Liam lay on the bed, but his eyes remained open.
Though his body was weary and his wounds had fully healed since transferring from the first floor, his mind stayed alert. He knew something was coming. This world was too quiet. Too... alive to be something born of a system.
The Tower of Trials never allowed challengers to linger in comfort for long.
Then—
Ding…
A system notification echoed directly in his mind—silent, yet piercing—as if it came from somewhere far beyond reality.
> [Tower of Trials – Floor Two: Trial Commences]
Trial Condition: Survive
Objective: Discover the source of darkness threatening this world.
The villagers do not know the truth. You cannot warn them directly.
Failure means death.
Liam sat up.
And at that very moment… the entire village fell still.
Even the wind stopped.
Then, from the distance—out in the golden wheat fields—came a sound. Not a voice. Not an animal.
A rustling... laced with faint, unintelligible whispers.
Liam stepped toward the window, gently pulling aside the small curtain.
There, at the edge of the night's reach, he saw them—shadows. Tall, gaunt figures moving slowly through the sea of wheat. Their movements made no sound, only a subtle tremor in the air.
One… two… five…
Liam narrowed his eyes. There were too many to count.
But what made his blood truly run cold… was the one figure that stood still amidst them all. Much taller than the rest. Its form cloaked in tattered fabric that fluttered despite the windless night. And its head—if that was even a head—glowed with a dim crimson light, staring directly toward…
The inn. Toward Liam.
As if aware it was being watched, the figure tilted its head ever so slightly. And then—
All the sounds returned.
Cicadas. Wind. The rustling of branches. Everything back to normal.
As if nothing had happened.
But Liam knew. That was a warning. A silent announcement that the game had begun.
He stepped back from the window, exhaled slowly, and reached for the sword leaning against the wall.
"So… this is how you play on the second floor."
He looked once more outside. The figures had vanished. The field was still.
But the whispers remained. Not in the air. In his mind.
Whispers only he could hear.
Whispers of the system.
Whispers of darkness.
Once the whispers faded and the figures in the field disappeared, Liam sat on the edge of the bed, gripping the hilt of his sword. His hands didn't tremble, but his breath was steady, cautious. The Tower had offered nothing more than "survive." And "the source of darkness"? That could mean anything.
Time passed.
Hour after hour slipped by in silence, and the sounds of night were replaced by the song of crickets and wind brushing through the wheat. But even those felt… excessive. Too alive. As if the system was trying to drown out something it didn't want Liam to hear.
He stood and slowly opened the window.
Cold air rushed in. The field stretched like a black-gold ocean under the moonlight. But Liam wasn't looking at the field. His gaze drifted toward the woods behind the village.
There was a shadow that didn't move.
A dark speck that didn't sway with the wind. Still. Watching.
When he focused on it, the speck faded—like smoke dissolving into the night.
Liam shut his eyes briefly. This world was trying to trap him—distract his senses, play tricks on his perception.
"Don't lose your center."
That was the first principle of surviving the Tower.
Suddenly—Tap. Tap. Tap.
Soft knocks at the door.
No other sound. Just knocks.
Once. Twice. Three times.
Liam rose, lifting his sword in silence, and stepped forward.
"Who is it?" he asked, voice flat.
No reply.
Silence.
Tap.
Another knock. Quieter this time… but closer. Not at the door. From within the wall beside him. The left side. The one bordering the vacant room.
Liam slowly stepped back, turning his gaze to the old cream-colored wall. He pressed his ear to it. Silent. But then—
Crrriiitch.
A slow scraping sound. Like nails dragging. From within the wall.
He drew his sword completely. Eyes sharp, scanning the room.
The system was either trying to unnerve him… or something was really in there.
He moved toward the small table, grabbed the oil lamp, and shone it on the wall. No marks. No holes. No cracks.
But the sound… persisted. Something was walking inside the walls. Circling his room.
Then, all at once, the sounds outside his room ceased.
No wind. No insects. No nothing.
Total silence.
A silence so heavy, it felt like the world itself had been swallowed by something far greater.
Then, from outside the window, came a muffled sound.
A cry.
A woman's voice… or maybe a child's… unclear. A sob so faint, so sorrowful, it cut through the soul.
Liam extinguished the lamp. Darkness.
He crept to the window and peeked out.
No one.
But still… the sound remained.
A cry.
Not from a human throat.
But a mimicry—like the system was imitating emotion without ever understanding it.
Liam closed the curtain. Gripped his sword tighter.
He wasn't going to sleep tonight.
The Tower had bared its fangs.
And he knew… this was only the beginning.
Liam's footsteps creaked softly as he walked down the corridor on the inn's second floor. He didn't light the oil lamp, relying solely on the pale moonlight spilling through the windows. The sobbing was gone, replaced by a silence that seemed to swallow the world whole.
He descended the stairs. The kitchen was quiet. No fire in the hearth. Not even the sound of others breathing in their rooms.
Too quiet.
When he opened the inn door and stepped outside, a chill wind brushed his face. The sky remained cloaked in night, but heavy clouds veiled parts of the moon, casting the village in hues of lifeless gray.
He made his way along the village's main road. Empty. No villagers in sight.
Until he reached the central square—
He stopped.
They were there—the villagers.
Dozens of them.
Standing still. Frozen. All facing the same direction: the bell tower.
None moved. None blinked. Liam looked closer. Their skin was pale. Some tinged blue. Eyes hollow and vacant. A few stood barefoot in tattered clothes, like they had just climbed out from under the earth.
Liam's heartbeat slowed.
These weren't human.
Slow steps brought him closer, enough to recognize the village elder—a man who had smiled warmly at him earlier that day.
Now… half of his face was rotted. Flesh peeled back to reveal his cheekbone. His eyes—both pitch-black, with whites rolled up like soured milk.
Liam held his breath.
"Dark magic…" he murmured.
Not a disease. Not an ordinary curse.
But forbidden sorcery. High-tier. The kind that turned humans into living dolls. Or walking corpses clinging to memories of their past lives.
Suddenly—the villagers' eyes moved.
In unison, they turned. Slowly. Toward Liam.
No signal. No command.
They knew.
They sensed him.
One of them—an old woman who had once greeted him with warm bread—bared her blackened, rotting teeth. Black liquid dripped from the corners of her lips.
And then—every head turned to him at once.
Mouths opened. Some smiled… but not a human smile.
A demon's smile.
Liam stepped back. Drew his sword. There was no time for questions. No answers to seek. The system had already said—
"Find the source of the darkness threatening this world."
This wasn't a human world.
And the villagers… were no longer human.
Dozens of heads twisted in sync.
And in a heartbeat, the silence shattered—
"GYAAAHHH—!"
Inhuman screeches tore from their mouths as they lunged toward Liam, not with a zombie's limp stagger, but with terrifying speed. Like predators still wearing a human skin. Bones cracked, decayed muscles tore, yet their momentum never faltered.
"Damn it—!"
Liam swung his sword in a wide arc, cleaving one corpse cleanly from shoulder to belly. Black blood sprayed, reeking and hot. Even split in two, the lower body continued staggering forward before collapsing.
CRACK!
From the right, an old man—one who had once welcomed Liam to the village—leapt and clawed like a beast. Liam spun and slammed the sword's hilt into the creature's skull. A crunch of bone echoed.
BRAAAM!!
A female corpse crashed into a house wall, sliding down lifelessly after Liam rammed her aside with his shoulder. But more kept coming—from windows, from underground, even from the dried-up village well.
Liam twisted, carving a path, and broke into a sprint eastward—toward the wheat fields.
Where that shadow had once stood.
His boots thudded against the muddy ground, cloak soaked in blackened blood. His breathing was ragged—not from exhaustion, but from the air itself. The village stank. Like rotten meat soaked in magic.
When he finally crossed the boundary and stepped into the wheat field, the screams behind him faded.
The dead did not follow.
Whether held back by some command…
Or afraid of something waiting in the fields—
Liam didn't know.
But he kept moving.
With a body covered in wounds and stained with blood, he kept walking through the golden wheat fields. The night wind blew softly—not bringing comfort, but carrying voices...
Whispers.
"You seek it… but are you ready to see it?"
The voice wasn't from outside. It echoed within his mind. Like a system… yet colder. Like a living being using the system as its vessel.
Liam stopped.
Two meters ahead stood that figure.
Twice the height of a man. A tattered black robe floated gently in the wind, even though there was none. Its face... wasn't a face. Only emptiness. Glowing red eyes stared at Liam, filled with judgment. As if peering into the deepest parts of his soul.
And from beneath its robe... black, skeletal arms stretched outward.
Covered in wounds. Some clawed at the air... others clutched human heads.
Liam gripped his sword.
"So… you're the source," he said hoarsely, his voice raw from the blood in his throat. "The darkness that poisoned this village."
The figure didn't respond with words. But the ground around it began to crack.
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
Dead hands tore their way out from the soil, clawing to the surface, encircling Liam.
But he didn't flinch. Not this time.
"If this is your trial… then I'll crush it."
Without waiting for a signal, Liam surged forward—toward the heart of darkness.
Purple light flared in the hollow sockets of the Lich's skull.
With slow, deliberate movement, the Lich raised its hands.
Magic symbols spiraled in the air, and the earth split apart.
"Bones... rise."
From beneath Liam's feet, skeletons armed with rusted weapons crawled out. Ten. Twenty. Fifty. They surrounded him, forming ranks like soldiers. Liam quickly retreated, trying to fall into a defensive stance—but the Lich gave him no room to breathe.
A blast of black magic hit from the right, tearing through part of the field and sending Liam tumbling. His leather armor shredded. His arm bled freely.
The Lich floated forward, never touching the ground, the aura of dark magic around it growing heavier with each breath.
"You're not from this world, are you?"
Liam's eyes widened. But when he looked into the Lich's gaze—he understood.
It wasn't the Lich speaking.
Someone else was speaking through it.
And there—beyond the ruins of the field—stood a small figure.
The little girl who had guided him earlier that day.
But now... her body was no longer alive.
Her eyes were vacant. Skin pale. But from her tiny form radiated pure, unfiltered dark magic.
"At last, you've arrived, Liam Crossbell."
"Who… who are you really?" Liam asked, raising his sword.
The girl grinned.
"This body belonged to a foolish child who never knew what she invited into her village."
"What are you saying…?"
"I cursed this place. I awakened the Lich. And I will carve your name into this world as well."
"…Black witch," Liam narrowed his eyes. "So this is the second floor's trial…"
The girl—or rather, the witch inside her—laughed softly.
The Lich raised both arms.
Dark magic spun around it like a cyclone. Bone swords formed midair and launched toward Liam.
The storm of dark sorcery exploded above him, unleashing a pressure that hurled his body several meters. The ground beneath him shattered, scattering dust and fragments of bone. He rolled, his abdomen scorched by the cursed flames seeping into his flesh.
The Lich stared down, devoid of emotion, floating silently in midair, encircled by spinning glyphs of damnation. Behind it, the little girl still stood, smiling faintly—like a child watching a show.
"If I take her down, maybe I could—"
No.
The thought flickered, but Liam pushed it away.
He knew. The girl was innocent. Her body was only being used.
"Damn it… If I kill her, I'm no different than that witch."
He coughed, blood spilling from the corner of his mouth.
His legs trembled, but he forced them to hold.
Liam Crossbell wouldn't fall on the second floor.
He slowed his breath, digging deep into every shred of knowledge he had—everything from the first floor, everything he had accessed from the system.
Lich = undead = weak to holy and fire magic.
But—he wasn't a mage. He had no elemental abilities.
"No spells. No fire. But I have one thing—logic."
Liam scanned his surroundings.
There were still patches of field untouched by the flames.
Dry wheat.
A natural fuel source.
While deflecting bone projectiles with his sword, Liam darted toward a pile of dry stalks. He pulled a small dagger from his belt—taken from one of the zombies he'd slain earlier—and struck the blade against a sharp stone on the ground.
Sparks.
Once. Twice. Again.
And then—fire.
The dry straw caught. Flames spread swiftly in the night wind.
The Lich screamed—for the first time. Its chant faltered. The steady dark aura around it began to waver.
Liam charged.
His body soaked in blood and dirt. He dodged a sweeping strike from a skeletal minion, then countered with a clean slash that severed its skull. Bone shards flew. He kicked another away, leapt up, and drove his blade toward the Lich's skull.
But it bounced off.
"Its bones… too dense…"
The Lich lashed out—a wave of curses erupted from its chest, slamming into Liam's gut and making him cough up blood. But he held on. His hand trembled, but he didn't let go of his sword.
He drew the small dagger again—now alight with the fire from the field.
One throw.
It struck the Lich's side—flames spread rapidly, crawling up its robe and into its hollow ribcage. The Lich let out a piercing scream.
Its aura shattered.
The spell around it broke.
Liam lunged—with the last of his strength—and drove his sword through the Lich's chest, shoving the towering creature into the raging blaze.
The Lich screamed one final time—and burst into ash.
Liam turned toward the girl, sword still raised, his body trembling from pain and exhaustion. His breath was ragged, his thoughts a storm. Every strike, every wound felt like fire—but none burned heavier than the weight in his heart.
The weight of conscience.
He knew.
That little girl wasn't the true enemy.
That tiny body was just a puppet—worn like a mask by a cruel and twisted power.
But behind those hollow eyes... she was still a child.
A child who had once smiled, once hoped.
Liam's sword trembled in his grip.
His hand, once firm, now felt heavy—as if it carried the weight of the world.
"I... I can't kill her."
His mind flashed back to that faint smile.
The one she had given him when she led him into the village, before the night became a nightmare.
That smile wasn't from a witch.
It was just a child's smile.
Innocent. Trapped.
He exhaled, slowly.
His gaze fell upon the girl, unmoving. Powerless.
"Damn it... why does this feel harder than fighting the Lich?"
The sword lowered.
He reached out, gently placing a hand on the girl's head—careful, tender—searching for any remnants of the soul still buried deep inside.
"I won't destroy you... I'll save you," Liam murmured, his voice hoarse with emotion.
But he knew.
The real battle had only just begun.
Not just against the dark force that had stolen this girl's body—but against himself.
His blade hung low, breath labored, body aching.
But his mind—a storm.
He stared at the girl, her small frame like a ghost from a memory he couldn't grasp.
And then, the air shifted.
From the withered wheatfields—burned and smoldering—came a laugh.
Cold.
Sharp.
Inhuman.
"That laugh... it chills my bones," Liam muttered, his eyes narrowing as dread crawled up his spine.
He turned.
And there—emerging from the shadows—was something that wore the girl's form, but was nothing like her.
She was still small, yes.
But the presence—dark, suffocating, wrong.
Eyes of burning red.
Glowing like coals in a starless night.
And the smile—ghastly, cruel.
A smirk born from contempt.
"Ah... Liam Crossbell," the voice echoed, glacial and cutting. "You pity this little doll, do you? But don't forget who pulls the strings."
She stepped forward—light and mocking.
Every step spilled darkness, crawling across the earth like oil.
The world around her seemed to bend and retreat.
Liam felt the pressure bear down.
It wasn't just magic.
It was hatred—pure and overwhelming.
"You can't win," the witch said, her voice soaked in derision. "I stole her body. I shattered her soul. She's my vessel—nothing more."
His grip tightened on the hilt of his blade, though it trembled beneath his fingers.
He knew—this wasn't just a battle of strength.
This was war of the soul.
Eyes blazing, he met the witch's gaze.
"This... this is the real trial," he whispered. "Between darkness and hope... life and death... I must win."
He looked once more at the girl's face—the same face that once greeted him with a gentle smile.
Now blank. Hollow.
But not empty.
She was in there.
Trapped.
His hand reached out—resting lightly on her small shoulder.
His sword no longer raised in threat, but in silent promise.
"Hold on," he whispered, a sound barely heard, meant only for her.
But before she could answer—if she could answer—the laugh returned.
Sharper. Crueler.
"Such touching sentiment," the witch sneered.
Her red eyes flared, pupils swirling like cursed galaxies.
"She's not human anymore. She's a shell. A tool. One I'll discard once it breaks."
The girl's body twitched.
A step back—jerky, unnatural.
A puppet yanked by force.
Limbs bending in ways they shouldn't.
But there was no pain.
Only proof.
Proof that she no longer moved of her own will.
Liam's heart twisted—but his gaze never wavered.
"Then I'll tear your shadow from her body," he said, voice steel. "And I'll make damn sure you never take another soul again."
The circle of magic formed—swirling around the girl's feet.
Violet-black and pulsing with malice.
The earth rotted. The crops withered.
The wind screamed.
Liam braced himself, sword clenched tight.
His body was broken, bleeding—but his eyes still burned with fire.
"If I must cut down the darkness to save her, then so be it," he said.
"Even if I bear the sin alone."
The sky cracked above.
Black lightning screamed through the night.
The field became a battlefield.
A stage for ruin.
She attacked.
No hesitation.
A shadow-spear fused to her arm, thrusting with deadly speed.
Liam barely parried—each blow carving pain into his skin.
"She's just a puppet... but her blows are real," he thought, blood trickling.
"This strength... it's not hers. It's the witch's plaything."
"Stop dodging, Liam!" the witch spat. "Or should I crush her soul right now?"
Liam didn't answer.
He moved.
Not to escape.
To find an opening.
He couldn't strike to kill.
But maybe—just maybe—if he disabled her arm, the magic would falter.
"She dives," he noted.
High. Too high.
The perfect moment.
He sidestepped—spun—then struck.
Not her chest.
Not her head.
But her hand.
Clang!
A burst of cursed mana erupted.
The girl was thrown back.
Her spear shattered into smoke.
Liam panted, wounds pouring, but his eyes remained locked.
She rose—slowly.
Shoulders trembling.
This time, no laughter.
Just silence.
Her red eyes flickered—shaking.
And then...
"T-take me... back…"
A whisper.
So faint.
But it was her voice.
That was all Liam needed.
"I will end this," he vowed, planting his feet as blood dripped from his chin.
She floated again.
Unsteady.
Like a doll with fraying strings.
"Silence!" the witch howled. "She is MINE! Her body is MINE!"
Magic surged again—barbs of shadow jutting from her skin.
Liam ducked, stepped in, and struck—not with blade, but with hilt.
Her wrist cracked.
She stumbled.
He closed in.
Tackled her.
Pinned her to the earth.
Her body writhed.
But the eyes—those crimson eyes—flickered.
He saw it.
"You're in there, aren't you?" he whispered. "Little one... you're still fighting."
The girl screamed.
The witch screamed louder.
"GET OUT! GET OUT!! THIS IS MY BODY!!"
Liam held firm.
He locked eyes with hers.
"I know you're scared," he whispered. "But I'm here. Fight with me. You're not alone."
The girl trembled.
Tears welled.
"I... I can't…"
"You can."
And then—it cracked.
The light left her eyes.
The darkness peeled away.
Like glass shattering.
A scream tore through the sky as shadow exploded from her body—forming the witch's true form, a swirling spirit of hate and agony.
"You don't deserve to be a challenger!" she howled. "You're just a failure—left behind!"
Liam rose, shaking, sword raised one last time.
"Maybe," he said softly.
"But I won't let others suffer.
Never again."
He slashed.
The shadow screamed.
The sky split.
And then—silence.
---
She lay there now, small and quiet.
Alive.
Her eyes opened—clear.
No red.
Only tears.
"I-I couldn't stop her…"
Liam knelt beside her.
A weak smile on his lips.
"It's alright now. I'll find a way to heal you. You're safe."
She sobbed—tiny hands clutching his sleeve.
And from beyond the ruins, the sun began to rise.
A gentle light brushed over the battlefield, golden and warm.
"Thank you…"
The words were a whisper.
But they struck deep.
And then—her body began to glow.
Fading.
Softly.
Like a dream.
The wheatfields, the sky, the distant village—all began to unravel, becoming golden dust.
Liam reached out—but didn't stop it.
He let her go.
"Sorry… I was too late."
But she didn't blame him.
There was no anger in her eyes.
Only peace.
A single tear rolled down his cheek.
And then—the world vanished.
---
[System initializing transfer...]
Liam awoke.
A room. Small. Bare. But warm.
A mattress. White walls.
No window.
No door.
His eyes blinked open.
The wounds—gone.
No pain.
No blood.
For the first time since entering the second floor... he could breathe.
A voice echoed.
Mechanical. Calm.
Emotionless.
[Congratulations, Liam Crossbell.]
[You have cleared Floor 2 of the Tower of Trials.]
A blue window hovered before him.
[Achievement Unlocked: "Savior of the Imprisoned Soul"]
[Reward: Full Recovery, Base Stat Boost, System Access Unlocked (Level 2)]
[Note: No entities within this floor are aware that they are part of a system simulation. Only the challenger holds that knowledge.]
Liam stood slowly.
His body felt whole.
But his heart... heavy.
"So this was all... a creation of the system?"
He stared at the ceiling.
No fields.
No sky.
No girl.
But in his chest, something remained.
Not a memory forced by data.
But a name.
Or maybe just a shadow of it—etched into his soul.
"I'll keep going," he whispered.
"For those like her."
He clenched his fists.
And looked forward.
The system message still hovered in the air.
But he no longer needed it.
He had something stronger.
Resolve.