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SM/DC Chapter 10 : The Hundred Floors of Fate.
🕑 Added 2025-01-26 00:52:33 +0000 UTCAs Arthur reached the heart of the abandoned slums, the silence around him was deafening. The decaying ruins of the forgotten district loomed on all sides, their jagged edges silhouetted against the faint glow of distant city lights. The faint hum of the key in his pocket grew louder, resonating deep in his chest. His steps slowed, his eyes scanning the empty space around him.
"This must be it," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.
Taking the key out of his pocket, he stared at it for a moment. It felt warm to the touch, pulsing softly like it was alive. But there was no gate, no door, nothing to unlock. Just empty air.
He frowned. ‘I Guess im supposed to just…’
Almost instinctively, he raised the key and waved it in front of him. As it moved through the air, a sudden resistance stopped it in its tracks. Arthur froze. There was nothing there—no visible surface, no doorway yet the key felt like it had slotted into an invisible lock suspended in midair.
“Well, i expected something different” Arthur said, blinking in surprise.
Taking a deep breath, he twisted the key.
The moment he did, a sharp click echoed through the space, followed by a low rumble that seemed to shake the very air around him. Light flared from the tip of the key, spreading outward in rippling waves. The air in front of him shimmered and warped, folding in on itself until an ethereal portal emerged.
The swirling vortex pulsed with vibrant colors—electric blues, fiery oranges, and deep purples, all twisting and turning in an endless dance. Arthur could feel the sheer energy radiating from it, a tangible force that made the hair on his arms stand on end.
He took a step back, momentarily overwhelmed by the sight. The portal thrummed like a heartbeat, steady and powerful, as though beckoning him forward.
Arthur smirked, gripping the key tightly. “Guess this is it. No turning back now.”
With a single step, he moved forward, the portal’s light engulfing him. As he passed through, he felt a rush of energy flood his senses—a strange mix of exhilaration and disorientation. The world shifted around him, the slums disappearing in an instant.
When he emerged on the other side, he found himself standing in a vast, otherworldly chamber. The air was dense, almost oppressive, and the ground beneath his feet was smooth and cold, like polished obsidian. Towering columns stretched high into a dark, endless void above, glowing faintly with intricate runes that pulsed with an ancient energy.
Arthur exhaled slowly, his breath visible in the chilly air. The sheer scale of the place was overwhelming, and yet, he felt an undeniable pull—like he was meant to be here.
"Time to find out what my real purpose is in this place," he said to himself, his voice echoing softly in the vast emptiness.
As Arthur took his first cautious steps into the vast chamber, a sudden shift rippled through the air. The towering obsidian columns and ancient runes dissolved like smoke, revealing a twisted mirage of the city he’d just left.
The slums were back—or so it seemed. Crumbling buildings stretched around him, but their edges were jagged and unnatural, the shadows they cast far darker than they should have been. The faint flicker of streetlights sputtered in the eerie stillness, casting long, distorted silhouettes that danced like specters.
A deafening silence blanketed the area, thicker than any fog. It wasn’t the kind of silence that brought peace—it was oppressive, unnatural, as if the world itself were holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.
Arthur’s instincts screamed at him, and he wasted no time. With a swift motion, he summoned the Greatsword of the Lowborn, its blade gleaming faintly as if it, too, felt the tension. The weight of it in his hands was reassuring, a reminder that he wasn’t defenseless, no matter how hostile this place felt.
Then, it came—a low, guttural hum that resonated all around him. His system interface blinked into view, accompanied by a cold, monotone voice that seemed to echo from the very fabric of the air.
[System Notification]
Welcome to the Tower of Fate.
Only the worthy shall conquer this place.
One hundred floors of torment, peril, and judgment await you.
Progress is marked by blood, and retreat is not an option.
To escape, you must slay the guardian at the end of every tenth floor.
Fail, and you will join the countless souls who have perished here, their dreams and ambitions forever lost.
Your performance will determine your Job and its rank.
Arthur’s grip on the sword tightened as the voice continued, its tone dripping with menace:
Here, strength is tested. Here, resolve is shattered.
Enter as a warrior, leave as a legend—or not at all.
The notification vanished as abruptly as it had appeared, leaving Arthur alone in the haunting stillness once more. His pulse quickened, though he forced himself to exhale, calming the storm of thoughts swirling in his mind.
“Well, isn’t this dramatic,” he muttered, glancing at the sword in his hands. His voice carried a dry sarcasm, but his eyes burned with a fierce determination.
Arthur raised his head, his gaze sweeping over the unnatural cityscape. His senses were on high alert, every shadow and faint rustle feeling like a potential threat. But instead of fear, an odd sense of exhilaration coursed through him.
“Very well,” he said aloud, his voice steady and resolute. “I was planning to go wild here anyway.”
Arthur took cautious steps forward, his greatsword resting heavily on his shoulder. The eerie silence of the distorted city weighed on him like a physical force. His eyes scanned the surroundings, sharp and unyielding, but there was nothing to hint at immediate danger—just the unsettling stillness and flickering lights.
Then, in the distance, he saw them.
At first, they appeared normal—ordinary people walking aimlessly along the fractured streets, their postures loose, their movements almost casual. Arthur frowned, tilting his head as he observed them. Something didn’t sit right.
He stopped in his tracks as they all—at once—froze.
Every single head turned toward him, their movements unnaturally synchronized. Their lifeless, hollow eyes locked onto him, and the air seemed to grow colder.
Arthur blinked, gripping the hilt of his greatsword tighter. “Well, that’s creepy,” he muttered under his breath.
For a heartbeat, no one moved. The only sound was the faint hum of energy in the distorted atmosphere. Then, as if some invisible command had been given, they all broke into a sprint—rushing toward him with feral intensity.
The distance between them evaporated in seconds, and Arthur’s sharp eyes caught the weapons they carried. Rusty knives, broken pipes, shattered bottles, and even jagged planks of wood—all crude, improvised tools that screamed desperation and violence.
The strangest part? Their faces. Twisted into grotesque, exaggerated expressions of rage and hunger, they looked less like humans and more like hollow vessels, puppets driven by something primal and sinister.
Arthur adjusted his grip on his greatsword, lowering it in preparation. “Really creepy,” he said with a grimace, his voice dry despite the tension mounting in his chest.
