Blood dripped from the edge of Avis's dagger, pooling at his feet. The massive corpse of the floor guardian shuddered once before collapsing onto the cracked stone tiles. Avis stood over it, chest heaving, lungs burning for air.
Finally… it's over.
The boss of the 99th floor was dead.
He flicked the monster's black blood from his blade and surveyed the chamber. The walls were scarred with deep cuts, the floor cratered from devastating blows.
Exhaustion weighed on him, yet a smirk still tugged at his lips.
This was supposed to be the Tower's last challenge. The 99th floor, the final gate before the fabled 100th.
He waited for the Tower's confirmation, for the message that the floor had been cleared. But before it came, a faint rustle stirred behind him. He turned—
Agony exploded through his shoulder blades. A dagger punched clean through his chest, bursting out beneath his ribs.
Avis staggered forward, choking on a gasp. He stared at the crimson dripping down its steel edge.
What…?
No monster remained. The only ones behind him were his allies.
"You've done well, my love."
The familiar whisper froze his blood. He twisted his head and saw Lamia—his Lamia, the woman he trusted—driving the blade into him.
His mind refused to accept it even as she wrenched the weapon free. The pain was nothing compared to the betrayal.
He stumbled, eyes wide, as she stepped back with a smile cold as winter.
From the shadows, eight hooded figures emerged—faces hidden, but unmistakable. The assassins of the Order. His comrades. His family.
"You should've stayed in line, Faceless," rumbled Garrick, the burly enforcer who once sparred at his side. Now he loomed with his mace raised, as if Avis were just another target.
Avis laughed bitterly, blood bubbling from his lips. "In line… so that's what this is about."
His vision blurred, but rage kept him upright. He knew every stance, every quirk of their grips. They had fought beside him too long to hide from his eyes. Did they really think they could kill him so easily?
His hand tightened around his dagger. If he was going down, he'd drag some of them with him.
"Just give up and accept your fate," Garrick growled, charging.
The mace whooshed past as Avis slipped aside, the stone floor erupting where he'd stood. In the same breath, Avis twisted, driving his dagger into Garrick's side. The man howled as steel slipped between ribs.
Two more lunged. Avis darted into the shadow of a shattered pillar, narrowly avoiding twin blades. He lashed out with a kick, sending one staggering back, while parrying the other's strike in a shower of sparks.
"Finish him!" someone barked.
Lamia blurred forward again, her dagger flashing. But this time Avis sensed her. He spun, steel meeting steel in a shriek of metal.
For a heartbeat their eyes locked. Her gaze was ice. The warmth he once loved was gone.
"You know," Avis rasped, their blades pressed together, "if you wanted to break up… you could've just ghosted me like a normal person."
Lamia's laugh was sharp and empty. "Even now, you joke?"
They twisted, weapons clashing until both were wrenched free. "Do you really have to ask?" Avis hissed, before driving his elbow into her jaw. She reeled back, stunned.
But victory was fleeting. A spear tore through his gut, dropping him to his knees in a gush of blood.
The assassins closed in, encircling him like wolves. Garrick clutched his bleeding side. Lamia rose again, bruised but composed. The rest remained untouched, weapons ready.
A pair of boots stepped into his fading vision. Sylas, head of the Order, loomed above him. Hood shadowed his face, but Avis didn't need to see his lips to know they curled in smug satisfaction.
"You should have expected this," Sylas said, voice calm and cutting. "A monster even we cannot control has no place in this world."
Avis let out a ragged laugh. "So the great Order is afraid of me now? Careful… you'll make me blush."
Sylas's tone sharpened. "Your strength is beyond human. If we let you ascend the final floor, you'd become untouchable—beyond our reach. We cannot allow that."
Lamia gripped his hair, forcing his head back. Her blade pressed against his throat.
"You don't even know if the next floor is the last one, you dumbass," Avis spat, his voice raw. "It's all speculation."
He had always known climbing this cursed Tower painted a target on his back. He just never imagined the blade would come from those closest to him.
His vision darkened. The world shrank. Yet strangely, fear never came—only rage and regret twisting in his chest.
He glared at Sylas, then at Lamia, his voice a dying snarl. "But you're right about one thing… you should be afraid. Because if I had another chance… I'd kill every last one of you."
Sylas sneered. Lamia's blade swept.
Pain. Darkness. Silence.
.
.
.
He woke with a jolt, gasping for air. Instinctively, his hands shot to his chest, bracing for the gush of blood, the agony of torn flesh. But there was nothing. No wound. No blood. Only smooth skin beneath a thin cotton shirt.
He lay on a narrow cot in a cramped, familiar room. Sunlight slipped through the cracked window, casting shadows over a desk, a threadbare rug, and peeling wallpaper.
A sense of recognition washed over him, this was his old apartment.
Heart pounding, he swung his legs off the cot and stood shakily. The last thing he remembered was the 99th floor of the Tower, his body bleeding out as Lamia dealt the final blow.
Yet here he was, alive. Whole. And this room… He hadn't lived here since he was seventeen.
Stumbling to the cracked mirror on the wall, he froze. A stranger stared back at him—or rather, a younger version of himself. Trembling, he lifted a hand to his face.
The scars that had once carved across his features were gone. The pale line over his left eye from a close call two years ago? Vanished. Even the hardened gaze of a man who had killed for a decade was softened by youth.
This had to be a dream. And yet, the cool bite of the wooden floor beneath his feet, the musty scent of mildew, the dust in the air, everything felt too real.
His thoughts raced. Have I gone back...?
The truth pressed down on him. This was his body from ten years ago. This dingy apartment, the very place he had cried himself to sleep after clawing his way out of the slums—it was all exactly as it had been.
Somehow, he had returned to the past.
A shuddering breath escaped him. Confusion, relief, and a dangerous surge of joy flooded his chest. They had betrayed him. They had murdered him. But now, now he was alive again. A second chance. Those fools had no idea what awaited them.
A familiar chiming sound echoed in his skull, yanking him from his thoughts. He flinched, eyes darting. Then he saw it: a faint, glowing rectangle hovering at the edge of his vision. A status screen.
[Status]
Name: Avis Shrapnel
Race: [Human (G) – lvl 0]
Class: N/A
Profession: N/A
HP: 100%
MP: 100%
Stats
Strength: 7
Agility: 8
Constitution: 9
Intelligence: 7
Perception: 10
Willpower: 6
Free points: 0
Titles
N/A
-
At first, it was just as he remembered from his first steps into the Tower: name, age seventeen, classless, stats pitifully low compared to the monstrous heights he had once reached. Yet one thing didn't fit.
One line stood apart, gleaming in bold golden letters:
[Skills]
Skill: Shadow Reaper (SSS) – Dormant
He blinked hard. SSS-rank? That was impossible. In his first life, no one, no one, had gone beyond S-rank, and even those legendary few had been hailed as gods among men. Yet here it was, a skill that should not exist.
He focused, and the description unfurled:
Shadow Reaper—the ultimate assassin's skill. The shadows are your weapons, your armor, your eyes and ears. You may melt into darkness, become a living shadow, snuff out life in silence. In time, you may summon shadows themselves to fight at your command.
A slow grin stretched across his face. The Order had killed him for being too powerful, too uncontrollable. How ironic. Death had only made him stronger.
His fist clenched, trembling with excitement. The skill was dormant, for now. He would awaken it. There was no need to rush.
"Second chance, huh?" he muttered, glancing around the shabby room.
This time, he would climb the Tower on his own terms. Every floor. Every challenge. And when he met the traitors who had betrayed him? They would learn what true terror looked like.
He glanced at the calendar nailed to the wall. Wednesday, March 28th, 2035.
"Ah. Today's the day. The day I enter the Tower."