. In some places, the flesh was translucent—revealing bones of silver, organs suspended in obsidian glass, and a core of churning light that never stopped shifting. Too many limbs. Arms. Tendrils. Wings. Talons. They folded and unfolded with the sound of screaming wind.
Its face held no eyes. Only a wide, stitched grin that opened sideways, across where its jaw should be.
When it spoke, the voice wasn't a sound.
It was a feeling.
Like fingers tightening around Zen's lungs.
"So… this is the boy who returned from Nitya."
It circled Zen like a predator. Silent. Weightless.
"You're more ordinary than I expected. hmm"
It passed behind him, form shifting in and out of focus.
" How did you survive there?" It asked.
Zen understood the question behind the demon's stare.
"I just got lucky," he said, voice quiet but steady.
It wasn't an excuse. Just the only answer he had.
Because, truthfully, even he didn't understand it.
Looking back now, the decision to enter Nitya felt reckless—suicidal, even. What if he had never returned? What would have happened to her? The thought chilled him more than the demons ever could.
But back then, there hadn't been a choice.
He remembered the way their eyes shifted. The hunger in their gaze had changed. It had turned ugly. Lustful. And Zen couldn't bear it. He had to act, even if that meant throwing himself into something he didn't fully understand.
He'd overheard them speak of Nitya once—of how even their Matriarch had failed there, how that place devoured pride and power alike. That place doesn't judge you by strength, but by something else entirely.
So, he took his chance.
What followed still made no sense.
Time inside Nitya didn't move right, strangely it didn't affect him. And when he finally secured Demon Orb, he fell unconscious.
When he woke up, he was whole again. His wounds—deep, raw, and near-fatal—were gone. Not scarred. Not patched. Gone. He didn't feel stronger. No hidden power surged through him. Just the same tired breath and aching limbs.
There were too many things he couldn't explain. And in the thick of it, he hadn't thought to ask why.
But now, with the Demon Master staring him down, dissecting him like a puzzle, Zen felt the weight of it all.
They wouldn't believe him. He knew that.
Worse—they might try to cut the truth out of him.
He couldn't stop them.
Couldn't run.
Couldn't hide.
And as the Demon Master's gaze narrowed, sharp and unreadable, Zen's body tensed. Whatever came next, he would endure it.
He had to.
For her.
"I'd love to cut you open. See what made you so special."
A low chuckle drifted from the void—dry, cold, amused.
"But… fate has other plans."
It stopped before him.
"Pity."
Huh… other plans?So, they didn't care how I survived? That didn't make sense. From the way the demon spoke, it clearly wanted to know.But it couldn't do anything.Why? Who stopped it?And more importantly… what do they want from me instead?
Only one name came to mind.The Demon of Dreams.She was the only one powerful enough to interfere like that.Zen's thoughts tangled into themselves, looping questions with no answers.
Ekrid tilted its grinning head.
"Tell me, Zen… do you know of the Tower?"
Zen nodded slowly. "A little."
The creature's grin stretched wider.
"Of course. Only a little. Most mortals know only fragments. Enough to fear… or to dream."
It glided around him again.
"Three hundred and sixty-nine years ago, they appeared. All over the world. Silent, sky-piercing spires. Born overnight."
It paused, one disjointed finger tapping a jagged jaw.
"At first, we thought them divine punishment. Or perhaps... a rift in the world, a cosmic inversion. But then—"
Its tone lowered, as if amused by an old joke.
"And then… people began to be summoned inside."
Zen's breath caught.
"They faced trials—strange, harrowing. But when they returned... they were changed. Stronger. Faster. Some even claimed to hear the voice of gods. Or devils."
The air grew dense, pressing against his skin.
"Religions bloomed like weeds. A golden age followed. Three years of miracles. The world believed it was blessed." A grin split the master's face, jagged and unnatural. "But it was only the calm before the storm."
Ekrid's voice dropped.
"No one questioned why the Tower changed them. No one asked what it was preparing us for."
It leaned close.
"Not until Conjunction."
The walls pulsed.
"During Conjunction Seven Forbidden Zones carved themselves into the world like scars. Other than the Towerbearers, no one knew how. Or why. Mana itself was corrupted. Tainted."
It said the words like a curse.
The walls pulsed faintly with a flicker of dark light.
"And from that corruption came the Beings. Creatures of immense power. But hollow. Mindless. Stripped of reason. Driven by instinct alone. They were born of the rot. Strengthened by it. But broken."
The Ekrid tilted its head.
"We still don't know what caused it. But it wasn't the Tower."
A beat.
"It was something else. Something beyond us."
Its voice sank into a whisper.
"And yet… the Tower prepared us for it."
Zen felt a strange pressure settle in his chest, cold and immovable.
The Ekrid began circling again—slowly this time. Like a vulture waiting for the corpse to cool.
"Do you know how one is summoned to the Tower?" it asked, its voice slithering through the silence.
Zen shook his head.
Ekrid hovered behind him. Cold. Watching.
"Not by bloodline. Not by strength. Not even by desire. It simply… selects, a logic beyond our understanding."
It floated forward, each word deliberate, falling like ash.
"In humans, the signs do not come by chance," the Ekrid murmured. "They begin precisely when the child turns twelve. That's when the soul is summoned."
Zen frowned. "Why twelve?" He asked.
Ekrid's grin sharpened.
"Because that's when the Zeroth Trial begins."
Zen's blood ran cold.
"The Trial of Worthiness," the creature whispered.
The words seemed to weigh down the air.
"It is the first test. And the most important. Everything that comes after depends on it."
It paused beside him, letting the silence settle before continuing.
"That's where you earn your 'class.' Where your foundation is set. In the Zeroth Trial, the soul is thrown backward—into the past. Not the soul's past, but the past. Ancient memories, embedded deep in the fabric of reality itself."
Zen's breath caught.
"There, you become witness. Or participant. You suffer. You bleed. And if you survive… you return. You bring back something older than memory. Something etched into your soul like fire into stone."
It stepped back, smiling faintly.
"And if you don't survive?" A shrug. "Then your body just disappears like, it never existed."
Zen said nothing.
"The trial after Zeroth is different," the Ekrid added, after a beat. "It's where the chosen are cast out into other worlds. Other planets. Realms soaked in corruption."
It tilted its head, grin sharpening.
"But you don't need to know about that. Not yet."
The room fell silent.
"The Tower doesn't train. It uses."
Ekrid drifted to the side, voice soft.
"And yet... I wonder."
Its stitched smile widened.
"What memory would you be forced to survive?"