Several professors and instructors across the academy were notified of the duel in the Tower of Legends. For many, it was the ultimate test of strength for cadets, so they had standing requests to receive alerts whenever soone challenged the tower. Beside that, a great screen mounted on the academic building displayed live updates of ongoing competitions and events. A small crowd of cadets gathered there, eager to witness how far their peers could climb. Professors, noticing the gathering, soon beca aware of the challenge as well.
Professors and instructors had access to any academy event through their personal devices. The mont Raijin Stormrider ascended past the thirtieth floor, shock rippled through the faculty. It was a well-known fact that at that point lay two Bloodstone Gargants... monsters whose corrupted blood poisoned all it touched. They could only be slain with precise killing blows that left no blood spilled, a feat nearly impossible for a newbie first-term cadet. Even many graduates rarely succeeded at such a task.
Among those notified was Supre Grandmaster Scáthach herself. As head of the Combat Departnt, she received every tower alert, but she had configured her device to notify her only once a cadet passed the twenty-fifth floor. diocrity did not interest her. She sought only the extraordinary.
The first alert she received that day bore Raijin’s na. She was in ditation when the device pulsed, and though annoyed by the interruption, she checked his record:
[Personal Database]
Cadet Na: Raijin Astrape Stormrider
Cadet Number: 10156601
Institution: Ascendance Academy of Midgard
Race: Dragon
Bloodline: Sky-Lightning (Level 1)
Cultivation Level: Awakened
Academy Points: 2015
Courses: Basics of Cultivation, Introduction to Supernatural Ethics & Law, Introduction to Lightning Attribute, Cultivation History and Paths, School of Swords
Achievents: Rank 4 in the Initiation Ceremony
Her interest waned almost instantly. A lightning dragon should, by her estimation, reach the fortieth floor without difficulty. Anything less marked him as weak among his kind. With that thought, she closed the record and returned to ditation, deciding she would only bother to look again if he managed to reach the fiftieth floor.
It was much later that her device chid again. Expecting the dragon’s progress, she opened the alert... only to be surprised. Another cadet had crossed the twenty-fifth floor.
[Personal Database]
Cadet Na: Eleanor Elizabeth Raynor
Cadet Number: 10156659
Institution: Ascendance Academy of Midgard
Race: Werewolf (Alpha)
Bloodline: Mind Reaver (Level 1), Thunderbolt (Dormant)
Cultivation Level: Awakened
Academy Points: 2061
Courses: Basics of Cultivation, Introduction to Supernatural Ethics & Law, School of Mixed Martial Arts, Optional I, Optional II
Achievents: Rank 3 in the Initiation Ceremony
Scáthach’s eyes glimred. "A Raynor alpha with a thunderbolt bloodline? That was unusual. Either the girl’s clan had concealed it, or one of her parents was from the Lychos line and had hidden the trait. In any case, the bloodline remained dormant," she thought.
"Mixed Martial Arts," she murmured with a smile. "An amusing choice for a first-term cadet. Let’s see if Arrichion has been earning his keep. I wonder how she fares without leaning on an elent." With that, she closed the screen and folded back into ditation.
Elsewhere, in the sa dark chamber on the second floor of the Combat Departnt, Arrichion himself sat in silence. His awareness spread outward in steady waves as he recovered his strength. Though his device had buzzed with the sa tower alerts, he dismissed them without thought. The academy flooded its instructors with notifications daily. He had no interest in bureaucracy... only in healing his battered body.
***
The mont Eleanor stepped into the twenty-sixth level, her body crashed to the floor as though the weight of a mountain had fallen upon her. Her limbs pressed into the cold stone, muscles screaming, and she found she could not so much as lift a finger. Her breath ca in ragged bursts. A quick glance at the corner of her vision showed the tir ticking away at its usual pace... rciless, unchanging.
The chamber was stark and featureless, white walls enclosing her like a cage. No monsters lurked here, no weapons lay waiting. Only a staircase stood across from her, no more than twenty feet away.
It took her nearly a minute to understand. "Gravity," she realised bitterly. "This isn’t a fight. The challenge is to cross the room before the tir runs out."
Her jaw clenched. "Damn it! That dragon must have known. Without monstrous physical strength, no one could pass this floor. And my bloodline..." She cursed inwardly. "I can’t even call on it. I used it too recently. I’ll need at least twenty minutes to recover. I walked right into a trap, and now I’m paying for it."
But self-reproach would win her nothing. Already more than a minute was gone. Gritting her teeth, she began testing the limits of her body under the crushing force. Slowly, deliberately, she shifted her weight, seeking any motion that might carry her toward the distant stair.
***
Raijin Astrape Stormrider stepped out of the chamber and strode into the lobby. A cheer rose the mont he appeared. Though his face carried the faint shadow of disappointnt... his run had ended at the fiftieth floor, slain beneath the weight of an army greater than the one at twenty-five. But the praise of his peers washed it away like rain over stone.
"Young Master Stormrider is incredible!"
"That’s what it ans to be a true dragon!"
"Level forty-nine at the very start of the term... imagine how far he’ll reach by the end!"
"If only I could do sothing like that. Sigh!"
"Young Master, are you single?"
"Don’t be stupid. A dragon wouldn’t spare a glance for anyone beneath his kind."
"Hah! You’re a wyrmling, barely a hatchling. Don’t talk as if you’re his equal."
"Shut up! Let’s hear how he achieved such a feat!"
The lobby buzzed with adoration, envy, and bickering until the receptionist’s clear voice cut through the clamour.
"Cadet 601," she said crisply, "you are awarded one hundred points for completing the forty-ninth level. Congratulations. Be advised... you will not be permitted to challenge the Tower of Legends again for thirty days."
***
In the white room, Eleanor finally forced herself upright, every movent a battle. Her muscles tore, her bones cracked beneath the rciless weight of the amplified gravity. Yet her werewolf regeneration, aided by the academy’s nanobots, knitted flesh and bone back together almost instantly. The agony, however, was real. At first, she grit her teeth and endured; then, when the tornt beca unbearable, she threw back her head and roared in defiance before dragging one foot forward.
She was in her full werewolf form now, silver fur matted with blood and sweat that spattered the pristine floor. Step by step she pushed on... one, then two, then three... each a triumph squeezed out from pain and fury. By the ti she reached the stairs and started climbing up, her body had already begun to adapt to the crushing force. The pain no longer broke her, though exhaustion gnawed at her with every breath.
She glanced at the tir after reaching in front of the door: eight minutes and twenty seconds. Relief flooded her chest. She sank down for a mont’s rest, panting, before pushing herself forward when the counter neared its end. With one last exhale, she shoved open the door.
Her body instantly felt light as a feather. A cool breeze swept across her face, almost mocking the tornt she had just endured. But there was no ti to savour the reprieve. The ground quaked as two colossal stone golems thundered towards her, their fists raised high.
Eleanor braced, certain the blow would crush her into paste. But when the massive fist ca crashing down, she caught it. Her palm... small and trembling... held back the weight of the titan. For a heartbeat she stared, stunned, until realisation struck her: the last level had changed her. Her body had been reforged to endure.
With a roar, she twisted, shattering the golem’s fist into rubble. Renewed vigour surged through her veins. She leapt high and drove her knuckles beneath its chin. The giant toppled, cracked, and broke apart with an earth-shaking crash.
The second golem’s strike thundered down where she had stood, but she slipped aside. Three swift punches hamred into its spine, and the stone giant splintered into fragnts. Eleanor exhaled sharply, relief flooding her chest, and glanced at the tir.
Only thirty seconds had passed.
Eleanor crossed to the door, set her back against the wall, and let herself rest. Her chest rose and fell with slow, asured breaths. When the tir bled down towards its final seconds, she stood, wiped the sweat from her brow, and pressed her hand to the door.
From the twenty-eighth to the forty-ninth level, the tower had thrown its horrors at her in relentless succession. Ironhide Ogres whose skin turned blades, Bloodstone Gargants whose very blood was corruption, Bone Colossi stitched together from a hundred warriors, Carrion Hulks that dripped with decay, Rustclaw Beasts that could gnawed through steel, Chitin Lords with their carapace armour, Stonehorn Behemoths that charged like avalanches, Venomfang Hydras that spat poison, Blight Serpents that withered everything they touched, and Magma Fiends whose breath turned air to fire.
At first, they had co as a single type monster pack, each a test of strength and cunning. Then they ca in mixed packs, each with the terrain bent to their advantage... lava pools, fetid swamps, choking mists, crumbling cliffs. Eleanor fought through them all. She lost the sword she had carried into the twenty-sixth level, but she made the battlefield her armoury, taking weapons from the fallen and wielding them until they broke in her hands. Between battles, she claid what rest she could, closing her eyes, forcing her heart to slow.
Yet she never once reached for her bloodline. Not once. Every victory was earned with flesh, steel, and sheer refusal to yield.
Now she stood before the door of the forty-ninth level. A sword balanced in one hand, a shield strapped to the other. Her breathing was steady, her stance unshaken. Her academy uniform bore marks of bruises, healed cuts, and dried blood... but her eyes were alight.
She drew in one final deep breath. This ti, she was ready. This ti, she would not endure rely to survive. She was ready to conquer.
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