Niko sighed and dragged himself upright, the aching in his arms and spine almost louder than the breath he exhaled. His body was sluggish, like it had finally decided the fight was over—whether he agreed or not. The empty hallway ahead looked no different than it had during the loop, but it felt different. It was still again. Real.
He turned his gaze down to the body hanging limp at his feet.
"…Tch."
Even though the guard had just put him through a maddening, looped hell, Niko had gotten… used to him. The silent presence. The weight. The rhythm. Like a weird passenger in a race he hadn't signed up for. Niko crouched, knuckles brushing the floor, and muttered something that might've been a farewell. Maybe it was sarcasm. Maybe it wasn't.
He looted what little the man had on him. A ring. A paper charm with writing too smeared to make sense. A small vial of amber liquid that smelled like mint and something sharper. He tucked it all away and leaned his back against the nearest wall, sliding down to sit.
His legs sprawled out lazily.
'Just a bit. Just gonna restore some energy.'
He closed his eyes and began to cycle his breath, pulling his focus inward to the slow, familiar rhythm of energy circulation. His chest rose. Fell. Rose—
—and then snapped.
A whipcrack of backlash screamed through his nervous system like a livewire. His whole body seized. His limbs locked. The sitting position crumpled into a slump—jaw slack, arms limp, breath stuck halfway between inhale and exhale.
'Ah, f…'
The thought barely made it through before his mind started to fog.
'No. No, not now. Not here—'
The warning signs had been there. He'd felt the edge creeping up since cycle eight. But like always, he pushed. And now?
Now, Burnout had him in a deathgrip.
Ten minutes. No movement. No energy. No defense. No escape.
His eyes flicked half-lidded toward the ceiling. The torchlight danced across the dark stone.
'Worst possible place…'
The thought trailed off.
Then there were no more.
Just silence.
…
…
…
Juno stepped cautiously into the tower's entrance, his boots landing with a soft tap against smooth, almost polished stone. He had expected gloom and grandeur, maybe even a surge of dark energy to meet him like a crashing wave. Instead… it was weirdly homey. Mystic and stoic, yes—but also domestic in a strange, old-world way. He blinked.
It looked more like a check-in lounge at a high-end tavern.
Chairs were scattered about in oddly perfect symmetry—plush ones, the kind you could sink into for hours. Tall lamps bathed the room in a warm amber glow, casting elegant shadows across deep red rugs and wooden end tables. Some of the couches were curved, some straight-backed, all of them inviting. In the middle of it all sat a long desk—dark wood, brass trim—and behind it, a lone woman stood as still as a sculpture.
Juno started chuckling to himself. "The Pale Arc's full of surprises, huh…"
He took in the room with amused disbelief as he wandered forward, hands in his pockets, soaking it all in. Everything looked so… mundane. Not the kind of aesthetic he'd expect from a place like this. There were no creepy statues, no sacrificial altars. Just classy furniture and warm lighting. Weird.
He finally reached the desk and offered the woman behind it a relaxed nod. She looked human enough, though there was something in the stillness of her gaze that reminded him of a painted portrait.
"Hey," he said. "Know where I can find a blacksmith?"
The woman's expression didn't shift right away—but her eyes did. Slowly. She turned them on him like he'd just told her he planned to slap a baby or burn down a church. Not anger. Not shock. Just… an almost exaggerated disgust.
Juno blinked, taken aback. "What…?"
Her expression remained unimpressed, and she simply sighed. "So young," she said softly. "It's always sad when young ones end up here."
Juno scratched the back of his head, laughing awkwardly. "Well—uh—hello to you too, I guess."
The woman finally broke eye contact and looked away, as if deciding the conversation wasn't worth the energy. "The blacksmith is on Floor Three."
Juno raised an eyebrow. "Floor three? How many floors are in this place?"
He remembered seeing the tower from when he'd first arrived—plummeting from the sky like a dropped stone, the spiraling spire stretching up into clouds that didn't even look real. It had to have been over two hundred floors, maybe more. It looked endless.
"Ten," she said flatly.
Juno stared. "Ten?! You're telling me this thing only has ten floors?"
The woman didn't look at him. "Each floor is a district. Large enough to hold cities, forests, arenas, even oceans."
He blinked again, mouth slightly agape. "So it's like… ten worlds stacked on top of each other."
"Correct."
Juno whistled. "Damn. That's actually kind of cool."
She didn't reply.
"And you said the blacksmith's on Floor Three?"
"Yes."
"Okay… and how do I get there?"
She exhaled again, as if he'd already overstayed his welcome. "To your right. Walk straight. Then turn right again. You will find a large floating orb."
"A… floating orb," Juno repeated, eyes narrowing a bit.
"Yes," she said, now clearly annoyed. "Touch it. Say the floor's number like a mantra. You'll be taken there. Simple."
Juno gave her a lazy thumbs-up. "Right. Got it. Thanks for the hospitality."
She didn't respond.
As he turned to leave, he muttered, "Man, someone needs a nap."
He followed the directions—right, straight, right again—until the hallway widened into a circular alcove, and sure enough, there it was. A large floating orb. It shimmered like liquid silver suspended in air, swirling lazily, its light refracting softly across the walls.
Juno grinned and walked up to it, letting his hand hover near its surface.
"Well," he said, "Here's to Floor Three."
And he pressed his palm against it.
"Three," he said aloud. Then again.
"Three."
Once more—
"Three."
The orb pulsed with warmth. And in a flash of silent motion, Juno vanished.
The world reassembled around Juno in a rush of windless silence. When his boots touched down, he found himself standing on stone—dark gray, almost slate-colored—but with something strange branching up through the cracks: thin, jet-black trees. Their bark was sleek and smooth like obsidian, their twisted limbs reaching up like fingers trying to claw the light from the ceiling, even though there was none.
Juno took a slow breath and looked around. "Damn," he muttered with a grin. "Now this is more my style."
Ahead of him stood a castle—not a sprawling citadel or some royal palace, but a monolithic structure with jagged towers and iron fixtures built into the walls like bones in flesh. It was blocky and brutal, yet there was elegance in the way it loomed.
He walked forward, hands in his pockets, until he reached the towering main door. It looked immovable, thick with engravings and iron slats that crossed like prison bars. He raised a fist and knocked once—thoom.
For a moment, nothing.
Then came a voice, gruff and tired and laced with impatience:
"Come in!"
Juno blinked. "Huh." He reached for the door and pushed—and this time, it moved. Heavy at first, like it resisted anyone but its master, but then it swung open with a low groan of steel hinges. "Guess it listens to him."
He stepped inside.
The interior was cavernous, like the ribs of a giant beast turned into a forge. The walls were layered with weapons hung in neat rows—most unfinished, some cracked, others glowing faintly with enchantments he couldn't even name. The air was thick with heat and iron and the rhythmic clang-clang of a hammer striking metal.
At the center of it all stood an old man, broad-shouldered and silver-bearded, shirtless under a leather apron. His arms were thick, corded with muscle and veins, hands blackened from years of toil. His eyes didn't glow or spark—they were just sharp. Experienced. Alive in a way that unnerved Juno more than magic ever could.
The blacksmith didn't stop hammering as he spoke.
"Who are you? And why're you in my forge?"
Juno hesitated. The question caught him off guard—not the words, but the tone. No comment about his age. No mocking smirk. Just a plain question.
"…I'm Juno," he finally said. "And I want a sword. Preferably a katana."
The hammer stopped mid-swing.
The blacksmith looked up. "Got materials for it?"
Juno's eyes widened.
"…Uh."
The old man stared at him for a moment. Then burst into a hearty laugh that echoed through the stone hall. "You forgot, didn't you?"
Juno scratched his cheek and laughed nervously. "Yeah… totally forgot."
Normally, this is where the embarrassment would've boiled over. Normally, someone would laugh or sneer, and Juno would break bones or twist limbs until no one remembered the joke. But this man—this old blacksmith—there was no malice in him. Just something warm and rough like old bark.
"I'm not surprised," the blacksmith said, waving Juno forward. "You've got that look. Young and full of ego but no prep."
Juno's grin faded slightly. "Thanks…?"
"Don't worry. There's another way," the blacksmith continued. "Use your essence."
Juno tilted his head. "You mean energy?"
The blacksmith snorted. "No. Not energy. Essence."
Juno raised a brow, mildly interested. "You're throwing around words like they mean something deep. You gonna explain, or are we doing the whole cryptic old man bit?"
The blacksmith chuckled again—this time more impressed than amused. "You're cocky. I like that."
"Not cocky," Juno corrected, stepping forward without hesitation. "I'm just used to being the strongest person in the room."
He walked straight up to the forge, the raw heat pouring against his skin like open flame—but he didn't flinch. His eyes reflected the molten metal inside, wild and curious, like someone staring at the core of a storm and asking it to hit harder.
"So," Juno said with a toothy grin, "go on, old man. What the hell is essence, and how do I turn it into something worth killing with?"
The blacksmith watched him with a spark of approval in his eye—something between admiration and caution—but he nodded.
"Alright then. Let's see what kind of monster you really are."