Across the whole city, the people were watching the same broadcast from their homes, on their cellphones, or through the massive, glowing monitors hanging over the bustling streets: the legendary interview of Marcus with the trio conquerors of Season 1.
Marcus addressed the heroes. "In your experience, what is the one thing that truly defines a 'Player' in the Tower? Is it strength? Is it the gear? Or is it luck?"
Joshua, the leader, looked directly into the lens with the hard-earned wisdom of the 100th floor. "None of those," he said firmly. "When I started, I didn't have the best gear or stats. I just had a destination and a feeling that kept my pulse racing. To me, a player is defined by drive. It is the relentless refusal to let your goal slip away. In this Tower, the moment you stop reaching— the moment your hunger fades you have already lost."
In the filth choked alley, Aedes was living that truth. The bread wasn't just food; it was the first piece of mercy he'd felt in years, and he refused to let a parasite steal it.
"Give it back!"
He croaked, his voice cracking as he lunged into the dark recesses of the alley. He pursued the sewer rat through a labyrinth of filth, scrambling over rusted crates and squeezing through gaps in chain link fences. He ran until his lungs burned, his weak legs buckling with every uneven step. He followed the rat into a sprawling construction zone on the edge of the central district. As he rounded a corner, his foot caught on a jagged, loose pipe.
He went down hard.
His palms slammed into the grit, and a sharp shard of glass sliced deep into his right hand. The pain mattered less than the sight of the blood, dark and hot as it pooled on the concrete.
The sight triggered a fracture in his mind. The grey alleyway bled into a memory of a flickering hallway. He saw his hand again, but it was smaller, trembling, and covered in a far greater quantity of blood. In front of him, the woman from his dreams… lay still. Her midnight hair was matted against the floor, her life's blood fanning out around her like a macabre halo.
"Mom…?" he whispered in the present, his voice small and broken. "Mom, wake up…"
The memory shattered as a roar of a thousand voices erupted. Aedes gasped; the vision faded as he realized he had crawled out of the alley and into a crowded, barricaded plaza. A temporary stage loomed over the frantic crowd, dominated by a giant holographic timer ticking down like a heartbeat.
"TEN SECONDS LEFT!" a voice boomed from the speakers, distorted by the sheer volume of the crowd's screaming. "HOLD THE FREAKING KEY OR LOSE YOUR FUTURE!"
It was a riot disguised as a contest. A massive, ornate key— the size of a man's hand and etched with glowing runes was tossed through the air. The crowd wrestled for it like sharks fighting over a scrap of meat.
"NINE! EIGHT! SEVEN!!!"
A muscular man emerged from the center of the crowd, his fingers locked around the dull grey metal. "THIS IS MINE!" he roared, his veins bulging. "I'M THE ONE! GET OFF ME, YOU IMP—"
Before he could finish, a dozen hands yanked his collar. He tripped and fell hard, losing his grip. The key didn't hit the ground; it was launched high into the air, spinning like a grey sun against the blue sky.
"SIX! FIVE! FOUR!"
The crowd surged toward the stage, but the key took a freakish, impossible trajectory. It bounced off the metal rim of a vendor's cart, ricocheted off a spectator's shoulder, and sailed toward the quiet, blood stained boy standing at the edge of the chaos.
Aedes watched, stunned. Time seemed to slow. The object spun through the air, humming with a low vibration that resonated in his bones. He reached out with his bleeding hand… the one that still felt the ghost of his mother's touch.
"THREE! TWO! ONE!"
The key slammed into his palm. The impact was heavy, the metal biting into the fresh cut on his hand. His blood smeared across the rune.
"ZERO!"
The countdown ended. A shockwave froze the crowd, and the sudden silence was louder than the shouting. Thousands of people looked toward the key. The announcer's confident voice turned into a high-pitched squeak of pure disbelief.
"The… the winner… of the final Fantasy Tower Key… is…"
The camera drones swiveled in unison, their lenses zooming in on the small, shivering figure covered in dirt and blood.
"Wait… is that a homeless boy? Where did he even come from?!"
The crowd was a writhing, shouting mass, like a ball of tangled thread, everyone pushing, yelling, and scrambling to see the impossible moment.
"What? He got it? The homeless boy? Are you kidding me?" a teenage boy shouted, fists clenched. "This is insane! How did he even— that piece of trash just stood there!"
"This, this is unacceptable! The key just fell into his hands; it should be denied!"
Another man bellowed. The sentiment spread like a contagion through the plaza. Thousands of people, who seconds ago were clawing at each other's throats, now found a common enemy in the shivering boy clutching the glowing key.
"YEAH! IT SHOULD BE DENIED!"
The crowd roared in a terrifying, unified chorus.