The sun had begun its slow descent, bleeding gold and crimson across the horizon. The light rippled over the dunes, painting the desert in hues of dying fire. Every grain of sand seemed alive, whispering secrets that vanished with the wind.
Evren Calden walked in silence, his boots sinking deep into the burning sand. The Abyssal Flame that ran along his sword pulsed faintly, as though echoing the rhythm of his heartbeat. He was tired—his body ached, his mind frayed—but the fire within him refused to die.
The Desert of Souls was no longer a mere floor of the Tower. It was a crucible, forged to test not just his strength or his endurance, but his very reason for existing.
"Evren," Lira Solen murmured, her voice strangely subdued. She stood a few paces ahead, her silhouette outlined against the setting sun. "Look."
Evren followed her gaze. Far ahead, at the crest of a high ridge, the sand moved in unnatural waves. Dark shapes slithered across it—shadowy forms that flickered and twisted like smoke caught in flame.
"What are they?" Evren asked, his voice low.
"Despair," Lira said. "The Tower feeds on it. Those are the remnants of climbers who couldn't endure. Their hopelessness still lingers… alive."
Evren's chest tightened. He had fought beasts, illusions, and even his own memories. But despair—true despair—was different. It didn't come with claws or fangs. It whispered. It waited. It made you destroy yourself.
He clenched his jaw. "Then let it whisper. I'm done listening."
The two continued forward, but the ground shifted beneath their feet. The dunes groaned like something ancient turning in its sleep. Sand cascaded in waves, opening wide chasms that hadn't been there moments before. The air thickened—heavy, suffocating—filled with the scent of dust and old grief.
Then the whispers began.
At first, they were faint—like the rustle of wind through the dunes. Then they grew clearer, sharper, cutting through the air like broken glass.
> "You failed them…"
"You left them to die…"
"You'll never save her…"
Evren froze. The voices came from everywhere and nowhere at once. Shadows began to form—vague silhouettes rising from the sand, their faces obscured, their bodies dissolving at the edges like smoke. Yet he knew them.
They were the faces of the fallen. Caro Den. Mira Solen. Strangers from long-forgotten trials. All the ones who had perished before him.
Lira's daggers flashed as one of the shadows lunged forward, its hand a writhing mass of sand and darkness. "Don't listen!" she shouted. "They're not real! They can't touch us unless we let them!"
Evren gritted his teeth and swung his sword. The Abyssal Flame roared to life, black fire cutting through the shadow and scattering it like dust. But as soon as it vanished, three more took its place.
Hands of sand burst from the ground, clawing at his legs, pulling him down. The desert itself seemed determined to swallow him whole.
Evren roared, his blade igniting into a pillar of flame, cutting a wide arc around him. The tendrils recoiled, hissing, the heat turning sand to glass in an instant. Lira leapt beside him, spinning with graceful fury, her daggers slicing through the dark forms that tried to reach them.
But the desert was endless. The storm of despair had no end. Every step forward was met with new shadows, new whispers, new faces of guilt.
Evren's breaths grew ragged. Sweat stung his eyes, the heat crushing him from all sides. His heart pounded like a war drum, each beat echoing in his skull.
Then he saw it—himself.
A figure stood in the distance, half-buried in sand. It was his reflection, or rather, the reflection of the man he could become—hollow, broken, eyes sunken and lifeless.
The doppelgänger took a step forward. Its voice was soft, almost kind. "You cannot save her, Evren. You climb higher, but every step only takes you further away."
Evren's grip faltered. "No…"
"She's already gone," the shadow whispered, voice twisting with pity. "You're chasing a ghost. You fight the Tower, but what you really fight is yourself."
The Abyssal Flame flickered weakly. Evren dropped to one knee, sand burning beneath him. The whisper burrowed deep into his mind, spreading doubt like poison.
"Give up," it said. "Rest. Let it end."
For a moment, he almost did. The weight of exhaustion, the grief, the endless climb—it all crashed upon him like a tidal wave. His mother's face flashed in his mind: pale, fragile, fading. The promise he'd made—to save her—felt like a cruel illusion.
His vision blurred. The whisper grew softer.
> "She's already dead, Evren…"
Something in him snapped.
"No!"
The word tore through the desert like thunder.
He rose, the Abyssal Flame bursting to life once more, blazing brighter than it ever had. His eyes burned with fury, his breath coming in harsh, defiant gasps.
"I made a promise," he roared. "And I'll burn the Tower itself if I have to keep it!"
He struck.
The shadow—his reflection—screamed as the Abyssal Flame cleaved through it, splitting it apart in an explosion of black fire and golden light. The other illusions recoiled, hissing, their whispers fading into the wind.
Lira was at his side again, blades whirling in synchronized arcs, each strike dissolving another form of despair. "Keep pushing!" she shouted. "You've broken its hold! Don't stop now!"
Evren's movements grew faster, stronger, guided by pure will. The desert shook beneath them, the dunes collapsing as the illusion began to crumble. The Tower's whispers turned into a low rumble of disapproval, like thunder growling from the heavens.
The last of the shadows shrieked and vanished into golden dust. The chasms closed, the sand settling. The whispers stopped.
Silence fell—thick, profound, sacred.
Evren stood motionless for a long moment, his sword lowered, chest heaving. Sweat dripped down his face, tracing lines through the sand on his skin. The Abyssal Flame dimmed to a soft glow, its fire steady once more.
He sank to his knees, staring at the horizon as the final light of the sun disappeared. The sky above turned a deep, endless violet, stars flickering to life one by one.
The Tower's voice, calm and deep, drifted through the still wind:
> "The Dunes of Despair are conquered, Evren Calden.
Few can face the weight of their own heart and remain whole.
Proceed. The Desert of Souls endures, and your will has been tempered anew."
Lira approached quietly, the faint sound of her footsteps the only thing breaking the silence. She rested a hand on his shoulder.
"You did it again," she said softly. "You faced what breaks most men—and you didn't shatter."
Evren looked up at her. The exhaustion in his eyes was deep, but behind it burned a quiet strength. "I almost did," he admitted. "For a moment… I believed it."
Lira shook her head. "You didn't believe it. You fought it. That's what matters."
Evren exhaled slowly, turning his gaze to the horizon. The dunes stretched endlessly, but something had changed. The air felt lighter, the weight in his chest less suffocating. The Tower had tried to break his will, and instead, it had tempered it.
He sheathed his sword and rose once more. His legs trembled, but he stood tall. The wind carried the faintest echo of his mother's voice—not a memory this time, but something purer, steadier, like the whisper of faith.
"Wait for me," he murmured.
The night wind stirred the sand, carrying the last embers of the Abyssal Flame's glow into the darkness. Lira fell into step beside him as they began to walk once more, leaving behind the battlefield of their own despair.
The Tower loomed above, vast and eternal, watching. Waiting. Testing.
But Evren no longer feared it.
He was no longer just climbing to save his mother. He was climbing to prove that no fate—not even despair itself—could dictate who he was.