The sea did not move.
No waves. No wind. No reflection of the sky above.
It lay before the White Tower like a sheet of obsidian glass, stretching infinitely in every direction except one—where the tower pierced straight through it, descending into depths that refused to be measured.
Drax stopped a few dozen meters from the shore that wasn't a shore.
He stood there, hands still in his pockets, hoodie shadowing his eyes, feeling the pressure thicken the closer he got.
This place was wrong.
Not hostile—judging.
Around the tower, the air warped subtly, as if reality itself had been bent too many times and never fully recovered. Essence currents twisted unnaturally, flowing upward instead of down, spiraling toward the tower like offerings.
And he wasn't alone.
Drax felt them before he saw them.
Observers.
Some hidden poorly. Some hidden well. Some not bothering to hide at all.
Figures stood scattered across the distant coastline—on cliffs of bone, atop dead trees, floating above the sea as if gravity had forgotten them. Inner worlds pressed outward around them like territorial animals.
Different eras.
Different philosophies.
Different levels of arrogance.
None stepped forward.
None spoke.
They were waiting.
Drax exhaled slowly.
"So this is how it starts," he murmured. "Everyone pretending they're not interested."
A ripple formed beside him as Mephilisto emerged again, her form sharper here, clearer—as if the tower itself allowed spirits to exist more freely.
"This place draws those who shouldn't exist," she said. "And repels those who still belong to the world."
"Which am I?" Drax asked.
She smiled faintly. "You already know."
He did.
The Abyss within him stirred—not violently, not eagerly—but with recognition.
Like meeting an old enemy across a battlefield.
"You said the tower wasn't meant for my era," Drax said. "So why now?"
Mephilisto's gaze lifted to the tower's unseen summit. "Because the world is approaching a threshold. The Game of Towers only appears when reality can no longer suppress those who exceed its limits."
Drax snorted softly. "So it's panicking."
"Yes."
"And what happens to the ones who climb?"
She didn't answer immediately.
"When a tower appears," she said at last, "the world rewrites itself around the survivors."
That earned her a glance.
"Survivors," Drax repeated. "Not winners."
Mephilisto met his eyes. "There's a difference."
The silence stretched.
Somewhere in the distance, a presence flared—testing the waters. A pulse of domain energy swept across the sea like a radar.
Drax felt it brush against him.
Dismissed him.
He smiled.
"Do they think I'm weak?" he asked.
"They think you're unknown," Mephilisto replied. "That's more dangerous."
Drax rolled his shoulders once, loosening muscles that didn't truly tire anymore.
"Tell me about the tower," he said. "Not the legends. The rules."
Mephilisto nodded.
"The tower does not reward brute force," she said. "It rewards adaptation. Each floor is a boundary—a concept, a law, or a contradiction. Some floors are battles. Some are puzzles. Some are judgments."
"And the monsters?"
"Not monsters," she corrected. "Residents."
That made him chuckle.
"So if I kill them?"
"They return," Mephilisto said calmly. "Stronger. Wiser. Less forgiving."
Drax tilted his head. "Sounds annoying."
"It is why most fail before the hundredth floor."
"And above that?"
She hesitated. Just slightly.
"Above that," she said, "even Monarchs tread carefully."
The word settled heavily.
Monarchs.
Drax looked at the tower again.
At the sea.
At the observers who still refused to move.
"Well," he said, stepping forward. "Good thing I'm not one yet."
As he approached the water's edge, the sea reacted.
The surface trembled—not from impact, but recognition.
Black ripples spread outward from his feet as he stopped inches from the water.
"You can still turn back," Mephilisto said quietly. "Stage Three will change you. Fundamentally."
Drax glanced at her over his shoulder.
"Everything worth becoming does."
He took another step.
The water did not resist him.
It accepted him.
The sea parted around his legs, curling upward like liquid shadows, cold but not suffocating. Essence surged instantly, flooding his senses—ancient, compressed, layered with remnants of countless challengers who had failed here.
Pain brushed his nerves.
Then vanished.
His Abyssal World drank it all.
Around him, the observers reacted.
Some stiffened.
Some leaned forward.
One laughed softly, intrigued.
Another vanished outright.
Drax didn't look back.
He walked until the water reached his waist, then his chest.
The tower loomed impossibly close now, its base hidden beneath the surface, its true entrance not above—but below.
He stopped once more.
Hands still in his pockets.
And then—
He stepped forward and let himself sink.
The sea closed over his head.
Darkness swallowed the world.
And somewhere far beneath the surface, the White Tower opened its eyes.