Chapter 1: The Blood Beneath the Stone

Killian's world had been ash and blood for fifteen years, but the mines of Cerro Maldito made even those memories feel distant.

He swung his pickaxe, the dull thud of metal on stone echoing through the tunnel. His hands, scarred and blistered, trembled with each strike, but he didn't stop. He couldn't. The shackles around his ankles bit into his skin, a constant reminder of his place in this broken world. The torchlight flickered, casting jagged shadows across the walls, and the air was thick with dust and the stench of sweat. Killian was a slave, branded worthless by the System that had awakened in humanity fifteen years ago, when the sky fractured and the dungeons came.

He was only ten when it happened, a scrawny kid in a small village near the Andes. The memory was seared into his mind: the sky splitting open, violet fissures bleeding light, and the monsters pouring out—creatures of claw and shadow, of fire and hunger, too vast and too many to fight. His village had been one of the first to fall. He remembered his mother's scream as a beast with six glowing eyes tore her apart, his father's desperate shout as he shoved Killian into a ditch, and the silence that followed as the world burned. Billions died in those first days, cities reduced to rubble, oceans stained red. The System appeared soon after, assigning skills to the survivors. Some got power—flames, strength, speed. Killian got Persistence, Rank F. A skill that let him endure longer than most, but nothing more. Useless, the survivors had said, and so he'd been sold into slavery, condemned to the mines to dig until he died.

Now, at twenty-five, Killian was a shadow of that boy, his body lean but hardened by years of labor, his eyes dull with resignation. The other slaves worked around him, their chains clinking softly. Hiroshi, a wiry man from Kyoto with a Rank D skill to sense metal veins, was a few paces away, his brow furrowed as he tapped the stone. "Iron here," he muttered, his voice low, "but it's deep." Killian didn't respond. Words were a luxury he couldn't afford—not with the overseer, Vargas, watching. Vargas was a brute with a Rank C skill, Stonehide, that turned his skin to granite. He stood at the tunnel's mouth, whip in hand, his eyes glinting with cruel amusement. "Faster, dogs!" he barked. "The camps need ore!"

Killian's arms ached, but he kept swinging. Persistence. It wasn't much, but it had kept him alive through fifteen years of hell—through the hunger, the beatings, the endless dark. He'd outlasted others, slaves who'd collapsed and been dragged away to be fed to the beasts in the surface camps. But for what? A life of chains in a world that had forgotten hope?

The first tremor came without warning. The ground shuddered, pebbles raining from the ceiling, and the slaves froze, their breaths hitching. Vargas snarled, cracking his whip. "Back to work! It's just a quake!" But the second tremor was stronger, the tunnel walls groaning as if the mountain itself were waking. Killian's pickaxe slipped from his hands, clattering to the stone floor. Hiroshi grabbed his arm, his eyes wide. "This isn't a quake," he whispered. "It's something else."

The screams started, echoing down the mine shafts—sharp, desperate, and all too human. The slaves nearest the tunnel mouth turned, their chains rattling, but Vargas was already moving, his skin hardening to stone as he charged toward the sound. "Stay here, you filth!" he roared over his shoulder. Then he was gone, swallowed by the darkness.

The screams grew louder, joined by a new sound—a roar, deep and guttural, like the earth itself was tearing apart. Killian's heart pounded, his instincts screaming at him to run, but there was nowhere to go. The mines were a labyrinth, and the only way out was up—through whatever was coming down.

The tunnel wall exploded.

A claw, black and glistening, burst through the stone, followed by a head that defied reason: six glowing red eyes, a maw of spiraling teeth, tendrils whipping from its skull. The beast was massive, its bulk shattering the tunnel as it forced its way in, its roar shaking the air. The slaves screamed, scattering like rats, their chains tangling as they fled. Killian stumbled back, his shackles catching on a rock, and he fell hard, the breath knocked from his lungs.

Hiroshi yanked him to his feet. "Move, Killian!" he shouted, his voice cracking with fear. But there was no time. The beast lunged, its tendrils lashing out, and a slave—a woman from Lisbon named Ana, with a Rank D healing skill—screamed as the tendrils wrapped around her. Her cry cut off with a sickening crunch, blood spraying across the stone.

Killian's stomach churned, but he didn't freeze. Persistence. He grabbed his pickaxe, his hands trembling, and ran, Hiroshi at his heels. The beast roared again, its claws raking through the tunnel, and more slaves fell—some crushed, others torn apart. Killian didn't look back. He couldn't afford to.

They ducked into a side tunnel, the beast's roars echoing behind them. The air was thick with dust, the torchlight barely cutting through the haze. Hiroshi leaned against the wall, panting, his hands shaking. "What… what was that?" he gasped. "That wasn't a camp beast. That was—"

The System pinged.

A blue screen flared to life before Killian's eyes, its text cold and unfeeling:Alert:

Alert: Dimensional Collapse Detected.

Dungeon Breach Initiated.

Tower of Realms Manifesting.

Survivors Granted Access.

Objective: Ascend or Perish.

Skill Activation: Persistence (Rank F) – Endurance Threshold Increased by 10%.

Killian stared, his mind racing. Tower of Realms? Ascend or perish? He'd heard whispers of dungeons over the years—portals to other worlds, filled with monsters—but they were rare, contained by the strongest survivors. This was different. This was… bigger.

Hiroshi's screen appeared too, his eyes scanning the text. "A tower," he muttered. "We're being pulled into something new." Before he could say more, the ground beneath them cracked, a jagged fissure splitting the stone. Killian tried to grab Hiroshi, but the floor gave way, and they fell, tumbling into darkness.

Killian woke to pain. His body ached, sprawled across jagged stone, but he was alive. Persistence. He pushed himself up, wincing as his hands brushed something wet—blood, but not his own. Ana's body lay nearby, her chest caved in, her rosary still clutched in her lifeless hand. She must've fallen with them, but she hadn't survived the impact.

Hiroshi groaned a few feet away, clutching his arm. "Killian… you okay?" he rasped, his voice weak. Killian nodded, though every muscle screamed in protest. He looked around, trying to make sense of where they were. This wasn't the mines. The air was colder, sharper, and the walls shimmered with veins of crystal that pulsed with faint light. Above, a ceiling stretched impossibly high, dotted with stalactites that glowed like stars. And in the distance, a massive structure loomed—a tower, its base wide and jagged, its peak lost in shadow.

The System pinged again:

Welcome to Floor 1: The Shattered Plains.

Objective: Reach the Tower Core.

Threat Level: Unstable.

Time Remaining: 72 Hours.

Killian's heart sank. The Shattered Plains. A new hell, one he'd have to face alone for now. He glanced at Hiroshi, who was struggling to his feet, his face pale. "I… I can't," Hiroshi said, his voice trembling. "My arm's broken. I'll slow you down." He pointed to a narrow crevice in the crystal wall. "I'll hide there, try to find a way out. You go. We'll meet up later—somewhere safer."

Killian hesitated. Hiroshi was the closest thing he had to an ally in this place, but he couldn't argue with the logic. A broken arm in a place like this was a death sentence if they stayed together. "Fine," Killian said, his voice rough. "But don't die on me." Hiroshi managed a weak smile, then slipped into the crevice, disappearing into the shadows.

Killian was alone. He tightened his grip on the pickaxe, his only weapon, and turned toward the tower. The Shattered Plains stretched before him, a wasteland of cracked earth and crystalline spires that glinted like broken glass. In the distance, he saw flickers of movement—monsters, maybe, or other survivors. The air carried faint screams, the clash of metal.

A skittering sound came from the shadows, and Killian braced himself. A creature emerged: a spider-like thing, smaller than the beast in the mines but no less deadly. Its legs were tipped with barbs, its eyes a cluster of glowing yellow orbs. It hissed, scuttling toward him.

Killian didn't run. He couldn't—not with nowhere to go. Instead, he swung the pickaxe, his arms screaming from years of labor. The blow glanced off the creature's chitin, but it screeched, rearing back. He swung again, and again, each hit weak but relentless. Persistence. The spider lunged, its barbed leg grazing his arm, drawing blood. Pain flared, but he didn't stop. He couldn't stop.

After what felt like hours but was likely minutes, the creature collapsed, its legs twitching. Killian stumbled back, panting, the pickaxe dripping ichor. The System chimed:

Enemy Defeated: Shardskitter (Rank E).

Reward: 5 Essence Points.

Skill Progress: Persistence (Rank F) – 1% Increase to Endurance Threshold.

Essence Points? Skill progress? Killian wiped sweat from his brow, his mind spinning. This wasn't just survival—it was a game. A brutal, twisted game. And he was at the bottom of it.

He looked toward the tower, its silhouette a promise and a threat. If he was going to live—if he was going to escape the chains of his past—he had to climb. Floor by floor, world by world. He didn't know what waited up there, but he knew one thing: he wouldn't die in the dark. Not after surviving fifteen years of hell.

Killian adjusted his grip on the pickaxe, his torn shirt fluttering in the wind. He was a slave, a nobody, with a skill that mocked him. But he'd survived the end of the world. He'd survived the mines. And now, he'd survive this.

One step at a time.