Unknown Rank #1 is already climbing. I don't have hours to stand in the official queue. The official kiosk lines twisted for blocks, a sea of elbows and impatience. Wrist band printers beeped, stalled, restarted, and people shoved like they were at a half price sneaker drop. I lasted five minutes before bailing. Waiting here meant watching the UNKNOWN climber pull farther ahead.
The official queue was a bust; I'd have to try the black market. This wait was simply too long. I steered my grav bike down Sunspill Alley, a service lane that smelled of hot garbage and fried octopus. Most days it's where couriers swap spare parts or shady tips. Today cardboard stalls sold knock off tower merch, plastic horns, fake rune stickers, even "I SURVIVED FLOOR 10" shirts printed an hour ago.
At the alley's dead end sat a shipping crate half buried in posters. On the door someone spray painted a red tower symbol and the words FASTPASS. This was it. I knocked. Metal clanged. A hatch slid open just enough to show a pair of cyber bright eyes. "What's your offer?" a raspy voice asked. I lifted a bundle of courier stamps. Stolen? Technically. Leftover from a busted delivery depot that creditors abandoned last year. Each stamp canceled import taxes on city freight, worth good money to smugglers.
Eyes widened. The hatch swung wide. Inside, dim yellow bulbs hung over folding tables. Three printers hummed, smaller than the official units, but the holographic output looked real. A fat man in a sleeveless shirt scrolled a tablet with dirty fingers. "Name," he grunted. I gave it. "Rank?" "None yet." He snorted, typed fast, then hovered the tablet over my stamps. They chip scanned green. That was a relief. "Trash rank Courier wants a hero's badge," he laughed, loud enough for everyone to hear. A pair of teenagers giggled by the wall, flexing full arm strike tattoos. Heat crept up my neck. "Just print the band." He shrugged and fed blank polymer into Printer One. It whirred, spit half a bracelet, then jammed. Red light. He cursed in four languages, slapped the side. Started Printer Two. Same jam, different curse. Sweat beaded under my collar. If word spread that the stamps were fake, or worse, void, my deal died and the stamps vanished. "Third time," the man muttered. "Machine hates street trash." I bit back a reply. He reloaded, slower, wiped dust from the feed rollers, slammed the lid. Printer Three hummed, its laser etching my name, adding a tiny QR sigil. Ten seconds stretched like rope. Finally the band slid out, whole and hot. He held it up with two fingers. "Green means the gate will open, but if the tower fries your skin, no refunds." I clasped it. The polymer felt warm, alive. Tiny veins inside pulsed gold, my heartbeat syncing already. "What about the kid?" I asked, remembering Leo. "Kid rate is double, too risky," he said. I tucked the band into my pocket, dropped spare stamps on the table, and headed out before he could bargain higher.
Exit brightness nailed my eyes. I walked fast, but insults trailed behind. "Trash rank hero!"
"He'll bail by Floor Zero!" I rolled my shoulders, trying to shrug off their noise. The guard tattoo under my sleeve throbbed like a small drum. It seemed to say: Not trash. Just hidden. At the alley mouth, a bored security guard in municipal grey scanned passing wrist bands. He waved elite guilders through with smiles, made plebs stop and pose for retina captures. When he saw me angle toward the main street he blocked my way. "Display ranking metrics," he ordered. I popped the still warm band onto my wrist. A screen on the cuff lit up:
ROWAN ARDENT
• Tower Rank: N/A
• Guild: NONE
• Sigil Count: 0
• Projected Depth: < Floor 2 The guard laughed, clicking his tongue. "Trash rank metrics confirmed. Do us a favor, turn back before you clog the med bays." I smiled my best delivery boy smile. "Medics need practice." He stepped aside, still laughing. My cheeks burned, but the band glowed steady green. That's what mattered.
Late afternoon painted red streaks across the cracked pavement. The crater zone was now a festival minus the music. Food vans sold Tower Tacos. A pop up preacher shouted about waking gods. First aid volunteers checked the blood pressure of anyone who looked pale, which most people did. I joined a shorter queue snaking toward Gate Three, the least popular entry arch because it faced a wind tunnel that smelled like sulfur. Fine by me. Onlookers hushed. I felt eyes on my simple clothes, on the mismatched armor stencil strapped to my chest. A silver haired girl in Tempest Guild colors whispered to her friend, "That's the courier from the viral clip." Cameras swiveled. I kept my chin down. Wrist band scanners beeped passengers through one at a time. Green for good, red for duplicate IDs. The red beeps caused arguments; guards hauled imposters away. Five meters of line left. Four. Three. "Rowan!" Leo sprinted up to the barricade, his skateboard helmet bouncing. In his hand: a DIY pass, a laminated paper wrist cuff scribbled with marker runes and a QR code printed from a library terminal. He waggled the pass. "Look! I hacked the template." "That'll never scan." "Maybe it confuses the gate long enough for footage." He grinned, fearless. I opened my mouth to scold him, but the line moved. The scanner pad glowed. It was my turn.
I pressed my wrist to the pad. BEEP, amber error. My heart tumbled. The pad displayed Data Conflict. The crowd behind groaned. The guard frowned. "Step back. Again." Second try. BEEP, still amber. Murmurs rippled. Someone muttered "Fake pass." I looked closer; a printer glitch left a faint line through the QR coil. One more misread and guards would drag me out. Third try. I tilted my wrist, angled the band under the sensor, and thought good thoughts. BEEP, a solid green glow flooded the pad. The gate's red bars slid apart. Breath rushed from my chest. The guy behind me applauded slow and sarcastic. I didn't care.
Inside the fenced tunnel, dusk shadows stretched long. I walked a few steps then turned; Leo stood at the barricade, eyes huge. "Did it!" I called. "Stay safe out there." He pulled up his hoodie, flashed his paper pass at the guard who laughed but let him film from outside. Leo thumbed record and and yelled, "Make history!" Toby, somewhere deeper in another queue, raised his phone, waving. I nodded back, silently promising to survive his vlog.
Floor lights underfoot switched on, red chasing blue down a 100 meter corridor. Fans sucked in cold air. Panels overhead ignited, outlining runes at the archway ahead. They pulsed brighter with each second. Conversations behind faded; awe replaced the noise. When I reached the arch's stone threshold, the band tightened, pricking a needle into my wrist. A drop of blood soaked in; the display flipped:
ENTRY CONFIRMED
Floor: 0
Heat-Debt: 0 %
Status: DORMANT A bass note hum rattled the air. The gate's base lines glowed lava red. Stone doors slid aside, revealing a yawning black interior that smelled like dust, ozone, and the first minute after a thunderstorm. Just beyond the lip, tiny sparks snapped, white threads crawling like spiders across the dark. Null energy. The same voltage that had erased tattoos earlier. I tightened my pack straps, flexing my hand over my guard sigil. It tingled, ready. I took a step. The moment my boot sole crossed, white light erupted, sheet lightning in miniature dancing along the threshold. My band flared; Null energy licked the air, roaring like distant surf. Behind me, spectators gasped. Leo's camera flash popped. Then sound cut, static rushed in my ears, and every other color vanished except glowing whites and blood reds. When the flare faded, corridor torches auto ignited with sullen orange flames. The Floor 0 lobby sprawled ahead, marble columns broken and littered with old bones. Gate stones ground shut behind me, sealing off shouts and city noise. Silence, except for the faint whisper of runes awakening in the dark. I'm inside. A system voice echoed from unseen tiles, calm, distant, hungry. "Null flash complete. Active seals purged. Challenger progress will now be recorded." My guard mark, under my jacket cuff, glowed a faint gold, pulsing with life, completely unaffected by the tower's energy. A blessing or a warning. I drew a breath that tasted of storm metal, gripped my courier bag strap, and took the first step toward whatever waited in the dark.