The Next Floor

Minho stood alone in the chamber (his breathing steady), despite the carnage surrounding him. The bodies of former teammates lay motionless, their weapons scattered like relics of a forgotten alliance. He glanced at the glowing point tracker in his hand: 1,000. This was the threshold to ascend. At the far end of the chamber, a circular portal shimmered into existence, its edges pulsating with an otherworldly energy. The swirling black-and-blue vortex seemed almost alive, tendrils of light curling outward (as if inviting him in—or daring him to step closer).

Minho's eyes narrowed. He had seen portals like this before; they were the gateways between floors, but they were also unpredictable, dangerous. Some who entered never returned. He knelt briefly, wiping his dagger clean on the corner of Jiwoo's tattered cloak. The weapon gleamed in the faint, flickering light of the chamber. He slid it back into its sheath and exhaled (his breath visible in the unnaturally cold air). For a moment, he let his gaze sweep across the room—Yuri's lifeless stare, Seungho's warhammer lying uselessly beside him, Jaehyun's still form slumped in the center. However, the weight of loss pressed heavily on him, because he knew that he must move forward, regardless of the cost.

He felt nothing (no guilt, no anger)—just... emptiness. They had made their choice and so had he. As Minho approached the portal, he could feel the air around it shift. The energy radiating from it seemed to pull at him; tugging at his clothes and hair. The closer he got, the stronger the sensation became, like standing on the edge of a storm. He hesitated for only a moment before stepping forward (his boots scraping against the rough stone floor). When he crossed the threshold, the world around him dissolved into chaos. The transition was disorienting (however, the sensation of falling gripped him). There was no ground, no sky—only an endless void of swirling darkness. Tendrils of light and shadow coiled around him, whispering incomprehensible things in a language that wasn't meant to be understood. The air was thick, suffocating (because it was pressing against his chest), trying to squeeze the life out of him. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stay calm. The Tower feeds on fear, he reminded himself; show no weakness. Then, just as suddenly as it began, the sensation stopped.

Minho (having landed) on solid ground with a jarring thud, found his knees buckling slightly under the impact. He straightened quickly, drawing his dagger in one fluid motion; his eyes darted around, taking in new surroundings. The sixth floor was, however, unlike anything he had encountered before. The air felt warm and heavy, carrying faint metallic tang of blood. The ground beneath his feet was uneven, made of cracked black stone that seemed to absorb the dim (ambient) light rather than reflect it. Towering above him were jagged obsidian pillars, their surfaces slick with strange, pulsing red liquid that dripped down like veins bleeding out into the ground. The sky—or what passed for one—was a churning mass of crimson and gray; occasional flashes of lightning illuminated (the) landscape.

It wasn't empty.

Shapes moved (in the distance), their outlines barely (visible) in the flickering light. Minho couldn't discern whether they were humanoid or something else entirely; however, their movements appeared jerky and unnatural—like marionettes controlled by unseen hands. He tightened his grip on his dagger, instincts screaming at him to stay alert. A low, guttural growl emanated from behind one of the pillars. Minho froze, muscles tensing as his eyes flicked toward the sound. From the shadows emerged a creature that defied logic (a grotesque amalgamation of sinew and bone), with too many limbs and eyes that glowed with an eerie, otherworldly light. Its maw split open, revealing rows of jagged teeth (because it let out a guttural hiss).

Minho didn't wait for it to strike first.

He darted forward (his movements quick, precise). The creature lunged at him: its claws swiping through the air with deadly force. Minho ducked under the attack, rolling to the side and slashing at one of its legs. His dagger bit into flesh; however, the creature barely seemed to notice. It spun around (its elongated limbs moving with unnerving speed) as it struck again. This time, Minho was ready. He sidestepped the attack, using the momentum of his dodge to drive his dagger into the creature's side. A sickening, wet sound filled the air because black ichor spilled from the wound, hissing and steaming as it hit the ground. The creature shrieked (a piercing, grating sound) that made his ears ring; but he didn't falter. With a swift, calculated movement, he wrenched his dagger free and drove it into the creature's throat. It thrashed wildly, its claws raking against his armor and slicing into his arm, but he didn't let go. He twisted the blade, cutting deep, until the creature's struggles ceased and it collapsed into lifeless heap.

Minho yanked his dagger free, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. The ichor on his blade sizzled (and) evaporated, leaving faint scorch marks on the steel. He wiped it clean on the creature's hide before stepping back; his eyes scanned the area for any more threats. The sixth floor wasn't merely a battlefield—it was a test. Minho could feel it in every fiber of his being, because the Tower was watching; waiting to see if he would survive. It wasn't enough to simply ascend, however. The Tower demanded proof—of strength, of resolve, of worth. This wasn't going to be easy. As he moved deeper into the floor, the landscape grew even more bizarre. The obsidian pillars gave way to twisted, gnarled trees with bark that seemed to writhe and shift, as though alive. The ground beneath his feet became softer, almost spongy and the air grew heavier with each step. Whispers filled the air, faint (and) indistinct, but persistent. They tugged at his mind, tempting him to listen, to lose focus. He forced himself to keep moving, his dagger held at the ready.

After what felt like hours (or perhaps days), he arrived at a clearing. In the center stood a large monolith; its surface, covered in intricate carvings, seemed to shift and change as he gazed at them. The whispers grew louder here—more insistent—because they appeared to emanate from the monolith itself. Minho approached cautiously, his eyes narrowing as he examined the strange symbols. They were unlike anything he had ever seen before—alien, yet somehow familiar. The moment his fingers brushed the surface of the monolith, the world around him shifted.

He was no longer on the sixth floor.

He stood in a void (endless and empty), with nothing but the monolith behind him. In the distance, a figure emerged from the darkness; it was cloaked in shadows, its features obscured. However, its presence was suffocating. Minho felt his heart race, but he didn't back down. The figure spoke—its voice echoing in his mind rather than (in) his ears. "You have spilled the blood of allies and enemies alike. Tell me, Minho: do you believe you are worthy of what lies ahead?" Minho's jaw tightened. "I don't need your approval," he replied, his voice steady. "The Tower decides who ascends, not you." The figure laughed (a cold, hollow sound) that sent shivers down his spine. "You misunderstand. The Tower is watching, yes, but I am the one who will test you. Prove to me that you have the strength to survive what lies ahead." The void shifted and Minho found himself surrounded by shadows that took on the forms of his fallen teammates. Jaehyun, Yuri, Seungho, Jiwoo—they all stared at him with accusing eyes. "You left us," Jaehyun said, his voice filled with bitterness. "You betrayed us."

"You're a monster," Yuri spat.

Minho's grip tightened around his dagger as they closed in (around) him. „I didn't betray you; you guys attacked me first. It was self-defense!" The battle that ensued was unlike any he had previously faced. The shadows were relentless, their movements eerily reminiscent of those of his former teammates. Each strike felt personal; each blow served as a reminder of his past actions. However, Minho didn't falter. He fought with everything he possessed, his dagger slicing through the darkness repeatedly until nothing remained. When it was over, he stood alone once more, chest heaving, surrounded by fading wisps of shadow. The forms of his former teammates dissolved into nothingness, their accusing gazes lingering in his mind. Minho clenched his jaw, his dagger still raised, body poised for another attack that didn't come. The figure reappeared, its shadowy form looming over him, presence more oppressive than before. "You have proven your strength," it stated, voice cold and resonant. "But strength alone is insufficient. You assert you are no traitor, that your actions were justified. You claim they turned on you; however, do you truly believe that absolves you of what you've done?"

Minho's grip on his dagger tightened. "I didn't betray them," he asserted, his voice steady yet tinged with tension. "They made their choice. They judged me, condemned me and attacked first. I did what I had to. That's not betrayal—it's survival." The figure tilted its head as if contemplating his words. "Survival, you say. Then tell me, Minho—how much of yourself are you willing to sacrifice in the name of survival?" The void shifted again; the oppressive silence replaced by faint echoes of the past: Jaehyun's voice, Yuri's accusations, Seungho's roar. Minho shut his eyes against the memories, the phantom sounds gnawing at the edges of his resolve. "You may not have started this," the figure insisted, its voice pressing into his mind like a vice. "However, the blood on your hands remains, regardless of who struck the first blow. The Tower will demand more of you. Be certain you are prepared to give it." Before he could respond, the figure dissolved and the world around him fractured like shattered glass. He blinked and he was back on the sixth floor, standing before the monolith.

The whispers had ceased. The air was still.

Minho wiped away blood and sweat from his face; his chest continued to heave from the exertion. He didn't know how much time had elapsed in that void (or how many more trials were waiting for him on this floor). What he did know was that he felt... heavier. Not only physically, but also in his soul, as if the weight of the Tower itself had settled upon his shoulders. He sheathed his dagger and stepped away from the monolith, his gaze steely. Whatever challenges lay ahead (he would confront them). He hadn't betrayed his teammates—he had merely survived them. And if the Tower demanded more, he would comply. Not out of pride, nor out of guilt, but because he had no choice.

The Tower was watching.