The crowd's noise shook the walls of the waiting chamber. The iron doors to the arena hadn't opened yet, but the atmosphere was already heavy.
Shubh leaned casually against the stone wall, hood drawn low, when the gate on the opposite side creaked open. His opponent for Floor 1 walked in—a tall boy with scarred knuckles and a smug grin. He cracked his neck, looking Shubh up and down with disdain.
"So you're the new guy everyone's whispering about?" the boy scoffed. "Hah. Don't think that cloak makes you special. Floor 1 isn't a place for wannabes."
Shubh didn't even lift his head fully, only tilting it slightly toward him. His voice was calm, almost quiet.
"Names don't matter. Neither does your reputation. Once we're in the ring, only strength speaks."
The boy laughed, banging his fist against the wall. "Strength? You? You're shaking already under that hood. When I'm done, you'll regret ever stepping foot in this tower."
Shubh finally turned his face slightly, just enough for his sharp eyes to meet the boy's. They carried no anger, only a cold certainty.
"Then let's see whose regrets weigh heavier."
For a moment, silence filled the chamber. The boy flinched—only for an instant—but enough to know that this cloaked stranger wasn't as ordinary as he first thought.
The arena doors groaned open, flooding the chamber with blinding light. The crowd roared their approval as the two fighters stepped forward. Shubh walked with calm, measured steps, not sparing his opponent another glance.
As Shubh walked the corridor to the arena, the air heavy with the roar of the crowd, a flicker of movement caught his eye. A shadow dropped silently from the ceiling.
The blade aimed straight for his throat—swift, precise, professional.
Shubh's hand snapped up, catching the assassin's wrist in midair. In one fluid motion, he twisted and slammed the figure against the wall. The dagger clattered to the floor, useless.
"...Who sent you?" Shubh's voice was calm, but his grip was like iron.
The assassin struggled, his hood slipping back to reveal a tattoo on his neck—a mark of the Otshkan Clan, one of the three legendary clans.
"They don't want you climbing," the man spat, gasping. "The Tower… the city… it belongs to the clans who deserve it. Not some Vavugan brat."
For a moment, silence filled the corridor. Shubh's eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening.
"Tell your masters," he said, his tone low and sharp, "that if they fear me this early, then they already know how this ends."
With a swift strike, he knocked the assassin unconscious and stepped over the body without another glance.
The gates to the ring were waiting. And so was his opponent.
Shubh walked into the ring, his face partly hidden beneath his hood. He looked calm, almost detached, as though the chaos around him was nothing but a distant murmur.
His opponent was announced: Rojan Kraye, the "Blazing Serpent" of Floor 1. Rojan was notorious—he had broken bones, crushed egos, and was feared by every newcomer who dared to challenge him.
"You shouldn't have come here, boy," Rojan sneered, flames licking across his arms. "I'll end this quickly."
The referee's hand dropped.
"Begin!"
Rojan struck first, unleashing a serpent of flame that twisted through the air, ready to consume Shubh. The crowd gasped as the heat scorched their faces.
But Shubh only raised his hand.
The fiery serpent froze midair, its movements twisting unnaturally as though caught in invisible chains. Then, with a sudden crash, the serpent smashed against the arena floor, flames scattering like dying embers.
Rojan's eyes widened. He staggered, struggling to summon more fire, but an invisible weight pressed him down. His knees buckled.
"You rely too much on your flame," Shubh said softly, stepping closer. "But fire is useless… if it cannot rise."
He pressed his palm downward.
An unseen force slammed into Rojan, crushing him flat against the arena floor. The fire wielder groaned once before his flames sputtered out entirely.
"Winner: Shubh Vayuangan!" the referee shouted, stunned.
The arena erupted. Some cheered, others whispered in shock. The infamous Rojan had fallen in under a minute.
Shubh turned away, silent as ever, and began walking toward the exit.
The whispers began spreading across the Tower almost immediately:
A newcomer had defeated Rojan with ease.
A newcomer had survived an assassination attempt without lifting a blade.
A newcomer… who carried the weight of gravity itself.
For the first time, the Tower had taken notice of Shubh.