The flesh-colored ceiling above him pulsed with the rhythm of a gigantic heartbeat.
Shojiro stood at the center of the living arena, the floor trembling under each breath he took. It was warm, slick, and soft — almost like standing on muscle. The moment he clenched his fists, the walls shuddered, as if reacting to his intent.
The air thickened instantly as Shojiro crossed the threshold. The floor beneath him pulsed, sinews of the tower itself writhing like living veins. Shadows stretched and split along the walls, illuminated by the faint crimson glow of the distant orb-lighting embedded in the ceiling.
Shojiro's boots sank slightly into the flesh-like pavement. Every step squelched with muted thuds, sending ripples across the floor. A low hum thrummed in his chest—deep, resonant, like a heartbeat that didn't belong to him.
Then the silence shattered.
A crack opened along the far wall—thin at first, then jagged, spreading like a wound across stone and muscle. Through the fissure, a crimson ligament snaked outward, coiling and snapping. Shojiro froze. The feeling was… alive.
From the rift, it emerged.
A figure, impossibly tall and lean, limbs extending unnaturally as it walked forward. Its skin was stretched thin over pulsating muscles and exposed ligaments that shifted constantly, as though a thousand gears were operating beneath the surface. Its clawed hands scraped against the flesh-floor, leaving thin grooves that smoked where the material split.
Then, from the far end of the coliseum, something peeled itself from the wall.
A mass of flesh and tendons uncoiled, standing upright until it towered above him. Artaxion.
Its body didn't move in frames — it flowed.
Ligaments slipped and repositioned under translucent skin; bones clicked into new angles mid-step; each shift made an awful stretching sound, like ropes tightening inside wet clay.
Shojiro's breath caught. He had faced horrors before—but this was different. This thing… thought. Every motion was precise, yet unpredictable, a predator unbound by normal anatomy.
The creature's head swiveled unnaturally, tilting side to side. No eyes. No face, save for a narrow jaw reinforced by ligament-supported hinges. Its chest orb glowed faintly—a soft crimson heartbeat that matched the thrum in Shojiro's own chest.
Then the floor vibrated beneath his feet.
Artaxion flexed its elongated limbs, the tendons coiling like elastic cables, and struck one arm forward with impossible speed. Shojiro reacted instinctively, rolling aside as the limb struck the wall behind him, shattering stone and splintering metal in a single, fluid motion.
"Never Misjudge," a voice echoed in his head—Kaiser's warning repeating, ringing sharper than ever. But Shojiro's eyes narrowed.
"Right… then I won't."
He cracked his neck, tightened his fists, and felt every fiber of his reconfigured muscles shift in anticipation. Artaxion lunged, and the battle for the sixth floor of the Tower of Flesh and Bone began.
Shojiro cracked his neck.
"Big bastard, huh? Let's see if you can handle this."
He surged forward — muscles reconfigured to arms and legs, mass distributed perfectly for a straight-line assault.
His fist slammed into Artaxion's abdomen with the full weight of compressed muscle and Vythra surge.
The impact boomed.
Shockwave tore the flesh walls apart for several meters — and then died instantly.
Artaxion didn't even flinch.
Shojiro blinked. "...The hell?"
He swung again — left hook, right hook, overhead smash — boom, boom, boom — each hit thundered, but every sound was muffled by the creature's shifting body. The strikes vanished inside the Titan's torso as if punching into a sponge made of tension and sinew.
Then came the counter.
Artaxion's shoulder dislocated backward, its arm snapping like a whip in reverse — it hit Shojiro in the ribs so fast the air cracked.
CRUNCH.
Shojiro's body flipped twice before crashing into the fleshy wall, which absorbed him and spat him out like a heartbeat's pulse. He coughed blood, eyes wide, his ribs folding like paper.
Then he felt it — a sudden internal snap.
His left arm drooped.
His shoulder… had partially dislocated itself.
"What the—!?"
"Rule One… Never misjudge."
Shojiro gritted his teeth, pain burning up his spine. "Never misjudge, huh?"
He forced his shoulder back into place with a sickening pop. "Alright, fine. I'll just hit smarter."
He dashed in again — legs loaded with muscle, back muscles fueling rapid recoil, right fist compressed at 70% reconfiguration. He aimed straight for the neck this time, predicting the drift pattern—
But Artaxion's entire torso slid sideways.
Not stepped — slid. Like its body pivoted on invisible strings. Shojiro's fist sailed past its neck — and his own momentum overextended.
Instant backlash.
POP! His knee twisted wrong.
A flash of agony — the joint dislocated instantly. He collapsed on one knee, screaming through clenched teeth.
Shojiro's breath was ragged. His body pulsed with frustration.
Even as his Vythra flared — bright, limitless — his body was starting to betray him. He could feel the tower's rule crawling under his skin, judging every misaligned fiber.
Artaxion leaned down, its faceless head inches from Shojiro's. The jaw opened with a wet click, revealing no teeth — only twitching tendons that hummed like strings of a bow.
It was studying him.
Mocking him.
Shojiro snarled, slamming his fist into the ground to stand again.
"Fine. If brute strength doesn't work…" His muscles began to shift — denser, tighter, smarter. "Then I'll play your damn game."
He redistributed his mass — 40% arms, 30% legs, 20% back, 10% torso — muscle fibers crawling visibly under his skin. His breathing slowed; movements became more measured.
The first true technical fight of Shojiro Momo's life was about to begin.