There was no sky. No ground. No wind, no system prompt. Just whiteness—boundless and pure, stretching forever in every direction.
For a moment, Leon wasn't standing. He wasn't even moving.
He was drifting, as if the Tower had suspended time itself to offer him one question:
What will you create?
Then, a pulse.
His heartbeat.
Reality rippled around it, and slowly, the void responded.
He felt the weight of every battle he had survived, every step that had burned itself into the Tower's foundation. He thought of his team—Roselia's shield raised without hesitation, Roman's wit in fire, Naval's silent loyalty, Kael's quiet judgment, Milim's strength wrapped in laughter.
And of the versions of himself he had left behind.
This floor wasn't asking for a fight.
It was asking for definition.
Leon clenched his fist.
