The hallway to the contestants’ resting rooms always looked the same.

  Same walls. Same lights. Same metallic floor.

  But this time, as Z-69 walked through it, it felt narrower.

  Not because the corridor had changed.

  Because he had.

  Each step he took was heavy enough that the floor vibrated faintly, as if something huge and invisible was walking with him—some shadow of blood, thunder, and exhaustion, sticking to his back like a second body.

  The metal plating over his torso was dented almost beyond recognition.

  A long crack ran from his right shoulder down past his ribs, stopping somewhere near his hip.

  Through it, the gray flesh beneath showed through—if it could even be called “flesh” anymore.

  It looked more like old stone that had been baked and split by a too-hot sun.

  Every movement pulled at that crack.

  Tiny tch tch tch sounds whispered out with each step, like a steel beam complaining under too much weight.

  Metal shifted against metal, artificial joints whining as if asking for a break he had no intention of giving them.

  He walked like normal.

  As if pain—or whatever remained of its concept—no longer belonged to him.

  The automatic door to the resting room slid open with a soft hiss.

  Z-69 stepped in.

  John immediately grabbed his toolkit and rushed over to examine him.

  Then he saw Z-69 properly.

  “…Holy—”

  The cigarette hanging from his lips almost fell out.

  “You look like a corpse that’s just been flattened by a hydraulic press,” John snapped, slamming his toolkit onto the table so hard the metal surface rattled.

  “That steel-bitch Mira really turned your body into scrap! If it weren’t for that damned crystal powering you, you’d be a puddle of minced zombie paste right now.”

  Z-69 didn’t argue.

  He simply sat down on the metal bed, the impact ringing dully through the room like someone dropping a boulder.

  He reached into the damaged joint of his armor and pulled out a piece of high-energy dried meat he’d kept there, tearing a bite off with a clean, unbothered movement.

  A blue blur jumped up immediately.

  Lumina launched herself straight onto his lap, tiny paws pressing to the cracked parts of his torso as if she could hold his broken pieces together by sheer stubbornness.

  “You—” Her voice vibrated in his mind, high-pitched and furious. “You almost made me die of worry!”

  Her fur bristled, ears standing straight up.

  “You were this close to falling into The Hunger! Do you even know how scared I was?!”

  Z-69 placed one hand gently on her head, fingers moving in a slow, almost clumsy stroke.

  “I’m fine.” he said. “You saw it. I’m still alive.”

  Lumina’s ears drooped at once.

  She didn’t argue, but she didn’t agree either.

  She just pressed her head harder into his hand, shutting her eyes for a few seconds.

  If she’d been human, it would’ve looked like she was trying very hard not to cry in front of people.

  The exhaustion from the Mira fight hadn’t just landed on him.

  Her spiritual reserves were nearly empty.

  To keep him from falling into The Hunger, she’d poured a huge chunk of her power into stabilizing him mid-battle—as subtly as she could, as fast as she could, like patching a cracked reactor during meltdown.

  The small room smelled like every kind of aftermath.

  Burnt ozone from discharged electricity.

  Hot metal and coolant.

  John’s harsh, synthetic-cigarette smoke.

  The scent of a trench that had somehow survived another artillery barrage.

  Above them, the ceiling lights flickered once, twice, before the holo-screen on the wall beeped and flared to life.

  Blue light washed over all three of them.

  “ROUND THREE RESULT: CONTESTANT NUMBER 69 – COMPLETE VICTORY.”

  Z-69’s number appeared at the top of the updated standings.

  The initial roster of nearly fifty had been carved down to a small handful—faces, names, ranks, each tied to blood-soaked footage from the last few days.

  Only ten remained.

  John let out a low whistle.

  “You know.” he said, leaning back in his chair, “Floor 10 is about to lose its mind. I haven’t seen someone claw their way out of the bottom like this since…”

  He paused, a strange, crooked smile tugging at his lips.

  “…since you, three hundred years ago.”

  Lumina looked up at the screen, then at Z-69, then back again.

  “That kid Ten’s name is still on the list.” she muttered. “He’s so weak, but he still passed Round Three… how in the hell did he manage that?”

  Z-69 didn’t answer.

  He tilted his head back against the wall and closed his eyes—not to sleep, but to replay everything from the last fight.

  Every punch.

  Every misstep.

  Every time Mira’s fist shattered his bones.

  He didn’t dwell on the pain.

  He dwelled on the data.

  On the crack he found.

  On the timing he chose.

  On the way the crowd went silent just before he turned the fight.

  A knock suddenly broke through the quiet.

  It wasn’t loud.

  Just three steady taps hitting the door—tok. tok. tok.—too precise, too measured, as if the one knocking was trying not to let his hand shake.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  John frowned.

  “Who the hell—”

  The door creaked open.

  Ten stepped in.

  Gone was the half-laughing, half-panicked kid who’d barely stumbled his way through the early rounds.

  Now he was wrapped in bandages like a walking medical experiment, strips of cloth running across his cheek, his collarbone, his arms.

  His left eye was half-covered by white gauze; his right eye, though bloodshot, burned with an intensity that hadn’t been there before.

  His steps were slow, not because he was weak-willed—but because every movement hurt.

  He walked deep into the room.

  Then suddenly, Ten bowed.

  Not a casual nod.

  A full, deep bow—head lowered so sharply that for a second it looked like his forehead was about to hit the floor.

  “Thank you…” Ten’s voice trembled, but the words were clear. “For helping me in the second round.”

  He straightened up, forcing himself to stand straight despite the pain.

  His eyes were wet.

  But behind the wetness, there was something hard and sharp.

  “I watched your fight with Mira.” Ten said, the words spilling out through clenched teeth. “You really are… a monster.”

  Z-69 looked at him quietly.

  He didn’t smile.

  Didn’t frown.

  Didn’t crack a joke.

  He just watched.

  His silence, however, wasn’t cold. It wasn’t dismissive.

  Ten felt it—this was the kind of silence that accepted what it heard and let it exist.

  Ten took a breath.

  “I…” He tightened his hands into fists. The bandages crinkled softly. “I want to be strong. Strong like you. You said… if I survived, you’d teach me. Do you still remember…?”

  He didn’t know Z-69’s actual memory state.

  Didn’t know how badly broken the past inside him was.

  But he still asked.

  John snorted, cigarette shifting as he spoke.

  “This guy can barely keep his own limbs attached and you wanna learn from him? For what? Learn how to get punched into walls professionally?”

  He jabbed a thumb at Z-69.

  “Absolutely not. Your bones are still human, kid. If you try his training, you’ll die before you can even fail properly.”

  Ten didn’t back off.

  “Even so,” he said, voice low but steady, “I’ll climb to Floor 9. No matter what it costs me. Even if it kills me.”

  John raised an eyebrow.

  “If you die, you’re not climbing anywhere. That’s kind of how death works.”

  It was like throwing a bucket of cold water on the boy’s head.

  But before the tension could thicken, Z-69 spoke.

  “Possible.”

  Ten’s head snapped up.

  “Really?!” he blurted out, the word bursting from him before he could hold it back.

  Z-69 nodded once, as if confirming a result.

  “Tomorrow morning.” he said. “Arena training hall. I’ll show you a few things. Simple basics.”

  He raised his eyes slightly, looking at Ten as if measuring him against something invisible.

  “If you survive long enough to reach Floor 9,” Z-69 added, “we’ll talk again.”

  Ten’s lips trembled.

  He bit down on them so hard they turned white, trying to hold himself together.

  Then he bowed again—fast, clumsy, almost hitting the wall this time.

  “Thank you…! I won’t run away! I swear I won’t!”

  He spun and stumbled out of the room before his gratitude could spill over into something uglier.

  When the door slid shut behind him, John clicked his tongue.

  “That kid.” he muttered, “is the same kind of idiot you are.”

  Z-69 didn’t deny it.

  The door opened again.

  This time, there was no knock.

  Just that faint, artificial sweetness—cool, sharp, and strangely clean—sliding into the room like a carefully measured chemical.

  Elise stepped inside.

  Her boots made almost no sound on the floor.

  Her dark dress, neatly pressed, didn’t have a single wrinkle.

  Her hair fell in soft waves of pale pink, glowing faintly under the blue light of the holo-screen.

  She looked like she’d just left an office… not a death arena.

  Her gaze swept across the room.

  Z-69: cracked armor, torn flesh, blank violet eyes.

  Lumina: still bristling, fur a mess, tail wrapped around his wrist like a guard cable.

  John: exhausted, hazy-eyed, hand still resting on a wrench as if ready to throw it at someone or something.

  “You survived.” Elise said at last, her voice soft but edged. “You did better than I predicted.”

  Lumina’s fur puffed at once.

  She stood up on Z-69’s shoulder, tail fluffed out like an angry pompom.

  “Of course he survived!” she snapped. “What did you expect, huh? That he’d die just to make your job easier?!”

  Elise ignored the insult with professional grace.

  She moved to the side of the room and flicked her wrist.

  The holo-screen shifted.

  Z-69’s stats vanished.

  A new image appeared—a huge tower, rendered in blood-red lines, stretching upward as if it pierced the entire city.

  “The next round.” Elise said. “Round Four: The Tower.”

  Lines of data began appearing around the rotating tower image.

  “Officially, it’s a challenge.” Elise continued. “Unofficially? It’s a sorting device. A grinder.”

  “Nine floors.”

  “Nine trials.”

  “Reach the top, and you get a direct pass to Floor 9. No bargaining. No more matches.”

  She turned her head, eyes locking onto Z-69.

  “Round Three only tested how you fight when people want to kill you.” she said. “Round Four tests what you are when you have nothing left to rely on.”

  Her gaze sharpened.

  “The Tower doesn’t just test strength. It tests instinct. Mind. Will. And whether… you’re truly a monster, or something worse.”

  Z-69 didn’t react.

  But the violet light in his eyes deepened, like a storm cloud forming inside two glass marbles.

  He understood.

  Every round so far had been a piece of a bigger equation.

  And now they wanted the full value.

  Elise turned to leave.

  As she moved, the small transmitter on her collar flickered.

  A dry, mechanical voice crackled out—too loud, too exposed:

  “Crimeria High Council – status update: Continue monitoring Candidate 69.”

  A different voice chimed in immediately afterward, lower, colder:

  “If necessary—recruit him at all costs.”

  The room froze.

  Elise’s hand flew up.

  She slapped her fingers over the device, cutting the link mid-sentence.

  For a fraction of a second, something like irritation crossed her face.

  Not toward Z-69—but toward whoever had just let that message slip where he could hear it.

  She lowered her hand.

  Her expression was smooth again.

  But when she spoke, her voice was quieter, weightier.

  “You heard them.” she said, looking Z-69 straight in the eye. “The people upstairs are very interested in you.”

  Her next sentence cut the air like a short blade.

  “Don’t let them take you alive.”

  Lumina stiffened.

  Z-69 tilted his head.

  John narrowed his eyes.

  “If they capture you.” Elise continued, every word precise, “they won’t treat you as a person. They’ll disassemble you. Dissect your core. Turn you into a series of lab reports and weapon prototypes.”

  Her lips curved faintly—not in amusement, but in a tired kind of irony.

  “They’ll call it ‘research for Crimeria’s future.’”

  Then she stepped out.

  The door shut.

  Silence crowded back in.

  John moved first.

  “Tch. Always the same cheap scare tactics.” he grumbled, walking over to shut off the holo-screen. “Don’t take it too personally. The upper floors have been foaming at the mouth about you since Round One.”

  He dropped into his chair with a groan, rubbing his forehead.

  “As long as I’m still around.” John said, “those brats aren’t laying a finger on you.”

  Z-69 rested his hand on the hilt of the Heaven-Sundering Blade.

  “Will I pass Round Four?” he asked quietly.

  John didn’t answer immediately.

  He got up, walked to the floating tower model Elise had left behind, and turned it slowly with two mechanical fingers.

  “You’re strong.” John said. “We know that already. Floor 10 knows that. Hell, even Floor 9 probably knows it by now.”

  He tapped the glowing Tower.

  “But this thing?” he continued. “The Tower isn’t built to see how hard you punch. It’s built to see what breaks first—your body, your mind, or your will.”

  He pointed at the nine segments.

  “Each floor tests a different parameter. Strength, endurance, reaction, adaptability, teamwork, resistance to fear, resistance to madness… and a few other cute surprises they like to throw in.”

  He flicked the tower away with a finger. The image dispersed in a shower of red particles.

  “In the end, the point of this whole Battle for Ascension isn’t just to give out shiny legal passes to Floor 9.” John said. “It’s a talent extractor. Crimeria’s way of screening the strongest psychos and seeing who’s worth recruiting.”

  “You’re not just fighting to live.” he finished. “You’re fighting to prove you’re useful.”

  He walked back to his chair and dropped into it.

  “So yeah. Try not to die. I’ll see you on Floor 9.”

  Z-69 blinked.

  “You’re not competing.” he said. “How will you go up?”

  John smirked, reaching into his coat.

  He pulled out a holo card and flicked it open.

  A golden emblem shimmered in the air.

  “For your information.” John said, smirking, “I’m a VIP resident of Crimeria. I have other routes up that don’t involve being punched through walls on live broadcast.”

  “And Lumina?” Z-69 asked, glancing down at the fox lying curled against his leg. “How will we bring her to Floor 9?”

  “Easy.” John replied.

  Lumina lifted her paw lazily.

  A soft wave of spiritual energy flowed through the room.

  Her body shimmered.

  Then vanished completely.

  “Like this.” her voice echoed. “I just… make myself not exist to their eyes and sensors. Simple.”

  Z-69 stared at the empty spot where she’d been.

  “So I’m the only one.” he said, “who has to climb the Tower.”

  “Yep.” John said. “There are other ways. Political routes, debt routes, secret routes, human-trafficking routes… Crimeria is full of staircases. You just chose the one with the most blood.”

  He flicked his cigarette away.

  “Or rather, you let Elise push you onto it.”

  The room lights flickered again.

  This time, a harsh alarm blared from the ceiling speakers:

  “NOTICE TO ALL QUALIFIED CONTESTANTS.”

  “ROUND FOUR – THE TOWER – WILL BEGIN IN 24 HOURS.”

  “PREPARE YOURSELVES.”

  The holographic tower reassembled itself for a moment, glowing red in the center of the room—stretching endlessly upward like a spine of some colossal metallic beast.

  Then it vanished, leaving only afterimages dancing in Z-69’s eyes.

  He tightened his grip on his blade.

  Lumina reappeared, yawning, then curled herself into a small ball right next to his foot.

  Her tail wrapped around his ankle like a soft, glowing chain.

  John leaned back in his chair, lit yet another cigarette, and stared at the ceiling like a man watching storm clouds gather over a city he’d already seen destroyed once.

  In the middle of that messy, smoky stillness, Z-69 spoke.

  “I will climb.”

  It wasn’t said loudly.

  It wasn’t said dramatically.

  It was simple.

  Flat.

  Certain.

  Not a promise to anyone else.

  Just a statement of fact to himself.

  Lumina’s tail tightened ever so slightly.

  John let out a long breath.

  “Yeah,” he muttered. “I know you will.”

  Outside, Floor 10 roared on—unaware that somewhere in a rusted resting room, a zombie with a thunderlit core had just quietly, calmly decided to walk into a Tower designed to break the strongest people Crimeria could produce.

  Inside, under the dying lights, three beings shared a small, cramped space.

  A mad scientist.

  A psychic fox.

  And the question the whole city was gradually learning to fear.

  Z-69 closed his eyes for a moment.

  He didn’t know who he had been.

  He didn’t fully know what he was now.

  But he knew one thing:

  The Tower was waiting.

  And he was going to meet it.