Matthew's boots crunched the ash as he walked.
Each step felt heavier than the last, though nothing pressed against him—no storm, no gravity shift.
Just… pressure.
Whispers drifted from the ground with every footfall.
Not words, not at first—just syllables.
"…Ma…"
"…thew…"
"…liar…"
He kept walking.
The floating tower loomed above, a monolith of scorched stone and hanging chains. Its base hovered six feet off the ground, spinning slowly in mid-air like it didn't belong to this world.
As he neared, a staircase unfolded from beneath it—segment by segment—each step forming from blackened bone and glowing lines of code.
Matthew hesitated.
"Truth stays below," whispered the ash.
He took the first step.
It held.
Then another.
The air changed around him—thicker. Like walking into someone else's dream.
By the tenth step, his wristband flickered violently, then died.
He reached for the railing—and saw his own hand flash with static.
Then—
"Welcome, Matthew."
The voice was his own.
He spun around.
No one there.
Then, at the top of the stairs, a door appeared.
Etched with a sigil he didn't recognize—but felt in his bones.
The symbol from his very first game.
The one he hadn't talked about.
The one even the system had stopped mentioning.
He stepped forward and placed his hand on the door.
It burned.
Flashed.
Opened.
Inside was no room.
Only a throne.
And on it sat… Matthew.
Or someone who looked exactly like him.
Expression blank.
Eyes glowing faintly red.
"Finally," the double said. "I was wondering when you'd come face me."
Matthew didn't move. "What the hell is this?"
"This is the cost of cheating the first game," said the other him. "You think Death Land forgot?"
The room pulsed with heat.
"You didn't win that day. You were chosen to continue."
The other Matthew stood.
"Now it's time to answer for it."
And the door behind Matthew vanished