The floor beneath Shojiro shifted with a low groan, each pulse sending vibrations up through his legs.
From the shadows of the crimson-lit chamber, something emerged.
Bones rattled. Teeth clattered. The first wave: skeletons, simple, humanoid in shape, but their eyes glowed faintly crimson — a reflection of the tower itself.
Shojiro froze.
The first swing of his fist shattered one. White shards exploded across the floor. He felt a surge of satisfaction — finally, action.
But before he could step forward, it moved again.
The same skeleton rose. Its bones snapped back into place, sinews forming from nothing. Another followed. And another.
A tide. Endless.
Panic pricked at his mind. He swung again, harder. Bones shattered. Limbs flew. Yet every strike was meaningless. Each skeleton returned as if mocking him, unyielding.
Shojiro's heart pounded. His palms were raw, his knuckles bleeding faintly, but still — they came.
"…What the…? They just… keep coming…"
Frustration welled up. He tried to stomp them, throw them, slam his entire body into them. Each attack worked — the skeletons broke — but the effect was temporary.
Shojiro's body moved instinctively, but his mind screamed: this isn't normal! Nothing dies here!
The chamber itself seemed to pulse with awareness. Each skeleton's return wasn't random — it was reactive. They adapted to his movements, reshaping instantly.
He attempted a running tackle, diving into the mass. Bones snapped under his weight, shattered into powder. The ground shook. The chamber quivered.
But the skeletons reformed.
Shojiro staggered backward, breathing hard, sweat dripping down his crimson-tinged hair.
This wasn't a fight to win.
He realized the tower was testing him, forcing him to recognize something he hadn't yet understood: raw force alone would not suffice.
The hum beneath his ribs — the faint pulse of the Vythra inside him — throbbed. It was weak, just barely alive. He could feel it, yes, but it would not coat his arms. Not yet.
Every swing, every strike, every shred of strength he poured into the skeletons — it fed the chamber, fed the tower itself, shaping the rules of this floor.
Shojiro clenched his fists, eyes burning crimson.
The skeletons advanced again, a wave taller than his shoulders, their glowing eyes reflecting the cage of crimson light that surrounded him.
He exhaled sharply. No fear. No hesitation. He would fight — not to destroy, not yet, but to endure.
The tower watched. The skeletons multiplied. Shojiro's first lesson had begun: force without understanding meant nothing.
And somewhere deep beneath the pulse of his chest, a small voice — the echo of Kaiser's shard — whispered faintly:
"Endure. Learn. Live. Then strike."
Shojiro's fists slammed into the nearest skeleton, shattering it. The bones clattered across the crimson floor, but as predicted, they began to reform. A tingling sensation started in his chest — faint at first, like a ripple across his sternum, his heartbeat synchronizing with the pulse of something beneath.
Vythra.
He remembered Kaiser's warning:
"You can only harm these projections using Vythra. Anything less will be useless."
Shojiro clenched his fists tighter, focusing on the life point beneath his sternum. Energy buzzed, a subtle vibration beneath his skin. It was starting to flow outward — into his arms, into his legs, into every fiber of his being.
Then — a sharp, searing pain tore through his stomach.
A skeleton had stabbed him. The pain was immediate, exquisite in its brutality. Heat and pressure flooded his nerves, and he gasped, bending double as crimson light from the wound mingled with the amber glow of the chamber.
Another reminder from Kaiser echoed in his mind:
"You'll feel everything. Every fracture. Every cut. Every scream of your own bones. You'll remember it all."
Shojiro gritted his teeth, forcing the pain into focus. Reflexively, he grabbed the skeleton embedded in his gut, muscles straining, and hurled it across the floor. It shattered mid-air.
Immediately, the wound began to knit itself back together. The sharp ache dulled as crimson threads of life — the power of Yggdrasil flowing through him — sealed the injury.
Kaiser's voice returned, steady and commanding:
"Yggdrasil will sustain you — heal your wounds, keep your soul intact."
Shojiro felt it — the essence of the tree coiling around his body, mending the damage, yet leaving the pain vivid enough to teach him discipline.
His arms tingled stronger now, the flow of Vythra spreading, coalescing. He could feel it in the air, the pulse of life responding to his intention. The skeletons advanced again, but this time — he sensed a connection forming, a potential he had only glimpsed before.
Pain and power intertwined. Survival and mastery began their dance. Shojiro realized — he could endure, he could fight, but only by learning to wield the Vythra fully.
And the tower watched, patient, unyielding.
Shojiro darted backward, putting distance between himself and the relentless skeletons. His chest heaved, muscles trembling from the constant strain, trying desperately to focus on his life point, to feel that tingly pulse of Vythra again. But the swarm never let up — a wall of bones, a storm of sharp edges, a torrent of skeletal arms — and with each impact, his concentration fractured.
He didn't realize the mistake he'd made.
Never run from your opponent.
The Tower of Flesh and Bone despised cowards. It hungered for defiance, for resilience, for struggle. Tactical retreats were meaningless here — the realm punished hesitation mercilessly.
Before he could adjust, a massive skeletal hand erupted from the crimson floor. Its grip was ironclad, impossibly heavy. Shojiro's stomach lurched as he was yanked into the air, weightless for a fraction of a second — then slammed down. The impact shattered the floor beneath him.
The Tower did not relent. The skeletal hand lifted him again, then smashed him into the ground repeatedly — over and over, each strike echoing like a hammer against stone. His vision blurred, irises rolling back, mouth bleeding freely as teeth cracked, his bones audibly fracturing under the force. Pain tore through every nerve, every fiber of his being, yet he felt alive — painfully, excruciatingly alive.
The final throw sent him careening into a wall like discarded debris. His head struck hard, vision spinning, consciousness wavering. He slumped, barely able to rise.
And yet… Yggdrasil stirred. Crimson sap pulsed along the cracks of the tower, winding its way into his body. The wounds closed, bones knitting together, torn muscles mending with each heartbeat. Pain lingered, sharp and vivid, a reminder of both his mortality and the power sustaining him.
Slowly, shakily, Shojiro pushed himself up. Around him, skeletons began to encircle him once more, each step clicking, clattering, relentless. His body screamed for rest, for surrender, but Yggdrasil's essence surged through him, steadying his limbs, filling his chest with a pulsing rhythm that whispered, endure.
Every drop of blood spilled, every broken bone, every fractured tendon — it was all a lesson. The tower had judged him, and it had nearly crushed him. Yet he stood.