The boy who, perhaps, was Lloyd

In a deep, remote place, far beyond the reach of light, behind black mountain ranges the sun never visited, and in the depths of a facility whose existence had been erased from the pages of history… there was a quiet control room, suffocatingly silent, filled with devices pulsing with a faint green light, transmitting a distorted image of the first floor of the "First Training Tower – Torment of Beasts."

The air in the hall was thick, saturated with the smell of rust, and the sounds of old machines pulsed with a regular rhythm, like artificial hearts that knew no death.

In the midst of the darkness stood a massive figure, his body wrapped in dense muscles covered by dark green skin like scorched asphalt. Long tusks protruded from his mouth, and his red eyes glowed from within the shadow of his long hood.

His bare chest bore glowing tattoos the color of blood, and on his back, two massive swords were crossed in an 'X', pulsing with a faint aura, as if still burning with the spirit of a war that had never ended.

He was an Orc… no, not just any Orc.

He was Gorlam, one of the pioneers of the great wars of the ancient era, thousands of years ago, when stellar kingdoms and empires burned under the feet of giants, and demons forged alliances with fallen celestials. Now… after a long time forgotten, Gorlam held another title: Supervisor of the First Training Tower.

He didn't speak much. But when he did, the echo of his voice was like a roar reverberating in the dark corners. He stared at one of the screens, which was displaying the image of the young man fighting fiercely amidst the relentless flames.

"This boy…" Gorlam muttered, his voice rumbling as if drawn from a dark well, "…No, this madman… Is he really facing Lauran the Scorched… when he's barely at level twenty-seven?"

The number was almost a joke, compared to the level 75 of an undefeatable beast.

Beside him stood a young woman with snow-white hair, short and styled with precision.

She wore a black formal uniform trimmed with interwoven gray threads, culminating in a metal badge engraved with her name: Elisa – Thirteenth Monitoring Unit.

Her appearance was elegant, but her eyes were not ordinary. One was artificial, gleaming with a cold blue light, connected to a nerve behind her ear that extended to the base of her neck.

She spoke in a low voice, but it was sharp as knives. "His body can't withstand this level of pressure. If he continues at this pace… he'll turn into a pile of ash, not even fit for a summoning ritual." She glanced at the rapidly changing numbers on the screen. "His pulse has tripled the normal rate, his muscles are eroding from the inside, his bones are slowly cracking… but he's still standing."

Gorlam replied without turning, his voice saturated with the echo of the past, "Sometimes… the most fascinating monsters aren't the ones who came from hell, but the ones who chose to walk into it on their own two feet, and then decided… to stay."

His hands were trembling slightly, as if he were reliving an old memory, a time when he himself had run across a burning field of ash, facing Lauran's creatures in the tower's early days.

He said quietly, as if revealing a secret buried for centuries, "I went through the same test two thousand decades ago… but I didn't fight Lauran on my first floor. He wasn't there then. He only awakened when… the Eastern Duke of Chaos was sealed."

He turned to Elisa, his eyes blazing with the color of blood. "Watch this battle closely, monitoring girl. If this boy survives… no, if he can just hold out for ten more minutes, I want to meet this fool myself."

He fell silent, then whispered with a tone charged with something akin to faith, "Perhaps… he might be able to free my master one day."

A small screen behind him flickered, showing a distorted image of a cloven face with four eyes, staring out from an eternal prison made of glowing chains floating in the darkness.

That was the Eastern Duke of Chaos… the being whose true name no one dared to utter, held captive for seven thousand decades on the top floor of the Tower of Torment. And the key to his freedom… it was said that it would one day be carried on the shoulders of a boy who did not fear death.

The boy who, perhaps, was Lloyd.

****

Just one hit.

That was all it took for "Lauran the Scorched" to erase the illusion Lloyd had clung to for a few moments… the illusion that he could hold on, or even maneuver.

He dodged the first claw. Barely. His vision distorted for an instant, lines tangling in his eyes, as if speed itself had torn time apart before him. But his instinct—the one built from pain, fear, and conflict—forced his body to move.

He slid under the burning arm, his knee grazing the ground. His breath came in hot gasps, but his eyes didn't blink. He thought it was a strike aimed at him. But he didn't realize… Lauran doesn't aim its strikes at anyone.

Lauran doesn't chase.

Lauran… dominates.

And quite simply, without any warning, it raised its flaming hand… and struck the ground.

BOOOOOOOOOOM!!

The first floor of the tower shook as if hell had erupted beneath their feet. The tower walls cracked, and the ceiling trembled above the heads of the other beasts watching from a distance. As for the ground… it exploded.

A shockwave, not just a tremor, but a killing intent made manifest in the form of concussive energy. It was as if the earth itself had been stabbed and then retaliated with all its might.

Lloyd wasn't hit directly. He didn't need to be.

The air around him turned to ash. The atmospheric pressure suddenly multiplied. His body was ripped from its position, thrown by the blast as if a different kind of gravity had seized him, pulling him not to the ground, but to hell.

Three consecutive impacts. Each one was enough to shatter a stone pillar. And each one… whispered to him.

"Enough."

But he didn't listen. More than that… he didn't want to listen.

His bones protested with a muffled scream, his skin tore, and his back bled, but his eyes… they remained open.

And in a deafening silence… he rose. Not like someone who had recovered, but like someone who refused to perish.

He stood up slowly. One step, then another. His right arm wouldn't move, his right eye was blurry, and blood flowed from his lips without stopping. But he was standing. And that alone… was a miracle.

"I'll kill this thing…" he muttered, his voice barely audible, yet it carried an intent stronger than any scream. He gasped for breath, his chest burning from the inside, and continued in a low, unwavering voice.

"Or… it will die with me."

Those faint words were the last Lloyd uttered, his voice saturated with the sigh of death. His throat was dry, and his pulse slowed as if time itself were punishing him for his audacity. The air around him was no longer air… but a suffocating mixture of ash, decay, and the remnants of burning screams. His body was broken, partially burned, and completely wounded. And facing him stood the beast that defied all description… a giant with a face that was half-human, half-breathing ember. Its eyes were two fiery coals, revealing a murderous consciousness that knew no mercy.

And yet… Lloyd smiled.