Days passed.
While maintaining his mundane routine, Nightingale had to prepare for his descent into the Mire and ensure that nobody suspected anything was wrong. It was a grueling task, but one he had no choice but to endure.
At some point, black veins began to creep across his hand. At first they were subtle, barely noticeable, but over time they had become increasingly pronounced.
Christopher had referred to this phenomenon as the true face of the Infection.
Those touched by the Black Mire were different from ordinary people. If one set aside their Mythic Abilities and heightened physicality, Espers were constantly on the brink of death, or perhaps that was the more accurate way to describe it. Once infected, there was no cure. The best one could do was enter the Tower, defeat certain creatures to absorb their ether shards, and slow the infection's advance. The spread would lessen as one climbed higher in the Tower.
This meant that a Master or a Saint could remain for extended periods without needing to enter the Tower. Even so, a permanent solution did not exist.
Uncannily, this reminded Nightingale of the illness known as cancer.
Humanity had been fighting this disease for as long as anyone could remember, yet no definitive cure had ever been found. Rumors occasionally surfaced that a handful of people had discovered a cure but in reality, countless lives were still lost to it. Whether these rumours were false propaganda or isolated cases, to the public, cancer remained incurable.
A person afflicted with cancer might survive if they removed the diseased parts of their body, but an Esper could not do the same. Their entire being was affected; nothing could be excised.
Thus, just as Christopher had said, all Espers were ultimately destined to return to the Black Mire.
It was a sad story, but nobody could change their fate.
On the bright side, Nightingale had experienced significant improvement in certain aspects, especially his marksmanship. He could now hit the bullseye with deadly accuracy and rarely missed a shot. It was a little unsettling, yet this was simply the effect of his Marksman attribute.
The attribute could be summarized like this: whenever Song wielded a long-range weapon — be it a pistol, rifle, or bow — his reflexes, aim, and focus heightened to near-supernatural levels. Every shot seemed guided by an invisible thread, instinctively calculating trajectory, wind, and distance. It was not perfect accuracy; no ability could guarantee that every bullet would strike its mark. Moving targets, by nature, complicated the equation, making success far from certain.
This was where the synergy with his Perception attribute came into play. Not only could he see with incredible clarity, but he could also anticipate motion, predicting the next actions of others before they even occurred. During school hours, he had tested this passive effect while playing basketball, effortlessly reading opponents' moves and intercepting passes with uncanny precision.
The combination of Marksman and Perception created a frighteningly efficient synergy. Song could calculate angles, velocities, and distances in real time, adjusting his aim mid-action. Even under pressure, his shots rarely faltered, and his anticipation of an opponent's moves had made him a near-impossible target to hit in return.
As for his Tenacity attribute, Nightingale had no intention of testing it. The description was far too vague, and he wasn't willing to risk discovering its limits firsthand.
Sure, his body was resilient, but to what extent? One misstep or overestimation, and he could end up in excruciating pain. In the end, he decided it was safer to simply ignore it for now.
Putting his training and attributes aside, along with his Flattening, everything else was proceeding smoothly. His daily routine remained as mundane as ever, and his relationships stayed steady, though his bank account had taken a massive hit from all his preparations, a solid reason for him to despair.
He understood that firearms and equipment came at a steep price, and he was prepared to spend a reasonable amount.
But how could a single coat cost $1,500? $1,500?! The thought left him incredulous. Do you realize how many other things he could do with that kind of money?!
Nightingale pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a long, exasperated sigh.
He had expected high prices from Aurelian, given the man's reputation for extravagance, but this… this was on an entirely different level. Even factoring in the so-called "enchanted quality" of the coat, the figure was absurd.
A thousand and five hundred dollars. For a damn coat!
He could buy multiple firearms, ammunition, or even stockpile supplies for the Tower runs. He could have invested in better armor or gadgets. The coat might enhance his presence, perhaps even his aura, but was it really worth sacrificing all that utility?
He let out a weary sigh.
"What misfortune…"
After paying the curb driver, Nightingale straightened and lifted his gaze. He had arrived.
Before him loomed a colossal black structure, its sheer mass dwarfing everything in the surrounding vicinity. Jagged spires jutted skyward like a divine spear poised to pierce the heavens, casting long shadows over the land below. The building radiated an ominous presence, as if the air quality had been sharpened by its mere presence.
The Black Mire (混沌)
It certainly possessed the qualities of a mysterious tower that had nearly plundered the whole of humanity into non-existence. Ordinary people avoided the structure, which explained why the surrounding area was completely devoid of civilians. This specific part of the city, the very center of Los Angeles, had long been abandoned by the general populace. In their place, military personnel patrolled and built reinforced barricades, perhaps as a precaution in case of a scenario any damn abomination escaped the Tower.
Of course, such a scenario did not occur and have never occurred even since the emergence and appearance of the forsaken tower.
Maybe it never will.
In the end, it was humans that were the real threats. Nightingale thought as he looked at the massive structure with an uneasy gaze.
Just how many people had lost their lives because of this tower? He couldn't begin to imagine.
Focus! You're not here to sightsee!
As that thought emerged, he slapped both of his cheeks to regain his focus. Though he still lingered for a moment due to hesitation and let out a resigned sigh before moving forward.
A fatigued-looking officer among the patrol noticed him and stepped forward, blocking his path.
"Stop! Show me your identification!"
Nightingale paused, tilting his head with a puzzled expression.
What's with this guy? Would ordinary people even attempt to enter the Tower? Or has such a thing ever happened before?
Perhaps it had. If not, why else would the officer stop him and demand his identification?
Nightingale fished through his pocket and pulled out the ID card the Association had provided him.
The officer narrowed his eyes, inspecting the card from a cautious distance. After a few tense seconds, he finally gave a subtle nod of acknowledgment.
"All clear."
Yet, something else seemed to flicker in his gaze. Was it… pity?
This guy… does he think I'm going to die in there? What's going on? The first few floors aren't supposed to be that dangerous… right?
He tried to delude himself otherwise, but the truth was far simpler and far more dreadful. Unfortunately, he didn't yet have the power to make reality yield to his reassurances.
After that brief interaction, he quietly slipped past the barricade. Even so, he caught the faint click of a guard's tongue and snippets of muttered remarks from the others: "Damn spire…" and "He's just a kid."
How the hell am I a kid?! I'm a grown adult, damnit!
Realistically, eighteen was the age that marked a person's legal transition into adulthood in many countries. To older generations, however, someone that age was still considered a kid.
And It didn't help that his age was clearly displayed on his ID card. In essence, those guards had just let a kid walk into the Tower of Death and there was nothing they could do about it.
Whatever. It doesn't matter.
Trying not to dwell on it, Nightingale continued toward the Tower. At the same time, a group of people emerged from the door, moving in the opposite direction.