Lucian had lost count of how many times he had died. He had long since stopped questioning why. The cycle of death and rebirth was endless, yet each time he revived, something within him grew sharper. Stronger. More resilient.
His body broke. His mind cracked. But his spirit refused to yield.
The monsters surrounded him again, their howls echoing through the desolate first floor of the Tower of Trials. Harpies screeched from above, wolves lunged from the darkness, and serpents coiled in the shadows, ready to strike. His sword had dulled from overuse, his limbs ached from repeated deaths, but still, he fought. Because he had no choice. Because Neo was waiting for him. Because he was Lucian, and he was done losing.
He started refining his movements, adjusting his stances, watching the monsters for patterns. He had relied too much on brute force in the beginning, flailing like a desperate man trying to swat away the inevitability of his demise. But now? Now he had technique.
And then, an idea struck him. If he couldn't escape this endless hell, he would own it.
The Weeks of Destruction—his own, self-made technique, forged in the fires of suffering.
First Week: The Week of Sorrow.
He embraced his pain. He reaped the souls of the fallen creatures, siphoning their strength into his very being. Each strike carried the weight of the thousands of deaths he had endured. His blade moved like the wind, cutting through everything in his path. The heavens trembled, the floor beneath him cracked, and the creatures that once tormented him now cowered before his might.
The Second Week: The Week of Destruction.
This was obliteration. A single step sent shockwaves through the battlefield. His sword no longer sliced—it erased. His every movement was a hurricane of devastation, leaving behind nothing but dust and echoes of terror. The beasts screeched and fell before him, unable to comprehend the force that had been reborn from the ashes of failure.
Yet, the tower did not yield.
Days turned into weeks. Weeks into months. Time became meaningless. He lived and died and lived again, refining his Weeks of Destruction further.
The Third Week: The Week of Silence.
The battlefield was his symphony, and he became the maestro. No wasted movement. No unnecessary thoughts. He was in complete harmony with battle itself. He predicted every attack before it happened, reacted before the monsters could even move. He was no longer fighting them—he was toying with them.
The Fourth Week: The Week of the Abyss.
This was beyond destruction. Beyond power. He became something else entirely, something terrifying. His strikes no longer needed physical motion—his sheer willpower bent reality itself. With a single glance, he crushed beasts into nothingness. He was the void. The end. And for the first time, the Tower of Trials acknowledged his existence.
Finally, after what felt like eons, Lucian reached the exit of the second floor.
But he couldn't leave.
His power had become too overwhelming. His presence alone distorted the space around him, making it impossible for him to return to reality. He had ascended too far, too fast. He had gained so much strength that the world itself could no longer contain him.
Panic clawed at his throat. Had he just traded one prison for another?
And then, the book appeared.
Its pages fluttered open, golden light illuminating the void around him. Words began to form, not written, but spoken directly into his mind.
"You have become something beyond mortal comprehension. But not yet. The power you have gained will be sealed. When the time is right, I will return it to you."
Lucian scowled. "Oh, great. Now you decide to be helpful? Where was this when I was getting my spine torn out every ten minutes?!"
The book ignored him. With a final flash of light, Lucian felt his strength siphoned away, compressed, hidden deep within him like a ticking time bomb. His body lightened, the overwhelming force that had bound him dissipating.
And just like that, he was back.
Back in his house. Back in reality.
Lucian stumbled forward, breath hitching. His body still ached, his mind still swam in the memories of countless deaths. And then he saw it.
Neo.
Sleeping peacefully on the couch, as if nothing had ever happened. As if Lucian hadn't just survived millennia of suffering. As if the stranger hadn't taken him.
Lucian's hands trembled. His throat felt tight. His vision blurred.
He was home.
For the first time in what felt like forever, a genuine, exhausted smile tugged at Lucian's lips.
He didn't know how long he stood there, just watching Neo sleep, making sure this wasn't some cruel trick. That this was real.
Eventually, he exhaled and collapsed onto the floor, staring at the ceiling.
"Welcome back, idiot," he muttered to himself, before exhaustion finally took him.