"Is this... how it ends?"
His voice was barely audible, swallowed by the cold, silent stone walls. The young man stood in the narrow corridor, breath ragged, body trembling, his right hand gripping a dull sword still untainted by blood. Not yet—but perhaps soon.
The air inside the Tower of Trials was thick. Every breath felt like swallowing dust and metal. Sweat dripped from his temples, mingling with the grime on his face. His disheveled black hair clung to his forehead, blurring his vision.
This was the first floor. Supposedly—according to those outside—the safest. "Just the starting floor, for adaptation," they said. But no one ever mentioned how cold it felt to hold a sword for the first time. Or how fast his heart would pound when the darkness swallowed everything, and the sound of unseen creatures crept closer from the shadows.
He took half a step back. His heel hit the wall. No more retreat.
"Why am I here...?"
He asked himself—not for an answer, but just to keep his mind from shattering. The only thing he remembered was waking up in front of this tower's gate—alone.
Only one thing was certain:
He had to climb.
Or die.
The Tower of Trials offered no other choice.
And now, from the thin mist hovering low on the floor, a figure emerged. Small, hunched. Grayish-green skin. Bulging, gleaming eyes. In its left hand, a rusted dagger, while its elongated right hand dragged along the ground as it moved—like a beast that had forgotten how to be human.
A goblin.
A low-tier creature. But for someone who didn't even know how to swing a sword properly, this goblin might just be his first death.
The young man swallowed hard. His hands shook. The hilt of the sword felt rough and heavy, as if the metal itself knew he wasn't a fighter.
The goblin hissed, its tongue flicking out as if tasting prey. Then—it charged.
The goblin charged.
Its movements were erratic, wild, like a caged beast finally unleashed. The young man's breath caught. His eyes widened. His body froze. Everything felt too fast—too real.
In the split second before the creature reached him, his mind screamed: "Lift the sword! Swing it! Do something!"
But his body wouldn't move.
Too late.
The goblin's claws slashed across his side.
"Ugh—!"
He was thrown sideways, slamming into the stone wall with a sickening thud. His shoulder felt shattered. A burning pain spread from the wound, blood soaking his already tattered clothes.
"Argh... Damn it..."
For the first time, he truly felt death looming. A single wound like this, and the world seemed to collapse. Not just from the pain—but the fear, a cold dread crawling from his toes to the back of his neck.
The goblin didn't give him time. It leaped again, dagger raised high.
But this time—he moved.
Or rather, his body moved on its own. Whether from survival instinct or sheer panic, he didn't know. He raised his sword with both hands, barely deflecting the attack in a harsh clash that sent pain shooting through his left arm.
The goblin's dagger screeched against his blade, ringing in his ears.
He kicked the creature back with his knee. The small body staggered but quickly regained its stance, crouching low for another lunge.
His breath came in ragged gasps. Fear still clouded his eyes, but something had changed. His hands—still shaking—now gripped the sword tighter. His stance was still terrible, no form or technique. But he stood.
And this time, he struck first.
His swing was wild. More panic than skill. But the goblin didn't fully dodge. The blade grazed its shoulder, drawing a shallow cut and a shrill screech.
The goblin retreated.
The young man exhaled—or maybe tried to laugh. He wasn't even sure.
"Damn... I hit it..."
A small victory. But in this world, even the smallest victory was hope.
The goblin hissed, lowered its head—then charged again.
But this time, he was ready.
His sword rose. His swing was messy. But when metal met skull, the sound was unmistakable—the sickening crack of bone and the splatter of thick fluid.
The goblin collapsed. Twitched. Then lay still.
Silence.
His breath was heavy. His shoulders trembled. His legs barely held him up. But he stood. Sword dripping blood in hand.
"...I'm still alive."
He didn't feel proud. Didn't feel strong. Only one thing registered—shock slowly hardening into reality.
He had killed something.
And this was only the beginning.
---
The goblin's corpse lay motionless, its blood pooling on the cold stone floor. The sword in the young man's grip remained raised, dark red liquid dripping from its edge. His breath hitched, chest rising and falling in uneven bursts. His ears still rang, as if the world wasn't quite real.
But he knew… he had just taken a life.
His hands shook—not from exhaustion, but from disgust. From fear. From the horror creeping through his veins.
The goblin's blood was sticky on his skin. Warm. The metallic stench stung his nose. When he finally dropped the sword—his body too weak to hold it any longer—the clang of metal against stone shattered the silence.
He slumped to the ground. Words failed him. His hands rose, staring at the crimson staining his fingers. Not his own blood. But still… revolting.
Then—another sound.
Tap… tap… tap…
Small, quick footsteps. Not one. Not two. More.
His face paled.
From around the corridor's bend, three more goblins emerged. Larger than the first. One carried a crude bone club, another had iron claws strapped to its left hand, and the third—missing an eye, its body scarred from past battles—all stared at him like predators cornering wounded prey.
"Damn it… just one was hard enough..."
He grabbed his sword again. His hands ached, muscles screaming from unfamiliar strain. His left shoulder still bled. But he stood. Not because he believed he could win. But because he knew—if he stayed down, they'd tear him apart in seconds.
The one-eyed goblin shrieked and lunged first.
The young man gritted his teeth and swung. But the goblin was faster. It sidestepped, darting like a rabid dog, and slammed into his stomach with its shoulder.
"GWAH!!"
He crashed into the wall. His back hit stone, breath knocked out of him. Before he could recover, the goblin was on top of him—jaws snapping for his throat.
"AARRRGH!!"
He grabbed its head, fingers tangling in greasy hair and slimy skin, holding it just inches from his face. The goblin's breath reeked of rot, saliva dripping as it snarled.
In blind panic, he grabbed his fallen sword. No time to think. He raised it high—then brought it down on the creature's skull.
Once.
The skull cracked.
Twice.
Bone shattered.
Three times.
Red and white splattered across his face.
Four. Five. Six times.
He kept hitting even after the goblin stopped moving.
Even after blood flooded the floor.
Even after its eyes went dull.
Until—footsteps snapped him back to reality.
The second goblin was almost upon him.
He forced himself up, breath ragged. His face was smeared with blood and gore. His trembling hands gripped the sword, its edge now chipped. But he stood.
As the goblin swung its iron claws, he ducked. Pure instinct—no technique, just raw terror—guided his body. The goblin overextended, off-balance.
He twisted and stabbed.
The blade pierced its side, just below the ribs. The sound of tearing flesh was unmistakable. The goblin screeched—a hoarse, piercing sound that scraped his eardrums.
But it wasn't enough.
He yanked the sword free. Blood sprayed.
The goblin was still alive.
It lashed out blindly. One claw grazed his cheek—a long, stinging cut. Blood mixed with the goblin's own.
He screamed—more from shock than pain.
Then he swung again. Left to right. The blade bit deep into the goblin's neck.
Not a clean decapitation. But deep enough to make it stagger.
He struck again. And again.
Until it collapsed in a twitching, bloody heap.
He vomited.
Couldn't hold it back.
The stench of blood, sweat, and viscera assaulted his senses. He knelt, retching in the corner, body shaking violently.
One left.
He knew.
The last goblin stood a few paces away. Motionless. Its bony fingers clenched around a crude club. Narrowed eyes assessed whether the human before it was a threat... or just living carrion.
"Come on... if you're gonna kill me... hurry up..."
The young man's voice was ragged. Exhausted. Wounded. Yet his grip on the sword didn't waver.
The goblin stepped forward.
And the final battle began.
The bone club swung with unnatural speed—far faster than such a small creature should be capable of. But it wasn't the speed that made it dangerous. It was the rhythm. The pattern. The young man could feel it. This goblin... was different.
He tried to block, but the first impact nearly tore the sword from his grasp. The club's collision with steel sent shockwaves up his arm to the shoulder. Pain. Numbness. His muscles screamed.
He retreated. One step. Two.
The club came again—this time nearly crushing his knee. A direct hit would've shattered bone.
"Bastard...!"
He counterattacked, aiming for the creature's torso. But the goblin leaped back with eerie agility, then charged again like a rabid bull.
They exchanged blows.
Steel against bone.
Man against monster.
Fatigue seeped from his shoulders to his chest, from his calves to his arms. His breath came in ragged gasps. Blood from his cheek wound blurred his vision. But his eyes remained open. He couldn't fall. Not now.
The goblin struck from the left. He parried.
It feinted right. He pivoted, swung—missed.
Then—an opening.
The goblin's footing slipped slightly on landing—just a fraction of imbalance. One second. But enough.
The young man raised his sword overhead and brought it down with everything he had. No technique. No strategy. Just raw strength and primal fear.
The blade cleaved through the goblin's shoulder, splitting flesh down to its chest.
Blood erupted.
The crack of bone echoed through the corridor.
The goblin staggered—then collapsed forward. Still alive. But immobilized.
He dropped to his knees. Staring at the twitching body, watching life drain from its wide, hate-filled eyes—eyes that held the same fear as his own.
"...Why do we have to kill each other...?" he whispered, unaware he'd spoken.
No answer came.
Only the fading drum of his own heartbeat, slower now. Not from safety. But from exhaustion.
He slumped against the wall, sword still in hand. Breath heavy. Eyes distant.
This floor... was supposedly the easiest.
If this was easy... then true hell awaited above.
His hand clutched his chest—not from pain, but to confirm he still lived. And for the first time, he truly understood. This place wasn't a game. No one was coming to save him. No allies. No mentors. No magical system or cheat-like power to spare him from death.
Just a sword.
And himself.
The corridor fell silent again. Only the drip of blood and his own labored breaths filled the air.
He didn't know how long he'd last.
But one thing was clear: to climb higher, he'd have to become someone capable of killing... over and over.
Or die.
---
Then—a sound.
DING
Clear. Unnatural. As if from another world.
A pale blue light flickered in the air, forming a translucent rectangle that expanded before him.
Liam tensed. His eyes widened.
[Tower of Trials System: First Floor—Cleared.]
Congratulations, Challenger: Liam Crossbell.
You have survived Floor 1.
+1 Endurance
+1 Survival Instinct
+1 Basic Combat Experience
Skill Acquired: 'Wild Instinct' (Passive – Level 1)
When in critical condition, enhances danger perception and reflexes for 5 seconds.
Choose: Proceed to Floor 2, or remain on Floor 1 for limited recovery.
His breath caught.
A system?
Why now?
Liam had no memory of this system appearing before. Not when he first woke up. Not when he first gripped the sword. Only silence and fear. But now—after killing, after bleeding—it revealed itself.
He didn't know whether to feel relief... or dread.
"...So I'm not alone here after all."
Not in the sense of other people. But this place had rules. A system. Something—or someone—was watching. Recording. Rewarding slaughter and suffering.
And this skill...
"'Wild Instinct'..."
His voice was barely a whisper. But his mind flashed back—to moments ago, when his body moved before his thoughts could catch up. Was that... because of this skill?
Or just his own desperation?
He didn't know.
But one thing was certain—from now on, survival wasn't just about fighting. There was a system tracking his progress. Rewarding him. Pushing him to grow stronger... more brutal...
More like a killer.
Liam stared at the floating screen for a long moment.
Proceed to Floor 2?
Or...
Remain on Floor 1?
His gaze swept the room. Corpses. Blood. The stench of death. And his own body—barely holding together.
The choice was obvious.
"...I'm not ready to climb yet."
With effort, he reached out and touched:
[Remain on Floor 1 for Limited Recovery.]
The screen faded.
A faint, warm light enveloped him. The shallow wounds on his skin closed slightly. Bleeding stopped. Pain dulled... but didn't vanish.
This wasn't true healing.
Just... a moment to breathe before the next hell began.
He leaned back against the wall, eyes closing. His body still trembled, his mind replaying everything that had just happened.
But something had changed.
He was still afraid.
But now, he also knew... he could survive.
And if that meant becoming a devil in human skin... then maybe that was the only way to live in this world.
The Tower of Trials.
A place with only one rule:
Kill or be killed.