Chapter 22: The Chains of the Tower
The battlefield trembled beneath them.
Asher stood at the center of a storm of flickering shadows, his body humming with the stolen power of the Tower. Across from him, the Executioner loomed—a warrior once feared by the gods, now nothing more than a weapon of their will.
The cursed greatsword in the Executioner's grip pulsed violently, its surface writhing as if something inside was trying to break free. The blackened steel was cracked, ancient, filled with whispers of battles long forgotten.
"You were meant to be erased," the Executioner said, his voice hollow, not his own. The golden runes burned brighter along his skin, tightening their hold.
The Tower was speaking through him.
And Asher hated it.
"You're not the first to fight them," the Executioner continued, his grip tightening on his weapon. "But you might be the last."
He vanished.
A blink. A shift. A flash of motion so fast it barely registered.
And then—his sword was already descending.
Asher reacted instinctively.
His shadow surged upward, twisting into a shield of living void. The cursed greatsword collided with it, a shockwave of force splintering the ground beneath them.
The sheer power drove Asher back.
The Executioner did not stop.
He followed the strike with another, then another, his movements brutal, relentless, every swing of his sword carrying the weight of the Tower itself.
Asher dodged, his body moving faster than thought. His shadow twisted, flickering unnaturally, his instincts keeping him ahead of the assault.
But something was wrong.
Each time the Executioner's sword missed, the wounds remained.
Not on Asher—on the world itself.
The sky flickered where the blade passed, the air splitting open like torn paper, revealing nothingness beneath.
The greatsword was not just cutting.
It was unmaking.
Asher exhaled, adjusting his stance. "That sword isn't normal."
The Executioner staggered.
For a split second, his form shuddered, the golden runes along his body faltering. He was still in there.
He was fighting it.
But the Tower was stronger.
The moment passed. The Executioner's eyes turned hollow again.
"The gods are watching," he said.
Asher felt them.
Their presence pressing down on the battlefield, their unseen hands weaving through the air, adjusting the world to trap him here.
They could not erase him.
But they could try to break him.
The Executioner charged.
His blade fell like the judgment of the heavens, a force meant to end everything in its path.
And Asher did something the gods had never expected.
He did not dodge.
He did not block.
He reached forward.
His shadow erupted, latching onto the greatsword.
The moment he touched it, the world cracked.
A pulse of energy ripped through his body, flooding his mind with something ancient, cursed, and beyond mortal understanding.
A memory that was not his own.
The First Betrayal
Asher was no longer on the battlefield.
He was somewhere else.
A throne room bathed in blood.
The walls were lined with countless golden masks, each one glowing with divine power. The floor was cracked, covered in the bodies of warriors who had fallen in battle.
And at the center—
A man knelt before a god.
No.
Not a man.
The Executioner.
His armor was unbroken. His sword was not yet cursed. He was whole.
And he was kneeling before something greater.
The figure before him was wrapped in shifting gold and abyssal black, a presence that radiated control. No face, no features—only a voice.
"You have served well."
The Executioner did not respond.
The god stepped closer.
"And now, you will serve again."
The moment the words were spoken, golden chains wrapped around the Executioner's throat.
His eyes widened.
"What—"
"You did not think we would let you die, did you?" The god's voice was amused, almost gentle.
The chains tightened.
"You will not be remembered."
The Executioner screamed.
His sword shattered, black ichor seeping into its surface, warping, twisting, consuming.
And then—
Everything collapsed.
The Curse of the Tower
Asher's vision snapped back.
He was still on the battlefield, his fingers still wrapped around the Executioner's sword. But now—he understood.
This was not just a weapon.
This was a prison.
The last survivor of the Forgotten Rebellion had never truly died.
The gods had chained him to his own blade, turned him into their executioner, forced to kill every new anomaly that came after him.
Asher's anger burned.
He tightened his grip.
And for the first time—he did not consume.
He tore the curse apart.
A shockwave rippled through the battlefield. The golden runes along the Executioner's body shattered, his movements faltering as the divine hold over him snapped.
His eyes were his own again.
The Tower's grip had broken.
The gods had failed.
The battlefield collapsed.
The Gods' Reaction
Far above, in the realm beyond the Tower, the gods watched in silence.
They had seen many things in their endless rule.
They had seen wars.
They had seen anomalies.
They had seen rebellions crushed.
But they had never seen this.
A god turned toward the others.
"We have lost control."
Another voice, deep and ancient, whispered back.
"We have made something worse than an anomaly."
A final voice, quiet but absolute, cut through the silence.
"We have made an enemy."
The Choice of the Executioner
Asher exhaled, watching as the battlefield faded around him. The bodies, the ruins, the whispers of the past—all vanishing.
Only the Executioner remained.
The man—no longer bound, no longer controlled—stared down at his own hands, as if seeing them for the first time in centuries.
Slowly, he lifted his gaze.
"You freed me."
Asher rolled his shoulders. "Yeah."
A long silence.
Then, the Executioner chuckled.
"So, what now?"
Asher glanced up at the Tower, the endless floors stretching beyond the sky. The gods were waiting. Watching.
Afraid.
He smirked.
"We climb."