Dharen tucked the information crystal back into place within the chest, hesitant to risk losing such a wealth of information. Rolling his shoulders and flexing his muscles lightly, he prepared for the challenge. He quickly took an accounting of his available arsenal of weapons and skills.

Unfortunately, it was a rather dismal accounting. Embarrassing as it was, he really had spent virtually everything he owned on acquiring the cold-enchanted dagger. While doing so had left him quite vulnerable to attacks, the gambit had proven worthwhile. However, that was while fighting Khargen. Cold-blooded as they were, the frigid enchantment was extremely effective through heavily reducing their ability to maneuver and even causing the Khargen to feel lethargic. Perhaps he would get lucky, and encounter more reptiles. It was doubtful, though.

Even so, Dharen had to admit a certain attachment to the dagger. It was the weapon that (along with the inadvertent help of a group of adventurers) had allowed him to finally acquire a soulseed and Awaken. And in this world, that was everything. Those who did not Awaken were weak, powerless. Unable to even enter the Tower of Challenges, they had no chance of achieving any rank or power of note.

And that was unacceptable. Dharen had experienced enough of being weak and powerless for a lifetime. Ten years ago, he had found himself weak and alone in a cave. Ash littered the floor. Blood collected in pools. The rest had been a blur before reaching Yraos. The years following were hellish - sneaking through dirt and grime, doing whatever he could to survive as a lone child in a dangerous world, in an uncaring city.

Yet, finally, he had the beginnings of power. Power to never be helpless again. Not only that, but he had received a new clue as to who he was. Faceless. Whatever that meant, anyway. But he would find out. And that began, as did all things, with gaining power.

Turning his attention away from his musings, he searched inwardly. Grasping for a hold on the source of power that Awakened held in far greater quantities than the general populous - Spirit. As he held onto it, conflicting tides of radiating warmth and chilling cold spread through his body from his right and left sides respectively. Just as he was about to investigate the feeling further, he was interrupted by the grinding sound of stone on stone.

Whirling quickly, he found that a door had appeared. Embossed with archaic markings and filigreed in shining silver, it practically screamed that it was important. Undaunted, he made his way over to the door before placing his hand upon it.

⥫⥬⥫⥬⥫⥬

Accept Floor 1 Challenge?

Remaining Time: 5 minutes

Refusal will result in being ejected from the Tower

(Y/N)

⥫⥬⥫⥬⥫⥬

He accepted. Just as before, the world faded away. The same kaleidoscopic array of pigments twisted in his vision, the same hallucinogenic cacophony of color. And again, with nausea-inducing abruptness, the world returned. Prepared for the stomach-lurching transition this time, Dharen only had to spend a moment to reorient himself and calm his protesting body.

As he brought his hand to his head to massage his temples, he found that he was wearing a crude bronze helmet. Crude being the operating word. It was open-faced, and there were clearly bundles of cloth packed in between the helm and his head to allow it to have some semblance of fit. He was wearing a set of worn leather armor, the sort of leather that might be passed down from father to son along with over-exaggerated tales of battle. And it clearly had seen much in the way of battle, if the numerous cuts and scratches were anything to go by.

Dharen released a storm of crude swearing upon realising that his prized dagger was gone as well, replaced with a shoddy bronze war-axe held onto his belt with a loop of rope. Ridiculous, that. It was hard to imagine being able to do any sort of quick or stealthy movements with an axe dangling and swinging around like an old man’s unmentionables.

After eventually resigning himself to his new attire, Dharen glanced around. He found himself beside a cheap wooden palisade surrounding a small village. As he watched, a number of torches began to light up along the perimeter of the palisade. He couldn’t help but think that this was a strange occurrence, as it was a little early to be lighting torches. Checking the sky, he saw that it wasn’t even quite sunset yet; rays of golden light still created a brilliant shine over the horizon.

“What are you doing over here? Did’ya think you could just leave me to guard our section of the wall by myself?” A voice called out with a slight slur. Turning, Dharen saw a similarly-dressed man ambling in his direction. He held a flask in his hand, the apparent source of his speech difficulties. In the mind to speak with someone to get his bearings, Dharen approached the guard.

“Hells, Elath. Ya can’t bend me over like that. We need to get to our posts before it’s the end of us. Before those demons come. The Captain will kill us even more surely than the beasts if’n we don’t.”

Dharen, startled, took a moment to think. At this point, he had begun to understand the situation to some extent. It seemed that the Floor 1 Challenge had placed him in the role of a village guardsman named Elath. Old instincts built upon a foundation of undercity life reared up in him, prompting Dharen to look at his surroundings more closely in a search for answers. He gave the guard’s flask an appraising look.

“Oh, fuck off. I’m allowed to drink on the night I’m going to die,” muttered the guardsman. “It’s my courage elixir, is what it is. Don’t ya be fucking judging me, ‘specially when ya just tried to shirk the wall duty.”

Dharen - or rather, Elath - just looked at his fellow guardsman silently. He motioned for the man to lead the way.

Muttering to himself again, the man found his way over to an unmanned section of the wall with Dharen in tow. Dharen caught a few of the words that the man mumbled - all some form of superstitious nonsense that he thought had been eradicated in ages past.

Working off a growing suspicion, Dharen asked the guardsman a simple question. “How many of the village guardsman have Awakened?”

The inebriated guardsman spared Dharen a long-suffering look. “Of course we’re all awake, ya addle-brained fool. Can’t be sleepin’ when there’s a wall to watch.”

Suspicions confirmed, Dharen grew silent once again. It all came together - the crude armaments, the cheap fortifications, the ancient superstitions. The scenario of the floor was clear: he was playing the role of a man that came before the Progenitors ascended. He was a guardsman in the time before humanity could Awaken. A time before the First Heroes. When monsters slaughtered freely, wantonly.

A cry split the night air, interrupting his musings. The sound of a bell tolling rang from a small tower. Dharen’s companion paled, turning a ghastly white.

“They’re here,” he choked out. He took another heavy guzzle from his flask.