The desert was quiet. Too quiet.
The silence stretched endlessly, swallowing even the faintest sound of their steps. A wind crept over the dunes, soft as breath, carrying with it the faint hiss of sand sliding against sand. Under the pale light of a fading sun, the dunes shimmered like molten gold. The air trembled with heat, pressing down on everything alive, turning each inhaled breath into a struggle.
Evren Calden walked in that silence, his boots sinking into the sand with each step. The Abyssal Flame at his side flickered weakly, a dark pulse in the blinding light—its fire breathing like a tired heart. He felt its rhythm echo inside him, faint but unbroken, like defiance refusing to die.
This was no ordinary desert. It wasn't made of mere dust and heat.
It was a place where memory itself had form—where forgotten faces whispered through the dunes, and the past walked beneath the sand.
Beside him, Lira Solen moved like a phantom, her dark hair fluttering in the dry wind. Her eyes were sharp, scanning every ripple of the dunes ahead. Even her voice, when it came, carried a strange reverence.
> "The Tower calls this floor the Sands of Remembrance," she said quietly.
"It feeds on memory. Shows you what you've lost… or what you're afraid to lose."
Evren didn't answer. He didn't have to. The moment she spoke, something cold stirred deep inside him. He already knew what the Tower would show him. He had carried it through every floor, every scar, every sleepless night.
His mother's face rose in his mind unbidden.
Pale. Fragile. The weak smile she gave him before the end. The sound of her breathing—shallow, slow, like the ticking of a clock counting down her life. The smell of antiseptic. The quiet hum of machines. The helplessness. The rage. The way he had promised her he'd become strong enough to change the world—then watched her fade away anyway.
> This is why I climb, he thought. This is why I endure.
A soft gust swept over the dunes.
The sand began to move.
At first, it was subtle—ripples, waves, patterns shifting. Then, the air itself seemed to tremble as spirals of dust twisted upward, whirling into golden columns that shimmered with shadow and light. Slowly, the shapes inside them began to take form—faces, hands, eyes, moving as though they remembered how to breathe.
Evren froze.
From one of the spirals, a man stepped forward—broad-shouldered, grinning, his scar running from temple to jaw. A face Evren could never forget.
> "...Caro?"
Caro Den. His old comrade.
The one who died screaming on the sixth floor, swallowed by the Tower's fire. Yet here he was—whole, alive, smiling like nothing had ever happened.
For a single heartbeat, Evren believed it.
Then the smile cracked.
The warmth in Caro's eyes turned to something else—dark, accusing.
> "You left us," he whispered. "You climbed higher while we burned."
Evren's throat tightened. He took a step back, fingers curling around his sword's hilt.
> "I didn't leave anyone behind," he said through clenched teeth.
"I survived. That's what we all swore to do."
Caro tilted his head. The illusion's smile grew brittle, thin as glass.
> "You survived. We died. Tell me, Evren—was that worth it?"
The desert answered with violence.
The dunes exploded outward, sand swirling into a storm of golden light. Dozens—no, hundreds—of figures began to rise from the ground. Men and women he had fought beside. Enemies he had slain. Versions of himself, older, broken, bloodied. All of them shouting, accusing, mocking.
> "You killed us."
"You climbed over corpses."
"You call this strength?"
The air grew heavy, suffocating. The sound of their voices was unbearable—like knives scraping the inside of his skull. Every word echoed with truth twisted just enough to hurt.
Lira slashed through one of the phantoms, her blade blazing with white light. The illusion scattered into dust, but another immediately took its place.
Her voice cut through the storm.
> "Evren! Don't listen to them! They're not real!"
But that was the problem—they were.
Not in flesh, but in truth.
Each illusion carried a piece of what he feared most.
Evren's heart pounded. He steadied his breath. His grip tightened around the hilt of his sword until his knuckles whitened. The Abyssal Flame flickered, faltering for a moment before flaring brighter, feeding on his will. He moved through the storm, his strikes deliberate, his blade slicing through ghosts that screamed as they turned to gold dust.
One by one, he silenced them.
But the desert did not tire. It reshaped its illusions endlessly—faces from his past, voices he wished he could forget. Time itself began to unravel. Minutes stretched into hours—or maybe it was the other way around. The sky dimmed, and the horizon blurred.
And then, when he thought the Tower had exhausted every cruel memory, it showed him her.
His mother.
She lay on the sand, fragile, her body half-transparent, fading in and out like a dying flame. Her hand reached toward him, trembling. Her voice was soft, familiar, heartbreakingly human.
> "Evren… why are you here? You should be with me…"
His sword lowered. The flame dimmed.
The world around him blurred.
He fell to his knees beside her, every wall inside him crumbling. "I'm doing this for you," he whispered, voice shaking. "Every wound, every climb… it's all for you."
The illusion smiled—so gently it broke him.
> "Then stay with me, just this once."
Her fingers brushed his cheek.
For one terrible moment, he wanted to.
He wanted to stop. To forget the climb, the pain, the Tower.
To let go.
Then he heard Lira's voice—raw, desperate, distant.
> "Evren! She lives because you climb! Don't let this place take her from you!"
He closed his eyes.
And something inside him snapped.
The Abyssal Flame erupted.
A roar of dark fire surged through the air, burning away every illusion, every false memory, every whisper. The desert trembled beneath the force of it. His mother's face melted into gold light, dispersing like dust in the wind. The storm died. The air cleared.
Silence fell again.
Then, deep within that silence, a voice echoed—not Lira's, not the dead.
The Tower itself spoke.
> "You have faced your guilt, your grief, and your fear… and yet, you did not break. Proceed, Evren Calden. The Desert of Souls awaits."
Evren dropped to one knee, gasping. The sand was hot against his palms, his body trembling with exhaustion. Sweat trickled down his neck. Every muscle screamed, but his spirit—his will—stood unbroken.
Lira approached quietly. She crouched beside him, resting a hand on his shoulder. "You did it," she said softly. "You didn't let the Tower take your heart."
Evren lifted his head. His eyes still glowed faintly from the flame within.
> "It tried," he said hoarsely. "But I still have something worth climbing for."
They stood together, the desert stretching endlessly before them—an ocean of gold under a dying sky. There was no wind now, no whispering ghosts, only the sound of their breathing and the slow beat of determination.
The Tower had tested him and failed.
Evren turned his gaze toward the horizon, where faint shapes shimmered in the distance—the edge of this floor, and the next trial waiting beyond. The air smelled faintly of ash and hope. He took a slow breath, feeling the Abyssal Flame's pulse steady again, calm and strong.
He stepped forward.
Each footprint sank deep into the sand, but none faltered.
The desert no longer felt like an enemy.
It felt like something left behind—something conquered.
As they walked, a soft wind rose once more, carrying a single whisper across the dunes.
> Evren Calden.
He paused, looking back at the horizon one last time.
The wind shimmered in the golden light. For an instant, he thought he saw her face again—not in pain, not fading, but smiling. Proud.
He smiled back.
> "I'll keep climbing," he murmured.
The sand shifted around his feet as he moved forward, each step a promise, each breath a vow. The sun began to set behind him, turning the desert into a sea of molten fire, and his shadow stretched long ahead—toward whatever awaited next.
Evren Calden walked on, a soul reborn in flame.