The moment Asher entered, the sky exploded.
A beast made entirely of molten rock and burning steel dropped from above—a Titan-class Inferno Wyrm. Its Law was Heat Compression. Every breath it took condensed the air into flaming pressure bombs. Its scales turned blade strikes into sparks.
Asher didn't try to defend.
He attacked first—his scythe spinning in a tight arc to carve through the beast's front leg. It roared and twisted, but Asher stayed close, striking again and again before it could gather enough heat to launch a full attack.
Still, the heat singed his skin. His coat smoked. One mistimed step, and the Wyrm slammed its tail into his shoulder, sending him skidding across the stone floor.
He rolled once, came up on a knee, and charged again.
Five more minutes of brutal back-and-forth, and finally—
A deep, clean slash across the neck.
The beast crashed to the ground, twitching.
[ Floor 1622 Cleared. ]
Asher didn't pause to celebrate. He grabbed the small reward from the air—a Heat Resistance Scale—and walked into the next gate.
Three enemies this time.
All identical in shape—tall, fast, skeletal warriors made of living mercury. Their Law was Duplication Through Impact. Each time they landed a blow, a clone formed.
Then there were four.
He clenched his jaw. "So that's how it is."
He moved fast—first disabling one by cutting off its legs, then spinning mid-air to slam his scythe through a second one's chest before it could multiply again.
Every second, they got faster.
Every second, he got sharper.
His arm was cut open.
After nine minutes of precise movement and relentless strikes, he stood in the middle of a silver puddle—dozens of defeated clones dissolving.
[ Floor 1623 Cleared. ]
Floors 1624 to 1629 were even harder.
1624: A creature made of sound and force—its shrieks could tear flesh from bone. Asher fought without relying on hearing, using only vibrations in the ground to track it.
1625: A parasite swarm. Each tiny body was weak, but the swarm moved like a hive-mind. He used wide arcs, sweeping swings, and constant footwork to whittle them down.
1626: A teleporting knight that shifted every time it was hit. It took thirty-five attacks before Asher predicted the pattern—and finished it in one decisive slash.
1627: A giant crab-like monster that moved with perfect balance and counter-force. For every attack he made, it responded with equal power. Asher shifted his stance, used his scythe as a weight to absorb the impact, and found an opening in its rhythm.
1628: A blade dancer who copied his movements with half-second delay. It felt like fighting his own reflection. He created false openings, let her copy the wrong steps, and punished the mistake.
1629: A brute that couldn't be cut. Its Law turned every strike into healing. So Asher kicked it off a ledge instead—using the environment to win when his blade couldn't.
By Floor 1630, his body was clearly strained.
Blood had dried on his neck. His coat was nearly shredded. His breathing was rough.
But his eyes were cold.
He stood at the edge of the gate, wiped a streak of sweat from his brow, and muttered, "One more."
Just a void above, endless and black, like the Tower itself had given up pretending.
The floor was a battlefield—already cracked, broken, and soaked with the remains of those who had come before. Weapons lay buried in stone. Bones turned to ash underfoot.
And at the center stood the boss.
A massive figure with curved horns, blood-red skin, and six burning wings of black flame.
Its presence alone warped the air.
[ Floor 1679 Boss: Demon Lord Varkhel, Scourge of Twelve Realms ]
[ Peak Star-Forger Realm ]
Asher's hands tightened around the Blood Rose Scythe.
He was already bleeding.
His aura flickered. His soul force was stretched thin. Mana surged, then wavered.
But he stepped forward anyway.
The demon raised its hand, and a wall of black fire erupted from the ground. Asher dashed through it, taking the burns, ignoring the pain, and struck low. His scythe clashed with an obsidian blade—the demon's own weapon, as tall as a tower gate.
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Not like dancers. Not like warriors.
Each one loud enough to crack the world.
Each time Asher landed a hit, Varkhel regenerated. Each time Varkhel struck, Asher lost something—armor, blood, time.
He summoned every bit of energy he had left.
He used his Blood Aura to hold the wounds closed.
His soul force to boost his reflexes.
His mana to chain together complex attacks with no rest in between.
His scythe glowed with everything—blood, will, memory.
And still, Varkhel laughed.
"You've climbed this far, mortal," the demon said, deflecting another strike. "But you are flesh. I am fire."
He lunged one last time—aiming for the throat.
But Varkhel was faster now.
He twisted, caught Asher mid-air, and slammed him into the stone floor with an explosion of black flame.
Harder than any time before.
His body didn't bounce. It just stayed there—cracked, burned, unmoving.
The Blood Rose Scythe clattered across the ground, its glow fading.
Asher tried to push up.
The other barely held.
Varkhel stepped forward, slowly, dragging his blade across the floor.
"You reached the end of yourself, not the Tower," the demon growled. "There is no top. Only death."
Asher looked up through blurred vision.
Then the sword came down.
Everything went black.
A long silence followed.
Asher looked at the notifications, then exhaled slowly.
[ Floor 1679 – Failed. ]
[ Temporary Energy Sealed for Recovery. Progress Locked Until Then. ]
He cracked his neck and muttered, "Hmm… I guess that really was my limit."
His body was sealed now—completely. Mana flow, soul force, and even his physical strength had been locked down, frozen by the Tower's recovery protocol. He could move, but only barely. No combat, no summoning, no breakthroughs. His soul and body needed time to synchronize again, to fully resurrect.
"Fine," he said, sitting back on the edge of the platform.