The battlefield was quiet.
Not peaceful—just dead.
Ash drifted across the ground like slow snow. Armor lay scattered, some crushed, some burned through. Fires crackled low in the distance, barely alive, flickering against the cold wind.
Stone pillars from a ruined fortress jutted out at awkward angles. Flags lay in the mud, torn beyond recognition. Blood soaked into the ground, mixing with rain and ash until everything smelled of rust and smoke.
At the center of the ruin, a throne sat.
It shouldn't have survived the battle. Its shape was wrong, too tall and too thin, almost shifting when you looked directly at it. Shadow clung to it—not just darkness, but something alive. Black veins pulsed beneath its surface, reaching out like roots into the ruined ground.
He sat there. Not like a king. Just... waiting.
His armor looked like the night itself had been melted down and poured over him. It moved when he did, softly breathing. One eye glowed violet—tired, heavy. The other was sharp red, too alert, too awake. His face was calm, but not peaceful. The kind of calm that comes after you've run out of things to feel.
Across from him, a woman dragged herself to her feet.
Her golden armor was dented, streaked with blood. The sun emblem on her chest was cracked down the middle. Blond hair stuck to her face, tangled and dirt-smeared. She looked exhausted, but she didn't back down. Her spear shook in her hands, but it was still pointed forward.
Neither of them spoke at first.
Wind moved through the wreckage, pushing around smoke and ash like it was trying to clean up after something it didn't understand.
Then he said, almost too quietly, "You're still standing."
She didn't answer right away. Her eyes stayed locked on his.
"Barely," she said, voice hoarse. "But I am."
He nodded once. "That's always been your problem."
She gave a tired laugh. "Standing?"
"No. Not knowing when to stop."
She shifted, spear still raised. Her fingers were raw where the metal bit into her skin.
"You still dream about loyalty?" he asked. "About fighting for something pure?"
"Someone has to." Her voice was steadier now. "You gave up too easily."
"I didn't give up." His tone flattened. "You left."
Something flickered between them—years of silence packed into a heartbeat.
"You think I betrayed you?" she asked.
"I know you did."
She didn't flinch. "You think you know everything, don't you?"
"I know enough. You walked away when everything was falling apart. You could've stayed. Chosen me."
"You chose this." She gestured around them. "Whatever this is."
"I chose survival."
"No." Her voice cracked. "You chose the throne."
Silence again.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "You act like it was easy. Like it didn't break something in me."
"Then why do you sound like you're proud of it?"
He didn't answer. Just stared at her, eyes dark.
Her spear tip dropped an inch.
"You want me to say I'm sorry?" she asked.
"No." He stood, slow and deliberate. The throne behind him pulsed once, as if it missed his weight. "I want you to admit that you knew what it would cost."
She straightened. "I knew."
They stood there—two survivors who had once fought side by side, now too far gone to go back.
She raised her weapon again. "If you're going to kill me, do it. I'm not running."
He didn't move. "You think this is about killing you?"
"What else is left?"
"I don't hate you, Alen. I hate what we became."
She hesitated. Her name sounded different coming from him. Older.
He stepped down from the throne. Shadows moved with him, stretching across the ground like long fingers.
"I thought winning would fix something," he said. "But there's nothing left to fix."
She didn't answer.
"You want to fight?" he asked. "Fine."
She lunged, spear cutting through the air. A clean, practiced motion. He sidestepped. Shadows caught her weapon mid-thrust and yanked her forward. She stumbled, and suddenly they were face to face.
His hand gripped her throat—not tight, just enough.
"I could end it now," he said, voice low. "But I won't."
"Why not?" she rasped.
"Because you still matter. That's my curse."
He let go.
She dropped to her knees, gasping. Not defeated. Just done.
He stepped back, eyes not angry—just tired.
Above them, the sky cracked. A white light split across the clouds like broken glass. The sound wasn't thunder. It was deeper. Older.
Everything froze.
Then—
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Raine opened his eyes.
The battlefield was gone. The throne, the spear, the ruined world—all of it vanished. Only the quiet hum of a city remained.
He stood in his penthouse, staring out the glass wall as sunlight crawled up the buildings. His reflection was faint in the floor's marble—just a tall shadow in a room too clean.
The dream still clung to him. The smells, the weight of the air, the heat in his chest.
He rolled his shoulders, trying to shake it off.
In the mirror, the tattoos on his arms caught the light—old ones, from another life. A mix of drunken college dares and attempts at meaning. Thick black threads wound up to his collarbone, one even behind his ear. He rubbed the edge of one, trying to feel real again.
Eventually, he dressed. Slow, deliberate. The dream had left something behind—a heaviness he couldn't name.
Downstairs, his BMV waited in the garage. Sleek, black, humming like a beast asleep. He slid inside and started the engine. The growl was smooth, familiar. Something he could control.
He drove through the city. Neon flickered off wet glass. Billboards flashed half-news, half-hype. Rain from last night streaked the sidewalks, but the sun was out now, trying its best.
His phone buzzed. Dozens of messages. Most he ignored. The usual office chatter, a few missed calls from a number he didn't save.
Then the news broke through the radio.
"...unconfirmed reports of black towers appearing over multiple cities. Descriptions vary, but most claim they reach above the clouds and seem unaffected by weather. Authorities have not issued a statement. Social media footage shows—"
Raine turned it down. "That's just what I need. Monday and a damn apocalypse."
He pulled into a curb lane, letting the city move around him.
Then something burned.
He grabbed his left wrist. It felt like something sharp and hot was carving into his skin. He pulled up his sleeve.
Ink was spreading.
Not like a tattoo needle—faster, like it was alive. Lines crawled under the surface, marking his skin without blood.
A Roman numeral I formed just below his palm. Around it, three small dots—two dark, one hollow.
Then more pain.
Black veins stretched up his hand like branches, pulsing with something electric. It wasn't just pain—it was like something underneath him was being rewritten.
Golden letters shimmered over the tattoo.
TOWER OF ECLIPSED DAWN
ENTRY IMMINENT: 10...9...8...
He stared, heart racing. The world outside blurred. Sound collapsed to a hum. The city, the car, the pain in his wrist—it all narrowed into that countdown.
7...6...5...
He gripped the wheel tighter. Sweat formed at his temple.
4...3...2...
This had to be a hallucination. Leftover side effects. Maybe too many nights spent near the wrong chemicals, the wrong people, the wrong choices.
1...
He closed his eyes.
0.
Everything went silent.
No explosion. No flash. No drama.
Just quiet.
Not emptiness, not peace.
Just something else.
Like the world had been unplugged.
---
Author Notes:
Hey, it's me, Author Zero. This is my first novel, and I came up with it after reading other stories. It's a mix of stuff I like, so check it out! Maybe you'll dig it. If you do, add it to your library so you don't miss out on future stuff. It's not just a tower fantasy; there's action, romance, betrayal, academies, rebirths, transmigration, reincarnation, and a bunch of other things I want to read all in one. And no harem or anything weird, just a straight-up violent and sarcastic story.