Getting back to their camps, the players felt a conflicted mix of emotions—relief at surviving, and guilt for being among the ones who did.
Those who lost their lives today weren't just teammates. They were friends, brothers-in-arms. That guilt—the failure to protect them—would haunt Zaine and the others for a long time.
Some might never move on. For them, the ghosts of the fallen would linger forever.
In town, the main court was crowded with parents—fathers, mothers, siblings—waiting, hoping to see their loved ones return.
Most would go home alone tonight.
Zaine led the surviving group as they passed through the sea of anxious faces. His steps were heavy, and his gaze dimmed every time he heard a mother crying out her son's name. He didn't flinch, but he felt every wail, every plea.
In front of the guild quarter stood Alfred, waiting for his son.
He could already tell what Zaine was thinking. His son never did hide his emotions well—at least, not from him.
As they faced each other, Zaine looked directly into his father's eyes.
"Tell me, Guild Master… what's the real purpose of the Tower?"
Alfred wasn't surprised at being addressed formally—Zaine was strict when it came to separating personal from professional.
What did surprise him was the question itself.
The reality of the Tower. Its true aim.
He had asked the same thing, years ago. But over time, those questions had dulled. Power, wealth, and climbing the Tower had replaced curiosity.
He sighed. "I don't know either, son. Maybe… maybe some things are meant to stay unknown. For now, take a break. Clear your thoughts."
But Zaine didn't seem satisfied.
"By the way… Where's Arthur?" asked Marius.
Everyone looked around.
Arthur was gone.
While everyone else searched the camp for any sign of me, I floated above, watching the crowd—mothers clutching hope, fathers hiding fear.
"Maybe one day I'll give them the same treatment," I whispered.
Sometimes, even a gangster needs a hug.
But right now, sentiment could wait. The Tower needed work.
After devouring the Apocalypse World, it felt wasteful not to turn it into something useful.
At first, I considered populating it with a new insect race—or perhaps breeding dragon-like creatures.
But the energy here—soaked in death and chaos—was far too corrupted. Most lifeforms wouldn't thrive.
Instead, I created something else.
[SYSTEM ARCHIVE: RACE CREATED – DEMON]
[Race: Demon]
[Classification: Hellborn Entity]
[Affinity: Chaos, Fire, Curse, Blood Contracts]
[Demons are soul-burning entities born in the Infernal Veins of the Lower Realms.][Unlike mindless chaos-spawn, Demons possess language, intelligence, and a dark sense of humor.][They prefer manipulation and deals over brute force, though they won't hesitate to use it.][The longer a Demon remains on a Floor, the more corrupted the environment becomes.]
[WARNING: Attempting to trade with Demons may trigger irreversible side quests or transformations.][NOTE: Demons respect power and cunning—cowardice is punished, strength is rewarded.][DANGER: Killing a Demon holding an active pact may trigger possession or a retaliation curse.]
Demons—the architects of chaos, the manipulators of fate.
They weren't the only ones I created, of course. Orcs. Ghosts. Others.
But the Demons… they were special.
"Now, let's build the gates," I murmured.
All across the soil, small holes began to open—one after another.
Fourteen gates in total, each a direct link between the Demon world and random points within the Tower.
Each gate would only open a limited number of times per year, allowing a restricted number of Demons to slip through.
It was a system of balance.
Because if they were all left open permanently, it would plunge the Tower into absolute chaos.
Maybe if I'd known just how much trouble those gates would cause, I'd have destroyed them right then and there.
But I didn't.
And now… they were open.
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The next chapters will all be about crafting and building the tower