In the heart of the cosmos, where stars whispered secrets to the void and realities bled into one another like ink on wet parchment, stood the Tower.
It wasn't just a structure; it was a colossal spine of obsidian and ether, piercing through the fabric of existence, linking a thousand worlds in a cruel, unending chain.
People mortals, as they called us were plucked from every corner of those worlds, summoned like moths to a flame that promised glory but delivered only ash. And me? I was no different. Or at least, that's how it started.
My name is Lumine. Or was. After all this time, it feels like a faded echo, a label slapped on a soul that's been ground down to nothing and rebuilt more times than I care to count. In this Tower, names lose their meaning anyway. What matters is the climb the endless, brutal ascent through floors that twist your mind and body into knots.
But before you even take that first step, the Tower brands you. Awakens something deep inside: a soul mark. A skill unique to you, they say. A gift from the eternal whatever-the-hell runs this place.
Mine? Oh, it's a real winner. A curse disguised as immortality. It doesn't let me die. Not really. Instead, every time my body gives out crushed under a monster's heel, poisoned by a traitor's blade, or just worn down by the sheer futility of it all I snap back. Reset.
Right to the beginning, like some cosmic joke on repeat. You'd think not dying is a blessing, right? Eternal life and all that bullshit. Fuck that. I've died 13,007 times already. Each one a fresh hell, stripping away every hard-earned stat, every sliver of power, every alliance I'd scraped together. Back to square one, naked and useless, with nothing but the memories screaming in my skull.
The early loops? Pathetic doesn't even cover it. I was a burden from the start a scrawny nobody with no combat soul mark, no flashy magic to sling around. I survived like a dog in the gutters, scavenging scraps, hiding in shadows while others blazed ahead. The Tower doesn't coddle the weak; it chews them up and spits them out. But I adapted, loop after loop. Figured out the patterns, the traps, the way the floors shifted like living nightmares. By the hundredth regression, I thought I had it cracked. Climb smart, not strong. Avoid the betrayals, the ambushes.
Yeah, right. The Tower laughed in my face. Dying became routine. Scammed a hundred ways poisoned elixirs peddled as buffs, fake maps leading straight into death pits, "allies" who smiled while slipping a dagger between my ribs for a shiny item drop.
And the betrayals? They cut deeper than any blade. Friends turning on me for loot, guilds hunting me down because word got out I was a "regressor" some freak who kept coming back, hoarding knowledge like a cheat code.
They tortured me for it, too. There was this one crazy bitch on Floor 27, eyes like shattered glass, who chained me up and peeled away layers of skin just to hear my secrets. I bled out slow that time, begging for the reset that never came fast enough.
Then there was her.
My love.
The one I entrusted everything to my plans, my heart, my fragile trust. She stabbed me in a place that hurt more than a thousand deaths combined. Not the back, no. Straight through the soul, her lips curling in that mocking smile as she twisted the knife. "You're too weak to climb with me," she whispered, before the darkness swallowed me whole. Even the battle-mad lunatics, the ones who lived for the fight, couldn't leave me be. They'd corner me just for sport, testing their soul marks on my regenerating hide.
And now? Here I am again, on the 0th Floor the so-called "Genesis Chamber." The starting line for every poor bastard dragged into this madness.
It's a vast, echoing hall of polished black marble, stretching out like an arena under a dome of swirling nebulae. The air hums with raw energy, thick with the scent of ozone and fear-sweat. Around me, a sea of faces maybe a million souls summoned this month alone, pulled from a thousand worlds. Elves with pointed ears and haughty glares, burly orcs flexing tattoos that glowed with inner fire, humans like me looking dazed and out of place, even ethereal beings that shimmered like mirages.
All of us marked, chosen by whatever sadistic force runs the Tower. No soul mark? No summon. Simple as that.
I stand there, arms crossed, feeling the familiar weight of resignation settle over me like a shroud. This is my 13,008th time. The crowd mills about, murmurs rising like a tide confusion, excitement, terror. Some clutch at weapons that materialized with them; others stare at their hands as if expecting answers to bloom from their palms. I know the drill. Any second now...
There she is. Avilia, the demon overseer, materializes in a swirl of crimson smoke, floating high above us like a goddess of spite. She's got that ageless beauty that screams danger porcelain skin, hair like liquid midnight cascading down her back, and those golden eyes scanning the crowd like a predator picking out the weakest gazelle. She looks about twenty, but I know better; she's as old as the Tower itself, or close enough. Her lips part, ready to launch into her scripted spiel.
But some idiot always interrupts. This time, it's a burly guy in modern Earth clothes jeans and a t-shirt, looking like he just stumbled out of a bar. He points up at her, face flushed with bravado. "Hey, you! How the fuck are you flying? Where the hell is this place? And who are ....."
He doesn't finish. Avilia's eyes flash, and a bolt of obsidian energy lances from her fingertip. His head explodes in a wet burst, like a watermelon dropped from a skyscraper. Blood sprays in an arc, flecking the faces of those nearby.
Screams erupt sharp, piercing cries that echo off the walls. The body crumples, twitching once before going still. The air fills with the metallic tang of blood, and I can see the realization dawn on a thousand faces: This isn't some lighthearted isekai adventure.
No overpowered skills handed out like candy, no harem of adoring companions. This is survival. Raw, unforgiving.
Avilia doesn't even blink.
She smooths her robe with a graceful hand and resumes, her voice booming like thunder wrapped in silk. "Now, mortals, heed my words. You who bear the Mark of the Eternal have been summoned to the Tower of eternal. Here, you may become anything gods, conquerors, legends. But that fate is forged by your soul mark: a power unique to your essence, awakened upon your arrival."
She pauses, letting the words sink in. Whispers ripple through the crowd tentative, hopeful. "To behold it," she continues, "simply command: 'Soul Mark.'"
I don't bother. I know mine already. Eternal Death. No flashy description, no stats to pore over. Just the cold certainty that every end is a new beginning. What does it do, exactly? Regress me, sure. But the hurts, the why mysteries I've chased through thirteen thousand loops. All I know is it hurts. Every. Damn. Time.
The crowd starts murmuring the words, lights flickering as soul marks manifest glowing tattoos, ethereal auras, whispers in their minds. Exclamations ring out: "Fire manipulation!" "Super strength!" "Invisibility cloak? Hell yeah!"
Me? I just stand there, staring at the blood pooling on the floor. This is it. Attempt 13,008. Maybe this time I'll climb higher. Maybe this time I won't get betrayed. Or maybe I'll die again, and we'll do this dance all over.
But deep down,I know, I know: The Tower always wins.