Miroslav’s feet slammed against the bone-littered ground, each impact jarring. The Varragoth Heart pressed cool and smooth against his ribs, vibrating with a faint, clean hum. Behind him, the grafted construct shrieked, a sound like tearing metal, as its mismatched limbs propelled it forward. It was faster than he anticipated, its claws scraping sparks from the colossal ribs Miro was now scrambling up. He didn't have time to think, only to react. He pictured the twisting, resilient roots of the arboretum, the way they gripped nutrient-poor soil. He imagined that same stubborn tenacity in his own ascent.
His hand shot out, finding a jagged edge of fossilized cartilage. He pulled, hauling himself higher as a claw raked the stone beneath his foot, sending a spray of ancient dust. He was on the creature's blind side, its single, pale eye fixed on the ground where he’d been. Its head swung, a grotesque parody of a predator seeking its prey. Miroslav dug his heels into a crack, straining. He couldn’t fight this monstrosity. Not yet. He needed distance.
[Skill: Arboreal Armor (Sapling Rank) activated.]
A network of fine, hair-like root tendrils, barely visible, erupted from his gauntlets, anchoring themselves to the bone structure. They provided just enough purchase for him to vault himself onto the spine of the fallen behemoth, a plateau of rock-hard bone high above the creature’s reach. The construct roared, its stitched lips peeling back further, revealing rows of needle-sharp teeth. It threw itself against the ribcage, shaking the entire structure, but Miroslav held fast, the faint green glow around his hands a steadying presence. He stayed there, pressed against the cold bone, until the beast’s rage subsided into a low, guttural growl, and it eventually slumped, dormant once more, a horrific statue of malformed life. He then descended, carefully, making a wide berth around the sleeping horror, the purified Varragoth Heart still a reassuring thrum against his chest.
He emerged from the Boneyard into a transition chamber, the air sterile and silent after the stench of decay. Borislav had sent a message, a stark line of text across Miroslav’s vision, directing him to a hidden alcove. Inside, neatly folded, was a heavy, hooded travel cloak woven from coarse, dark fibers, along with a crude, featureless ceramic mask. The disguise was perfect for the upcoming trial, designed to make him utterly forgettable, one more desperate soul among thousands.
Solum 10, the ‘Crucible of Ascent,’ was less a floor and more an inverted dome of black, compacted earth, miles wide and devoid of any feature save for scattered obelisks of dark, crystalline rock. A chill wind whipped across the barren expanse, carrying the scent of dust and ozone. Above, the eternal, pale light of the Oubliette shimmered, reflecting off the polished surface of the arena. Thousands of climb candidates, a crowd of weathered faces and worn gear, stood silently, awaiting the broadcast. Miroslav, cloaked and masked, blended into the throng, his eyes scanning, searching.
[Trial: Vanguard Selection begins in 60 seconds.]
A low hum rippled through the ground. Then, a figure materialized on the central pillar, a woman clad in obsidian-scaled armor that seemed to drink the light. Her posture was rigid, her movements economical. Anya. Even from this distance, Miroslav recognized the set of her shoulders, the way she held her head. But her eyes, even in the cold light, seemed empty, her face a mask of detached authority. She spoke, her voice amplified, devoid of warmth, echoing across the vast arena.
“The Tower demands strength. The weak shall be culled. Prove your worth, or be forgotten.”
Her words were a guttural punch to Miroslav’s stomach. This wasn't his Anya. This was a weapon, honed and sharpened by the very entity he sought to dismantle. The trial began with a guttural roar from the crowd, a sudden explosion of violence. Contenders clashed, their skills manifesting in bursts of arcane energy and brutal physical force. Miro kept to the periphery, a shadow among the fighting, observing, calculating. He saw flashes of green, heard the crackle of lightning, the thud of bodies.
Then he saw him. Stellan. The Carver moved through the chaos like a shark through a school of fish. He was a whirlwind of grotesque grace, his [Flesh Sculpting] skill horrifyingly potent. A burly fighter, wielding a great maul, charged him. Stellan sidestepped with impossible speed, his hand a blur. He didn't just strike; he *absorbed*. Flesh distended, stretched, then snapped back, thicker, denser. The maul-wielder collapsed, his body a withered husk, and Stellan stood taller, his form subtly augmented, a new layer of muscle added to his already monstrous frame. He was harvesting them, literally consuming their strength. His movements became more fluid, his strikes more devastating with each assimilation. He was a force of nature, a terrifying embodiment of his own philosophy, and his gaze, even from across the battlefield, seemed to pierce the mayhem, seeking out the next victim.
Bile rose in Miroslav's throat, quickly replaced by hot anger. He couldn't let Anya fall to this beast. He couldn’t let her become another one of Stellan’s grotesque trophies. He needed to reach her, now. He saw her, a blur of black armor, dispatching a group of combatants with swift, precise strikes. She was moving towards a cluster of crystalline spires, a relatively isolated section of the arena.
He moved, a dark whisper against the wind, using the shifting battles as cover, skirting the edges of lethal clashes. He cultivated a series of quick-growing, thorned vines from the compacted earth beneath the spires, subtle tripwires and diversions that nudged Anya’s pursuers away, creating a momentary pocket of calm. He timed his approach perfectly, just as she finished her last opponent, her blade still dripping a viscous ichor.
“Anya!” he called, his voice raw, stripped of its usual tailored precision, betraying the mask.
She spun, her blade snapping up, a blur of steel. Her eyes, which had been so distant, focused on him. Not with recognition, but with the cold, calculating assessment of a predator.
“Who are you?” Her voice was flat, devoid of the familiar lilt he remembered.
He pulled back his hood, revealing his face, etched with a desperate hope. “It’s me. Miroslav. Your Miro. Don’t you remember? The bespoke shop, the scent of fresh linen, the way we used to dance to that old gramophone…”
Her expression remained unchanged, a polished stone. “Miroslav Kos died on the first floor.” Her voice was a pronouncement, a System notification made flesh. “I serve the Tower.”
Then she lunged. Her attack was a blur of precision, a move designed to kill. Her blade arced, aimed straight for his heart. Miroslav instinctively recoiled, the despair a bitter taste in his mouth. This wasn’t a test. This was real. This was the Tower speaking through her. He couldn’t break through. He had to defend himself.
[Skill: Arboreal Armor (Sapling Rank) activated.]
[Skill: Vinewhip (Sapling Rank) activated.]
Thick, bark-like plates erupted across his forearms, deflecting the killing blow with a jarring clang. At the same instant, a whip-thin vine, tipped with a hardened thorn, lashed out from his palm, not to strike, but to entangle her sword arm, momentarily binding it. He hadn't meant to reveal his abilities, not like this, but her attack had been absolute.
“A plant skill?” Anya’s voice held a flicker of something, not surprise, but a momentary calculation. She ripped her arm free, tearing the vine with brutal efficiency, but the slight hesitation was enough. Miroslav retreated, creating a small, thorny thicket between them, a temporary barrier.
The flash of green, the surprising resilience, it caught eyes. Stellan’s eyes. From across the arena, the Carver paused his gruesome harvest, his head tilting, a predatory grin splitting his face. He began to move, changing direction, a clear course set for Miroslav and Anya.
Just as Stellan took his first crushing stride towards them, the entire arena rippled. The air shimmered, and a cacophony of distorted system messages, half-formed images, and corrupted data flashed across every Irregular’s vision. A system-wide data surge, a chaotic deluge of digital noise that made eyes water and ears ring. For a precious few seconds, the trial descended into a maelstrom of confusion.
Through the chaos, a voice, deep and resonant, echoed only in Miroslav’s mind, a direct link from Borislav’s communication artifact. “The vault is open. You have one chance. Go NOW.”