The First Floor of the Spire was a deathtrap dressed up as a dungeon. The torch-lit hallways gave way to rooms with pressure-plate triggered darts coated in a nerve toxin that induced paralyzing agony, pits that opened into darkness filled with the skittering sounds of unseen things, and gargoyle-like constructs that animated when approached, attacking with razor-sharp claws.
Their ragtag group, forged in the fire of the initial plaza, had settled into a tense rhythm. Kaelen, with her unnerving golden eyes, had discovered her power: *Soul-Sight*. She could see the "energy" of living things and magical traps, making her an excellent scout. She navigated them through the worst of the floor's dangers with cold, dispassionate efficiency. Bren, empowered by a grateful loyalty to Elara, had become their shield. His own power was simple but effective: *Density*. He could make himself heavier, anchoring himself against attacks or delivering punches with the force of a pile driver. Lyra, as predicted, remained useless, his supposed power never manifesting. He was a liability, a pair of terrified eyes constantly scanning for the next threat.
And Elara was the heart. Her *Mending Touch* had saved them more than once. She had purified the nerve toxin from Kaelen's system after a near-miss, mended Bren's broken ribs after a gargoyle caught him square in the chest, and even managed to soothe the deep, existential fear that seemed to be Lyra's constant state. With each use, her understanding of her power grew. She could now sense wounds, feel the brokenness in things, and guide her energy to fix it. It was a gentle power in a world of brutality, and it made her a beacon.
It also made her a target.
They had been on the First Floor for what felt like days, surviving on stale water from trickling streams and a bitter, pulpy fruit they'd found growing in a cavern. According to Kaelen, the "exit," a shimmering portal of light, was just ahead, through one final chamber.
"The energy is dense in there," Kaelen whispered, peering around the corner of the stone passageway into the vast chamber beyond. "A guardian, I think. And… others."
"Others?" Bren asked, his voice low.
"Three. A team. They look worse for wear."
Elara peered past her. The chamber was a grand hall, its ceiling lost in shadow. In the center stood the glowing portal, their ticket to the next floor. Between them and it stood a monstrous construct, this one larger than the others—a stone minotaur, ten feet tall, with obsidian horns and fists that could pulverize rock. It was motionless, dormant.
On the far side of the chamber, another group huddled. Two men and a woman. They were bloodied, their clothes torn. One of the men was holding his side, a dark stain spreading across his tunic. They looked desperate.
"We can take that thing," Bren said, cracking his knuckles. "We've handled worse."
"Can we handle them, too?" Kaelen asked coolly. "They want the portal as badly as we do. The moment we engage the guardian, they'll try to pick us off or rush the exit."
"We could talk to them," Elara suggested. "Maybe we can work together? Just for this."
Kaelen gave her a look that was almost pitying. "This is the God's Wager, Elara. Not a charity drive. The only language here is power."
Before they could decide on a course of action, a new figure stepped into the chamber from a different entrance.
All eyes turned to him.
He was tall and lean, shrouded in a dark, travel-worn cloak with a deep hood that obscured his face entirely. He moved with a strange, languid grace, his steps silent on the stone floor. He carried no visible weapon. He didn't look at the other group, or at the dormant minotaur. He simply began walking, slowly, deliberately, across the chamber toward the portal as if on a casual stroll through a park.
The audacity was breathtaking.
"Who is that?" Lyra squeaked. "Is he insane?"
The other team saw him too. The uninjured man, a burly fellow with a crude axe, yelled out. "Hey! Stop right there! That's our exit!"
The hooded figure didn't even break stride.
The burly man snarled and gestured to his companion. The second man, wiry and quick, raised his hands. The air crackled, and a shard of ice, sharp as a spear, launched across the chamber aimed directly at the hooded man's back.
Elara gasped. It was a kill shot.
The hooded figure didn't turn. He didn't try to dodge. At the very last second, as the ice shard was about to pierce his cloak, he simply… stumbled.
It was a clumsy, awkward trip over his own feet. He pitched forward, his arms flailing. The ice shard missed him by a hair's breadth, shattering harmlessly against the floor.
The wiry man who had launched the attack suddenly screamed. A horrific, wet *crunch* echoed through the chamber, not from the hooded figure, but from the attacker himself. He convulsed, his back arching at an impossible angle before he collapsed to the ground, motionless, his spine visibly broken.
Silence.
The hooded figure righted himself with that same eerie grace, brushed a speck of dust from his cloak, and continued his walk. He hadn't even looked back.
"What… what just happened?" Bren whispered, his face pale.
"I don't know," Kaelen murmured, her golden eyes narrowed in intense concentration. "His energy… it's strange. It's not projecting. It's… receptive. Like a void."
The burly man from the other team stared in horror at his dead companion. With a roar of grief and fury, he hefted his axe and charged the hooded figure.
This time, the figure stopped. He turned to face the charging man. He made no move to defend himself. Instead, he slowly, deliberately, brought his own hand up to his face.
And he drove his thumb into his own eye.
Elara cried out in revulsion. The sound was wet, sickening. The hooded figure didn't make a sound, but the charging man did. He screamed, a blood-curdling shriek of absolute agony, and clutched his face. Blood poured from between his fingers. He fell to his knees, blind and writhing, before slumping over, dead.
The hooded figure pulled his thumb from his own eye. Elara expected a ruined, bloody socket. But there was nothing. No wound. No blood. His eye was perfectly fine, blinking calmly from within the shadows of his hood.
He then turned his head slightly, and for the first time, he seemed to be looking directly at the remaining member of the other team—the injured woman who had been cowering near the wall. He raised his hand, pointed a finger at her, and then gently pressed the tip of his own finger against his temple.
The woman's head snapped to the side with the force of an invisible blow. She dropped like a stone.
Three kills. Without throwing a single punch. Without a visible weapon. Without a sound of pain.
The chamber was deathly quiet. The dormant minotaur was forgotten. The exit portal glowed, irrelevant. The only thing that mattered was the tall, dark figure who now stood calmly in the center of the room.
He slowly turned. Elara felt his gaze sweep over their hiding place. She felt a chill that had nothing to do with the damp air.
"He sees us," Kaelen breathed, her voice trembling for the first time.
The figure began walking toward them. His pace was still slow, unhurried. Predatory.
"Run," Bren said, his voice tight with fear. "We have to run."
"Where?" Lyra wailed. "He's between us and the other exits!"
"We fight," Kaelen said, though her tone lacked conviction. "Bren, you engage. I'll try to find a weakness. Elara, be ready."
The figure stopped about ten paces away. He stood there, waiting. Taunting them.
Bren roared, activating his density, and charged. He was a bull, a juggernaut of flesh and stone, aiming to tackle the slender figure and crush him against the wall.
The hooded man didn't move. As Bren was about to make impact, the man did something absurd. He bent over, clutching his stomach, and let out a loud, theatrical groan of stomach ache.
**THUD.**
Bren, in mid-charge, suddenly convulsed. His own stomach *caved in*, as if struck by a monstrous, invisible fist. The air exploded from his lungs in a sickening gasp. He flew backward, crashing into the wall near Elara, and slid down, leaving a smear of blood. He didn't get up. His eyes were wide, unseeing.
"Bren!" Elara screamed, rushing to his side. Her hands glowed silver, but she knew instantly it was futile. His insides were pulp. There was nothing to mend. The life faded from his eyes. Her protector, her friend, was gone.
She looked up, tears of rage and terror streaming down her face. The hooded figure was standing straight again, perfectly fine.
"What are you?" she sobbed.
The figure tilted his head. Then, he spoke for the first time. His voice was a pleasant, melodic baritone, laced with a dark, amused curiosity. It was the most horrifying sound she had ever heard.
"A sufferer of terrible indigestion, apparently," he said. He took a step closer. "Your light is so pretty. It itches."
Kaelen chose that moment to act. Her eyes blazed gold. "His power! It's a transfer! What he does to himself, happens to—"
The hooded figure, without looking at her, bit down hard on his own tongue.
Kaelen's sentence ended in a gurgle. Her jaw tore open on its hinges, hanging slack in a grotesque parody of a scream. Blood fountained from her mouth as she collapsed, her *Soul-Sight* extinguished.
Elara was alone. Lyra had fled, his screams echoing down a hallway as he abandoned her to her fate.
She scrambled backward on her hands and knees, away from the approaching nightmare. The hooded figure closed the distance with those same slow, measured steps.
"Please," Elara begged, her healing light flaring around her hands in a useless, defensive gesture. "I don't want to fight you. I just want to survive."
"Oh, I know," the figure said, his voice soothing, almost kind. "You're a mender. A fixer. You want to make everything better." He stopped in front of her. "This place doesn't need healing, my dear. It needs a rupture. A beautiful, catastrophic ruin."
He knelt down so his hooded face was level with hers. She could see nothing within the shadows but a faint glint of eyes.
"Let me show you," he whispered.
He held up his own hand. He made a fist. Then, with a sudden, vicious twist, he broke his own finger.
The sound of the snap was small, precise.
Elara's right hand, the primary conduit for her healing energy, exploded in a shower of bone fragments and torn flesh. The pain was instantaneous, all-consuming, white-hot. She screamed, clutching the ruined stump of her wrist, her blood soaking into the stone.
The hooded figure wiggled his own perfectly intact fingers. "Fascinating, isn't it? The ultimate defense. To harm me, you must first survive harming yourself. And I," he chuckled, a low, warm sound, "I have such a high pain tolerance."
He reached out with his unbroken hand and gently cupped her chin. His touch was cold.
"Your light is gone. Now for the sound."
He opened his mouth wide, and then clenched his jaw muscles with immense force.
Elara's scream was cut off as her own jaw shattered, bone grinding against bone. The world dissolved into a haze of agony. She couldn't speak, couldn't plead, could only make wet, choking sounds.
She tried to crawl away, a pathetic, broken movement. The figure watched her, a scientist observing a fascinating insect.
"Such resilience," he mused. "Most are already gone by now. You really are a talented healer. Your body clings to life so fiercely. It's admirable."
He stood up. He looked down at his own chest, then placed a hand over his heart.
"No," Elara tried to beg, but the word was a bloody bubble on her lips.
"Shhh," he said gently. "It's almost over. I do appreciate the contribution. You've been wonderfully entertaining."
He took a deep, dramatic breath and held it.
In Elara's chest, her heart stopped.
The world went grey. The pain began to recede, replaced by a cold numbness. The last thing she saw was the tall, hooded figure giving a slight, courteous bow.
The last thing she heard was his voice, cheerful and warm.
"Thank you for the wager."
Then, there was nothing.
The hooded figure stood over Elara's broken body. He nudged it with his foot. No movement. He looked up toward the ceiling, toward a universe of watching entities, and spread his hands.
"Anytime you'd like to send more, I'm available," he said to the empty air. "I'm starting to enjoy the show."
He turned and walked toward the glowing portal. As he passed the dormant stone minotaur, he paused. He drew a small, mundane knife from his belt. He looked at the monstrous guardian, then at the knife. With a shrug, he dragged the blade across his own palm, drawing a thin line of blood.
Across the room, a deep, cracking scar appeared across the minotaur's stone chest. The creature shuddered, its eyes glowing to life for a single second before the light died, and it crumbled into a pile of inert rubble.
The hooded figure examined the cut on his hand, already beginning to clot.
"Messy," he tutted to himself. "I'll need to be more precise."
He stepped through the portal, leaving the slaughterhouse of the First Floor behind. The God, watching from above, threw back his head and laughed, a sound of pure, unadulterated joy.
**"Now *that* is a contender! Did you see that? The efficiency! The flair! I'm raising the odds on 'Pain' everyone! The real game has finally begun!"