The world groaned.
That was the first thing Drax felt when he opened his eyes—not sound, not light, but pressure. As if the planet itself had exhaled too hard.
The tremor came a second later.
The house rattled. Glass chimed. Somewhere in the distance, something deep and ancient shifted.
Drax sat up in bed, eyes already sharp.
Another quake followed—stronger. Not violent enough to destroy, but heavy enough to make a statement. The kind of movement that didn't come from tectonics, but from authority.
He stepped onto the balcony barefoot.
The sky was split.
Far beyond Norn, past the horizon where the sea swallowed the sun, a white tower was rising.
Not descending.
Not opening.
Rising.
It emerged from beneath the ocean like a divine intrusion—water peeling away from its sides, evaporating before it could fall back. Mile by mile, floor by floor, impossibly tall and impossibly straight, the structure pierced the heavens with arrogant silence.
No runes.
No markings.
Just white stone so pure it hurt to look at.
And the world reacted.
Inner worlds across continents trembled. Domains warped. Monarchs—old ones, hidden ones—opened their eyes for the first time in centuries.
Somewhere far away, tea rippled in a porcelain cup.
Lex watched through the glass of his high-rise chamber as the tower finished forming, clouds curling around its upper reaches like reluctant servants.
A slow smile crept onto his face.
"…So it's finally time," he murmured. "The Game of Towers."
Behind him, the world screamed quietly.
Drax stood on the roof of his house, hoodie pulled over his head, hands buried deep in his pockets. The morning wind tugged at his coat, but he didn't move.
He stared at the tower.
And frowned.
"For some reason," he muttered, "I disdain that thing."
A ripple passed through reality beside him.
Mephilisto manifested—not fully, just a presence, a silhouette of abyssal light bending the air.
"That's because it wasn't meant for your era," she said calmly.
Drax didn't look at her. "Explain."
"The tower is a relic of the Old Era," Mephilisto continued. "A convergence structure. A trial ground. In its prime, every monster inside would've been classified as above unmeasurable by your current standards."
Drax raised a brow.
"In the old days," she added lightly, "they called such beings demi-gods."
That got his attention.
"And at the top?" he asked.
"The 900th floor," Mephilisto replied. "There is an artifact. One that resonates with the Abyssal World."
Drax's lips curved upward.
"…So it lets me advance to Stage Three."
"Yes."
"And it'll be difficult."
Mephilisto smiled. "You might die."
Drax chuckled softly.
"Well," he said, turning away from the tower at last, "now I have a reason to go."
Tess answered on the first ring.
"You're seeing it too, right?" Drax asked.
"Yes," she said immediately. "The White Tower. My father—he told me stories. He entered something like that once in the old era. Barely made it out alive."
"I'm going in."
Silence.
"…What?"
"I said I'm going in."
"Drax," Tess snapped, then sighed, rubbing her temple audibly. "Are you insane?"
"Possibly."
Another sigh. Longer this time.
"…What did I expect," she muttered. Then, quieter: "Just—be careful. That tower doesn't test strength. It tests existence."
Drax smiled.
"I'll be back."
The line went dead.
Lyra was in the kitchen when he came down.
She didn't ask why he was dressed like that. Didn't ask why the air around him felt heavier than usual.
She just looked at him.
"Mom," Drax said gently. "I'll be gone for a few weeks."
Her hands stilled.
"I'll come back," he added. "In one piece. Just like when I leave—I'll return."
Lyra stepped forward and hugged him, tight and fierce.
"You better," she said quietly.
He held her for a moment longer than usual.
Then he left.
Outside, Drax stopped.
"Switch."
The world folded.
Death welcomed him.
The Dead Man Lands stretched endlessly before him—a continent where wars had ended not with victory, but with extinction. Forests of skeletal trees. Mountains of rusted weapons. Plains carpeted with bones.
And essence.
So much essence it was obscene.
Drax inhaled.
Black currents surged silently into him as he walked, his Abyssal World drinking deeply, greedily, without effort.
"…What's this," he mused. "Free essence?"
The sea appeared at the edge of the land—still, black, endless.
He stepped onto the water.
It held.
Hands still in his pockets, he walked forward, the White Tower looming larger with every step.
As he drew closer, his senses expanded.
Presences.
Multiple.
Strong.
Drax's smile widened.
"…What's this," he murmured. "A group party?"
The tower stood silent.
Waiting.