Chapter 40: Certainly a Tower

The group stumbled onto Floor 20 with the spirits of people who had barely survived an endless war... of spreadsheets.

They stood atop a silver staircase that spiraled downward into an arena of jagged stone, lightning-flickered skies, and violent howls that echoed like madness across the walls.

Renna collapsed to her knees, arms raised. "THANK THE GODS. SOMETHING I CAN STAB."

Alaric wiped his brow, his voice brittle. "That last slime was explaining international bond markets. It tried to make me sign a loan agreement with variable interest."

Cael muttered, twitching, "I saw a liquidity trap. It smiled at me. I'm not okay."

Only Lys looked unfazed, flipping through her notes like she'd just had a leisurely morning class. "I thought the fiscal dimension of Floor 17 was fascinating."

Everyone else groaned.

And then—

The skies above cracked open with thunder.

From the shadows below, thousands of glowing eyes snapped open.

10,000 electric werewolves emerged from the storm.

They surged forward, lightning coursing through fur and fang, claws crackling with white-hot arcs. Their snarls were static itself, rattling the stones of the arena.

Alaric stood still, and then with a grin, summoned his sword. It burst into his hand, trailing light. A white flame crown ignited above his head.

Thorne was gone in a flash — just gone. A blur of motion cracked through the front lines, and when he reappeared mid-leap, his spear was already spearing through six wolves at once.

Renna let out a joyful shriek, her knives blazing with all elements — flame, frost, lightning, poison, wind, earth. She leapt into the chaos like a comet, each swing exploding into multicolored firestorms.

Lys stood tall, her bow shimmering like glass. Every arrow she loosed sang with bravery — her magic laced with sharp streams of ice and wind that carved clean paths through the storm of fangs.

And Cael raised his hand.

Darkness spread across his palm like ink in water, coiling and boiling with power long sealed. His shadow magic launched in rapid volleys — spears of void, blasts of dark wind, a monstrous shadow claw that tore through the enemy with cold hunger.

"I missed this," Cael whispered, a dangerous smile playing on his lips.

The group moved like a storm within a storm — dancing through the fury of 10,000 electric beasts, each unleashing the power they'd been holding back during those torturous economic floors.

The arena was chaos incarnate.

Thunder howled as electric werewolves surged in—but the group rampaged through them like vengeful gods unleashed.

Thorne's movements were inhumanly fast, faster than a blink. His spear spun and cracked like lightning itself, his feet barely touching the ground. "Too slow!", spearing three wolves mid-air before crashing into the next batch like a meteor. Each strike left behind a shockwave that shattered stone and spine.

Renna darted between enemies with supernatural agility, her knives twin arcs of elemental devastation. Flame danced along one edge; frost curled around the other. When she spun, a ring of pure energy exploded outward, igniting, freezing, electrocuting, and blasting apart everything in her radius. "Eighty-seven down! Who's counting with me?!"

"No one!" Alaric shouted back, grinning like a lunatic. He slashed through wolves in wide, searing arcs, his flaming crown burning brighter with every kill. Each movement of his sword left glowing trails of white fire in the air, and the heat warped even the lightning around them. "You don't count fire, you witness it!"

Cael walked through the battle like a wraith. Shadow tendrils rippled from beneath his cloak, whipping and tearing through werewolves like paper. At one point, his eyes glowed a deep violet and a void maw opened above, swallowing a horde in silence. "I am SO over slime lectures," he growled, summoning a shadow beast that galloped through the enemy ranks, slashing with claws made of memory and malice.

Lys, calm and composed amidst the chaos, moved with elegant precision. Her arrows never missed. She summoned a twin spiral of wind to lift her into the air, raining ice-coated arrows down like frozen meteors. "Please stop shouting numbers, Renna," she muttered. "It's bad archery math."

The werewolves fought back—each one pulsing with electric rage—but they couldn't keep up. The group's rhythm was unstoppable. For every wolf that lunged, five more were already falling to magic, steel, or a devastating punchline.

At one point, a massive werewolf the size of a house burst onto the field, crackling like a living storm.

Alaric: "Okay, THAT one's mine."

Renna: "Like hell it is!"

Thorne: "Already stabbed it."

Cael: "Already cursed it."

Lys: "All of you missed the weak point."

The giant beast exploded a moment later.

And still they kept going.

Like a divine blender of fury and chaos, the five stormed through Floor 20, their laughter loud, their power raw, and their teamwork—ridiculous, but terrifyingly effective.

The battlefield was now littered with singed fur, crackling embers, and the faint smell of burnt lightning. The five stood in the middle of the destruction, panting—well, some of them.

Thorne, barely breaking a sweat, spun his spear like a baton. "That was fun. Wanna go another ten thousand?"

Renna flopped onto a smoking pile of electro-wolf remains, dramatically wiping imaginary sweat from her brow. "Can I just point out—Thorne stabbed half of mine before I even got there."

"Speed is art," Thorne replied with a smug grin.

"Then what am I, interpretive explosion?" Renna said, flinging a glassy pebble at him. It bounced harmlessly off his forehead.

Alaric was flexing in the reflection of his still-glowing sword. "Do we all agree I looked amazing? Because I felt amazing."

"You looked like a bonfire having a midlife crisis," Cael muttered as he reabsorbed his shadow beast. "The crown? Really?"

"It's part of the aesthetic," Alaric sniffed, flipping his hair dramatically. "A king must shine."

"You're not a king," Lys said, brushing ash off her shoulder and calmly re-stringing her bow. "You're more of a shiny candle."

Alaric gasped. "Rude."

Renna sat up. "Honestly, I kinda liked it. Big flaming sword. Tragic backlight. You looked like a rejected final boss from a JRPG."

"I'd play that game," Thorne added helpfully.

Cael pointed at the wreckage. "So, do we get bonus XP for artistic kills? Because I summoned an emotional trauma wolf and nobody clapped."

Renna threw her hand up. "I was too busy exploding! But I felt it, Cael."

"Thanks, that means nothing."

Lys was the only one still composed. "We should keep moving. These floors don't clear themselves."

Everyone groaned.

"Can we not have a 20-floor economics course again?" Alaric said. "I learned more about tariffs than I did in all of high school."

"We didn't go to high school in this world," Cael deadpanned.

"Exactly! So why did that slime have a graph board?!"

Renna hopped to her feet. "The one that talked about diplomacy gave me war flashbacks."

"I thought it was cute," Thorne shrugged.

"You thought it was cute because you fell asleep through half of it!" Renna snapped.

He raised his hand. "My body was resting. My soul was processing."

"Your soul was snoring."

Lys cut in again, adjusting her quiver. "Next floor might not be comedy hour, you know."

"Good," Cael muttered. "If I see one more slime in glasses—"

The ground beneath them started to glow.

"Welp. Cue the next floor," Thorne said, rolling his shoulders.

"Please be monsters. Please be monsters. Please be monsters," Alaric whispered like a prayer.

As they were teleported to Floor 21 in a flash of light, someone yelled—probably Renna—

"If the next slime starts talking about inflation, I'm flipping this tower!"

As the light faded and their feet touched solid ground again, the group found themselves somewhere…else.

The floor wasn't stone or soil—but smooth, dark, and mirrored. The walls, the air, the sky (if there was one)—all reflections. Infinite images of themselves, staring back at different angles, distorted, pristine, broken, aged, younger. It was like being trapped inside a crystal heart that pulsed with uncomfortable truths.

A soft, androgynous voice echoed around them, speaking as if from behind every mirror:

"Know Thy Reflection – Understand both the version you show to the world and the one you hide."

Cael stiffened. "Oh no."

"Oh yes," the voice whispered back like a joke from the cosmos.

Alaric spun around slowly. "Okay. Uh. This isn't funny anymore."

Suddenly, five glowing doorways opened up in front of them, one for each.

Renna squinted. "...So we go in alone?"

"Guess we're about to get emotionally jump-scared," Thorne muttered.

Lys calmly studied her own reflection, which, unnervingly, didn't blink when she did.

"Wait," Alaric raised his hand, "I didn't sign up for inner trauma bingo. Can we go back to the economics slime?"

The voice responded, sweet and cruel:

"No truth can be gained without meeting your own shadow."

Cael chuckled darkly. "Oh, great. Jungian slime tower."

They each looked at their doors. Each one shimmered with fragments of their pasts, fears, hidden longings. Renna's showed her dancing on stage… then collapsing under applause that turned into whispers. Thorne's showed him surrounded by faceless warriors all pointing at him. Lys's reflected her silently watching a burning library. Cael's showed a younger version of himself hiding under a desk. Alaric's… flickered—him smiling brightly in a crowd, but his eyes were a void.

Renna let out a breath. "Well. No point in running."

Thorne gave her a wink. "If I'm not out in ten minutes, avenge me dramatically."

Cael shook his head. "You'd want a statue."

"Two statues. Shirtless."

Alaric stepped up to his door, muttering, "What if I come out even more emotionally repressed?"

Renna patted his shoulder. "Then we get you a journal and a glitter pen."

With barely another word, one by one, they each stepped into their reflections.

The mirrored world rippled—swallowing them whole.

And the trials began.

Inside the reflection door, Alaric found himself standing in front of a cheap plastic desk under flickering fluorescent lights. It smelled like instant noodles, nervous sweat, and the burnt rubber of overused heaters. The room was too quiet—except for the sound of his pen scratching paper.

He knew this place.

It was his place. His old apartment back in the original world. One room, a narrow window that barely opened, and walls thin enough to hear the neighbors argue about laundry detergent.

There he was—younger, a little skinnier, eyes a little darker beneath. Sitting at that desk, jaw clenched, flipping through a firefighter exam workbook so fast it was more like he was trying to swallow the words whole.

The version of him at the desk let out a frustrated breath, leaned back, and looked toward the ceiling.

Then he smiled.

Not a real one. Not a happy one.

A survival smile. One that said, "If I don't smile now, I might break."

Alaric stepped forward, closer, watching this younger self clench his fists and whisper to himself:

"It's fine. It's fine. Just get through this and everything'll be okay."

"Just pass. Just get the job. Just don't be a burden."

"Smile so they don't worry."

Then the scene shifted.

Now he was at the fire department exam building. Rows and rows of seats filled with other applicants—laughing, chatting, sharing snacks, comparing study notes.

And Alaric, alone in the corner. Backpack on his lap. Listening. Watching. His fingers picking at the frayed strap of his bag like it was a lifeline.

No one talked to him. No one noticed him.

And he didn't ask anyone to.

He smiled again.

That same fake, tired smile.

Not because he was happy.

But because he hated being lonely—and if he smiled hard enough, maybe loneliness would forget he was there.

"Why did I think being strong meant never reaching out?" he whispered to no one.

He took another step.

The mirror in front of him began to fracture, but it didn't break. It breathed, like a living memory.

And within it, his reflection looked directly at him and asked—not cruelly, not mockingly—but gently.

"Who are you trying to be strong for?"

Alaric stood still for a long moment, watching the mirror. Watching himself.

"Who am I trying to be strong for?"

The silence that followed wasn't empty—it was waiting.

And then, slowly, from the deepest place in his chest, came his answer.

"…For the kid who never wanted to eat dinner alone again."

His voice didn't waver, not this time. He placed a hand against the surface of the glass—not as a challenge, not to break it, but like saying goodbye to someone you used to be.

"I'm done pretending I'm okay with isolation. I'm done telling myself it's fine to carry everything alone just to prove I can. I came to this crazy world, and I met them—Cael, Renna, Lys, Thorne—and now, I finally know…"

His eyes softened, a bit of mist gathering at the corners.

"…I'm not strong because I'm alone. I'm strong because I don't want to be anymore."

The mirrored Alaric—the one who used to fake smiles like armor—smiled for real this time. A soft, proud smile. No walls. No weight. Just warmth.

And then—

Shatter.

The mirror didn't break like glass. It blossomed into hundreds—no, thousands—of small, delicate music boxes. They spun gently in the air around Alaric, each one playing a familiar, fragile melody.

"O light, O light, so cruelly bright,

You kissed the world and set it white.

You burned the sky, you burned the sea—

Yet still, you brought the truth to me."

Alaric's eyes widened. Then, a breath escaped him. A quiet laugh.

"I still remember this tune…"

One music box floated down and rested in his hands.

He closed his fingers around it, pressing it against his heart. The melody grew a little louder, filling the space with calm.

"…Guess I'm taking you with me," he whispered.

"O fire, O flame, you took and tore,

But I am not that child no more.

The ash you left, I wear with pride—

My hate, my light, shall never hide."

And then, through the song and the stillness, Alaric—flame crown faded, sword nowhere to be seen—smiled.