'Are we alone in the universe?'
For centuries, this question haunted humanity. We gazed at the stars with wonder and hope, dreaming of first contact with beings beyond our world. Scientists debated the Fermi Paradox, arguing it was statistically impossible for Earth to harbor the only intelligent life in the cosmos.
They were right.
We just never expected the answer to come crashing down on us like a meteor of despair.
April 26th, 2030.
I'll never forget that day. I was supposed to be relaxing—a rare vacation in Paris, walking along the Seine with nothing but tourist plans filling my head. The irony wasn't lost on me later; the last moment of peace humanity would know for two decades.
The sky tore open without warning.
A massive obsidian structure plummeted from the heavens, its surface gleaming like black glass. The Tower—though we wouldn't know to call it that until later—crashed down with the force of a divine judgment. The Eiffel Tower, that proud symbol of human achievement, crumpled like paper beneath its weight.
The impact shockwave threw me to the ground, my ears ringing from the thunderous collision. But it wasn't the physical force that froze my blood—it was the presence radiating from that alien monolith. Even as an ordinary college student with no supernatural abilities, my body screamed danger. Every instinct I possessed told me to run, that I was staring at something that shouldn't exist in our reality.
Death itself seemed to seep from its walls.
Then the gates opened.
What poured out defied every childhood dream of friendly aliens or even hostile invaders. These weren't beings from science fiction—they were nightmares given form, creatures so fundamentally wrong that my mind recoiled from processing their shapes. Writhing masses of flesh and shadow, beings with too many limbs or faces that shifted like melting wax.
Paris burned within hours.
The screams still echo in my dreams. The metallic taste of ash and blood that hung in the air. The sight of people—innocent people—being torn apart by creatures that shouldn't exist. If my father hadn't been wealthy enough to arrange an emergency evacuation, I would have joined the hundreds of thousands who died that first day.
That Tower was only the beginning.
Within weeks, identical structures crashed into major cities worldwide. London, New York, Tokyo, Moscow—nowhere was safe. Each Tower brought its own horde of otherworldly monstrosities, and humanity found itself in a war we were desperately unprepared for.
But humans adapt. We always do.
Thus began the age of Climbers—brave souls who ventured into the Towers to fight back against the invasion. We discovered that these structures weren't just buildings but entire ecosystems of death, each floor a new hell designed to test and break those who dared enter.
The Tower system ranked us by strength: F-Class rookies who barely survived the first few floors, all the way up to the legendary SS-Class heroes who could single-handedly clear dozens of levels.
And then there was me.
SSS-Class. The only one who ever reached that rank. The strongest human alive, they called me. The last hope of humanity.
'Fat lot of good that did.'
"Haa... haa..."
My ragged breathing echoed through the crystalline chamber as I struggled to remain standing. Blood dripped steadily from countless wounds, painting abstract patterns on the polished floor. My exosuit—humanity's greatest technological achievement—hung in tatters around my broken body, its AI systems long since destroyed.
The sword in my hands felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.
Across from me, it waited with casual indifference.
Ozyrokth. The 200th-floor boss of the original Tower. The nightmare that had slaughtered every S-Class and above Climber who had challenged it.
Standing nearly twelve feet tall on two digitigrade legs, the creature was a mockery of the humanoid form. Four arms, each wielding a different weapon—a crystalline blade, a mace wreathed in dark energy, a spear that seemed to drink light, and claws that could tear through steel like tissue paper. A dozen tentacles writhed from its back like malevolent serpents, and six obsidian horns crowned its head.
But it was the eye that haunted me. A single, massive purple orb in the center of its face, devoid of any emotion I could recognize. It stared at me with the same interest a human might show an ant.
This thing was so far beyond me it wasn't even a contest.
Clang!
My sword slipped from nerveless fingers, hitting the floor with a sound like a funeral bell. I collapsed to one knee, then both, my strength finally abandoning me.
Ten years of training. Ten years of fighting through these godforsaken Towers. Ten years of watching good people die while I grew stronger.
All for nothing.
With trembling hands, I reached into my spatial storage and withdrew a small velvet box. Inside lay a simple platinum ring—nothing fancy, just a promise I'd never get to keep.
"Sorry, Sarah," I whispered, blood dripping from my lips. "I promised I'd come back to marry you."
The irony was bitter. After all this time, humanity had been so close. Just one more floor. One more boss. If I could have defeated Ozyrokth, the Tower's influence would have weakened enough for our armies to push back the invasion.
Instead, I'd failed everyone.
'Not yet.'
Some stubborn part of me—the part that had climbed 199 floors of hell—refused to accept defeat. With the last of my strength, I triggered my exosuit's emergency release. The damaged armor fell away in pieces, and without its weight, I managed to stand.
I grabbed my sword, using it as a crutch as I dragged myself toward the alien monstrosity.
"Come on then!" I roared, my voice hoarse but defiant. "At least have the decency to finish what you started!"
The creature's massive eye turned toward me, and I felt that familiar chill of terror. But beneath the fear was something else—rage. Not just at this thing, but at my own powerlessness.
"Was it fun?" I demanded, stumbling closer despite every instinct screaming at me to run. "Playing with all those Climbers who came before me? Watching us struggle and die for your amusement?"
I knew it couldn't understand me. Ten years of research had proven these beings were beyond communication. But I needed to say the words, needed to voice the fury that burned in my chest.
Ozyrokth tilted its head with what might have been curiosity.
Then it moved.
Even depleted and broken, my enhanced reflexes kicked in. I raised my sword, channeling the last dregs of my mana into a defensive barrier. The creature's clawed hand struck like a meteor, shattering both my weapon and my guard in an instant.
The impact sent me flying across the chamber. I hit the far wall with a sickening crunch, feeling ribs snap and my hip dislocate. Pain exploded through my nervous system, but underneath it was a terrible understanding.
It had been toying with me from the beginning.
Every attack I'd thrown at this monster, every technique I'd perfected over two decades of climbing—Ozyrokth had matched them perfectly. Not to defeat me quickly, but to drag out my despair. To make me understand exactly how outclassed I was.
The revelation was almost worse than the physical agony.
Swoosh!
One of its tentacles punched through my abdomen like a spear, destroying my liver in an instant. Blood erupted from my mouth as my vision began to blur.
This was it, then. The end of Marcus Chen, humanity's last hope.
As darkness crept in from the edges of my sight, my thoughts turned to everyone I'd failed. Sarah, waiting for me to come home. The millions of people counting on me to save them. The Climbers who had died believing I could succeed where they couldn't.
I wanted to apologize to them all.
'What does death feel like?'
It's cold. Colder than the void between stars, colder than the deepest ocean. My heartbeat slowed, each pulse weaker than the last, until finally... silence.
The pain faded first, then the sounds of the chamber, then even the weight of my own body. I felt myself drifting, untethered from the physical world that had defined my existence for years.
There was peace in that darkness. A kind of relief I hadn't felt since I first entered a Tower as a teenager. The crushing responsibility, the constant fear, the weight of humanity's survival—all of it just... gone.
But the darkness wasn't empty.
A warmth began to spread through my consciousness, growing brighter and more intense. It wasn't harsh like the artificial lights of the Tower, but gentle and welcoming. The light enveloped me, pulling me toward something I couldn't name.
Suddenly, sensation returned in a flood.
Sounds. Voices. The feeling of being... small?
"Congratulations, Your Grace," a man's voice said, filled with joy. "It's a healthy baby boy."
'What the hell?'