The Fighting Tower, or as it was truly named, World Tower, was a marvel few people truly understood. This structure, reaching into the skies above and plunging deep into the earth below, was the product of a secret alliance among the three greatest factions of the world: the Hunter’s Association, the Union Government, and the World Order. These powerful entities rarely collaborated, each usually steeped in its own ambitions and rivalries. But for this project, they had put aside their differences, pooling together the most advanced technology and aura manipulation the world had ever seen.


    The reason it was publicly known as the "Fighting Tower" was simple—the tower wasn’t finished yet.


    It was a mega structure that was supposed to be a top-class secret. The full potential of the World Tower had yet to be realized, and so, for now, it served only as a high-stakes tournament battleground, hiding the true nature of its construction. Most who stepped into the arena had no idea of the engineering marvel they were within, nor the greater purpose it might one day serve.


    Despite its unfinished state, what set the World Tower apart from any other arena was its ability to treat death as a temporary, illusory experience. Through complex systems of aura-field generators and advanced biofeedback systems, the tower could simulate death without true harm, giving participants the illusion of mortal peril. Lethal injuries were instantly nullified, turned into "fake deaths," allowing competitors to fight with everything they had without fear of true consequences.


    This groundbreaking feature made the World Tower the ideal tournament ground, a place where the life-and-death struggles that were so crucial to combat training could unfold without the risk of real loss. It was the perfect testing ground for aura users, allowing them to push their limits, refine their skills, and face their greatest fears without the ultimate price.


    Gerry started his morning with precis and methodical care. He gelled his silver hair and bit and then stretched a few times after he cleaned himself with aura. Expelling dirt by pushing your aura from your skin was a fairly easy skill.


    Sliding into his sleek gray suit, he straightened the cuffs and collar, glancing at his reflection in the mirror with an air of steely determination.


    Breakfast was brought in via teleportation—just as he’d been briefed by his superior. A hot meal appeared on the table as if by magic, delivered through the advanced technology of the Fighting Tower, designed to cater to participants’ every need while keeping them confined within its walls. It felt stpid and redundant to him why they veven bothered to create those vending machines.


    “Sheesh… I could use some vacation…”


    Gerry wasn’t here for the luxuries. He was here to kill.


    Two opportunities had been outlined for him. The first was during the gala following the fourth stage, but that chance had come and gone. Now, in the eighth stage, he faced his final opportunity. The Fighting Tower’s so-called “safety net,” designed to render death a mere illusion, would be a significant obstacle to his task. No ordinary weapon could accomplish what he needed; the tower’s mechanisms would detect any conventional attack and nullify it, turning death into little more than a harmless dream.


    But Gerry had been prepared. His superior had armed him with something special, a dagger capable of bending probability itself. This weapon, unassuming in appearance but imbued with arcane science and aura that bypassed the tower’s safeguards, could make death real. One stab was all it would take to bypass the tower’s safety mechanisms and deliver a fatal blow.


    Gerry joined the crowd of contestants streaming out of their rooms, just in time to see the chairman''s hologram manifest in the center of the hall. The massive, bald head of Chairman Bob, conjured as an aura-based "hologram," floated mid-air, its exaggerated expression both intense and absurdly cheerful. Even now, Gerry could hardly believe that this eccentric man—rumored to be capable of lazing around as much as he worked—held the highest position in the Hunter’s Association.


    The chairman''s booming voice echoed through the tower, a strange mix of excitement and informality.


    "The time has come!" Bob''s eyes gleamed as he surveyed the audience of eager and nervous contestants. "128 participants will compete in this tower. Okay, where do I start?" He scratched his holographic head for effect, looking like he was genuinely lost in thought before remembering his place. "Right! First things first—this state-of-the-art tower! Here, feel free to let loose because death is but a temporary reprieve in this world! This means you can push your limits, fight with all you''ve got, because if you lose, it’s not the end of the line for you—well, not entirely."


    A ripple of uncertainty passed through the crowd as contestants exchanged glances.


    "But," he continued with a grin, "losing just once might not mean death, but it does mean you’ll be trying again next year. You see, only the top sixteen earn the ‘golden pass’! The rest of you unlucky souls who lose—well, if you fight hard enough, we might give you a silver pass! That little gem will allow you to skip the first half of the exams the next time around.”


    Gerry could feel a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. So, losing could still offer a consolation prize.


    "Now, onto the rules!" Bob’s holographic head grinned wider. "We’re running a tournament bracket! You’ll be fighting one-on-one in isolated arenas. No interference, no interruptions—just you, your opponent, and everything you’ve got. The rooms where you slept last night aren’t just for resting, either—they’re special. When it’s time to fight, those rooms will act as doors, teleporting you straight to the arena. No funny business, just fair and square."Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    With that, the chairman''s grin turned wolfish, and his eyes glittered as he concluded. "So get ready. This is your chance to show us what you’re made of—or get thrown back to square one. Let the battles begin!"


    With that, the hologram vanished.


    Gerry walked down the quiet corridor back to his assigned room, the number "72" glaring at him from the door—a reminder of his previous rank. It wasn’t a bad score for a Caster. Many underestimated what he was capable of, thinking him just another spell-slinger. But Gerry had proven resourceful, infusing his weapons with his unique “homing” attribute, which allowed him to maneuver past obstacles and ride the way to the finish line. Not bad for someone who could only rely on magic in a field dominated by brute force and martial prowess.


    He opened the door, expecting the cramped quarters he’d slept in. But as he crossed the threshold, the scene transformed—a spacious, open arena now stretched out before him, impossibly vast yet contained within the walls of this single, unassuming door. The air was dense with expectation, buzzing with the energy of countless matches and the weight of a thousand battles that had taken place here.


    Gerry''s eyes flicked to the opposite door, labeled "99." His opponent''s rank—low, and one he’d expected to brush aside. But as the door began to creak open, he froze. Walking through the door was a figure he recognized, with a calm, calculating gaze, focused and unyielding. Reynard. His target.


    His heart thudded, a cocktail of excitement and tension surging through him. Reynard looked completely at ease, composed, as if this duel was merely another exercise. But Gerry knew better than to underestimate him, especially now. He felt the weight of the dagger hidden at his side, its blade shimmering with the probability-breaking power that made it deadly even in this arena.


    Reynard’s expression shifted slightly as he took in Gerry’s face. No fear, no surprise—just focus, sizing him up as one would a sparring partner, nothing more. Gerry’s lips curled into a smirk. This would be the perfect chance, right here and now, to finally prove himself and fulfill his mission.


    In his mind, the plan was simple: face Reynard, win, and, at the critical moment, use the dagger. All he needed was a single strike to bypass the tower''s safety measures. Just one.


    Reynard stood in the middle of the arena, dressed in a sleek black suit that contrasted sharply with his pale skin. His dark hair framed a face that might have been handsome if not for the unyielding coldness in his eyes. His expression was a study in indifference, the sort of look that could drain the confidence of any challenger, and now he turned that empty gaze toward Gerry as if he were merely a pest to be swatted away.


    The dismissal in Reynard’s look pierced Gerry’s pride. This was no mere fight for rank or survival—this was vengeance. Reynard was the target of Gerry’s assassination, the man responsible for killing his fiancée, the puppeteer who had been his partner in this mission. And according to the prophet, Reynard’s threat to their cult was profound; he was hellbent on inconveniencing them to an extent they could not afford. This man had to be eliminated.


    Gerry’s voice broke through the silence, seething with resentment. “It’s been a while. I will make you pay for killing my fiancée.”


    Reynard’s gaze remained fixed, unflinching, and he replied, his voice a razor-sharp monotone. “Do you fight by wagging your tongue?”


    The cold dismissal was like a slap, igniting Gerry’s rage. “YOU!?” His fists clenched, his face twisting with anger. Swiftly, Gerry lowered into a stance, his body radiating intent. He summoned his aura, feeling it spark and surge as he imbued himself with his “homing” attribute, directing it into his limbs, his stance, his entire body. The homing attribute would make every strike seek its target with relentless precision.


    He could feel his muscles tense, his senses sharpen, everything aligning for one purpose: to kill Reynard.


    Gerry’s aura flared, his energy rising like a storm within. Where others might hang back, casting spells from afar, he reveled in the heat of close combat, his homing attribute transforming him into a force to be reckoned with. He smirked, his eyes narrowing with determination as he stepped forward. "I am going to hurt you… I will enjoy crushing you with my power that dictates fate. My aim has never failed me, and my truth is forever—”


    Without another word, Gerry’s form blurred, his homing attribute guiding his movements as he launched himself into the air with a flying kick. He streaked toward Reynard like a homing arrow, his trajectory flawless, his kick a blur of power and precision aimed right for Reynard’s chest.


    But in a shocking display of reflex, Reynard twisted back, his upper body bending at an unnatural angle, his feet rooted firmly on the ground while his body tilted backward at an eerie ninety-degree bend. Gerry’s kick sliced the air just inches from Reynard’s face. Before Gerry could react, Reynard’s hand shot up, grabbing his wrist with a vise-like grip as he hovered mid-air.


    In a flash of panic, Gerry channeled aura into his feet, swiveling his body out of Reynard’s grasp with fluid grace. He twisted, transforming his escape into a deadly roundhouse kick aimed at Reynard’s face. His foot connected with a sharp, resounding thwack that seemed powerful enough to slice through steel.


    But to his horror, Reynard remained unmoved. He didn’t so much as flinch, his stance steady, his expression impassive as if pain were a foreign concept. Gerry’s kick, designed to break his opponent, seemed to have no effect on this man who met his gaze with icy calm.


    Reynard moved like liquid steel, his grip iron-tight as he seized Gerry’s leg mid-swing. With a quick shift of his stance, he balanced himself on one leg, anchoring his weight in a single powerful pivot. In a move as fluid as it was brutal, he swung Gerry’s entire body with sheer force, the motion a masterful blend of strength and precision. Gerry barely registered the violent rush of air before his body crashed feet-first into the wall. The impact reverberated through his bones, his muscles aching as he steadied himself, toes scraping against the solid surface.


    But Gerry wasn’t easily broken. He had faced horrors most couldn’t imagine, clawing his way to survival time and again. His homing attribute might be underestimated by some, but Gerry had honed it to lethal effectiveness. Weak? Hardly. In one deft move, he channeled his homing ability into the floors and walls, creating an intricate circuit around Reynard. He dashed in a wide circle, blurring with incredible speed that left Reynard momentarily unable to catch him, his movements seamless, unpredictable.


    Reynard’s eyes narrowed, his stance subtly adjusting.


    With one foot planted firmly and the other angled forward, he braced himself, eyes following Gerry’s every move. His expression, cold and focused, barely flickered as Gerry barked out, "You’re done for. You shouldn’t have let me finish this."


    Reynard’s response was venomous, slicing through Gerry’s confidence with frigid contempt. "You bark like a dog. Do you shit like a dog too?"


    Fueled by rage, Gerry sneered, his aura flaring with the force of a declaration. “VECTOR INFINITY!” he shouted, his voice echoing in the chamber. In the next instant, he vanished, reappearing in a blur with his fist plowing straight into Reynard’s solar plexus, a blow capable of shattering even the strongest defenses.


    For a heartbeat, the air was still, the impact of the strike rippling outward.