Chapter 5: Floor 5 – The Tomb of False Kings

The entrance to Floor 5 was carved from obsidian and bone.

Massive doors stood half-open, each slab etched with hundreds of names—most crossed out in thick gouges, as if erased by time or wrath. Above the threshold, a crumbling inscription read:

"Here lie those who once ruled, and rule still in death."

Rorik stood silently before it, torchlight dancing across his weathered face. Behind him, the surviving members of the Royal Guard waited with grim silence—only two dozen now, their armor stained with sap, oil, and blood. The porters, fewer still, avoided Eren's gaze. He had saved them more than once now. That made him useful. That also made him dangerous.

The tomb breathed cold air.

As they entered, the oppressive silence wrapped around them like a burial shroud. The walls were lined with statues of kings—towering, noble, and stern. Each wore a crown carved from strange black crystal, and each held a weapon pointed downward in eternal vigilance.

But their eyes had been hollowed out.

As if something had taken their gaze.

Eren's shard pulsed faintly. No warnings. No whispers. Just the steady rhythm of a heart waiting for something to go wrong.

And it did.

The corridor ended in a great crypt—circular, domed, ringed with sarcophagi of obsidian and gold. In the center stood a black throne atop a dais of skulls. Empty.

Until they got close.

The tomb shook.

Dust fell from the ceiling. One of the sarcophagi creaked open, slow and deliberate. Then another. And another.

Skeletal figures rose—tall, regal, wrapped in the tattered remnants of royal garb. Their crowns shimmered faintly. Jewels embedded in their bones pulsed with hateful light.

The False Kings had awoken.

"Form a line!" Rorik shouted. "Blades ready!"

But these were not mindless undead. They moved with terrifying grace, wielding phantom blades of shadow and flame. One mercenary lunged too early—he was bisected in a single stroke.

Eren backed away, clutching the shard. His vision swam—images of coronations long lost, empires built and crumbled, thrones soaked in blood. The kings had once ruled the Tower… until it rejected them.

"Entities identified: Rejected Sovereigns," whispered the shard.

"Soulbound. Unrested. Bound by Tower to test the Worthy."

"Accessing throne core… Unsealing auxiliary interface."

The throne.

Eren ran, ducking blasts of ethereal fire, past clashing steel and screaming men. He reached the dais, stumbling to his knees at its base. The shard burned in his hand, demanding something.

A choice.

"Sit."

"Assume the challenge."

He hesitated.

Then sat.

The moment he did, the tomb froze. The undead kings halted mid-strike, their heads turning slowly toward the throne.

One by one, they knelt.

Eren gasped, eyes wide, his breath stolen by a rush of ancient voices—judging, whispering, watching.

Memories not his own flooded in: a thousand lives, a thousand deaths. Betrayal. Glory. Madness. The agony of rule. The futility of power.

Then silence.

"Trial accepted."

"Judgment initiated."

The shard blazed white-hot.

Suddenly, Eren wasn't in the tomb.

He stood in a grand throne room of glass and shadow, and before him stood a single figure—clad in golden armor, face shrouded in fire, crown of black thorns.

"The First King," the shard whispered.

The figure raised its blade.

And attacked.

Eren didn't have a sword. But in this place, thought was power. Instinct took over. A weapon formed in his hand—pure energy, shaped like the old cleaver he once used back in his village. He parried the first blow, the force of it sending him sliding backward across the floor.

The First King struck again—relentless, each blow echoing with centuries of rage. But Eren adapted. The shard guided his movements, syncing his mind with the Tower's rhythm. He ducked, sidestepped, countered.

And struck.

The blade passed through the king's chest.

The illusion shattered.

He gasped as he fell back into the throne. The tomb was silent again. The undead kings were gone. Only dust and empty crowns remained.

He stood.

The throne cracked beneath him.

And in its place, something rose—a black circlet, simple, ancient, humming with forgotten power. A gift. Or a burden.

Rorik approached warily. "What happened?"

"I… passed the trial," Eren said. "They were testing me."

Rorik's eyes narrowed. "And what are you now?"

Eren looked down at the circlet in his hand. It pulsed once, in time with his heartbeat.

"I don't know," he said. "But the Tower does."