20. Arsenal

Seiito continued his descent into the lower floors, the shadows of the labyrinth clinging to him like a second skin. His body felt lighter—not from rest, but from the intoxicating rush of power surging through his veins. This was no ordinary strength. It was a dark, twisted ability born from his suffering—a curse he had named "Harm Magic."

Every step echoed with purpose. Every movement was calculated. Pain, once his enemy, had now become his weapon.

He flexed his fingers, conjuring a cloud of dark purple mist that curled lazily in the air like a serpent, promising death with each swirl. The poison felt familiar—too familiar. The image of that venomous lizard, the one that had nearly ended his life, flickered in his mind. He could still taste the bitterness of the rare herb that saved him from its poison, and feel the burn in his veins as if it were happening all over again.

He pulled out his Status Plate and glanced at it—nothing. The new skills, the poisonous mist, the techniques he had discovered through agony—none of it registered.

"So, it only works… if I remember the pain." His voice was cold, and analytical, as if detached from the boy he used to be.

Harm Magic wasn't healing. It was a metamorphosis. The more vividly he recalled his suffering, the easier it was to recreate it—turning trauma into tools. A perfect weapon, born of misery.

Frustration simmered beneath his skin as he tried to replicate the devastating punch of the Pyrrhagon—the creature whose molten fist had shattered his ribs and blistered his flesh. But his fist was just a fist. No fire. No fury. Just flesh and bone.

"Tch. It's not about strength…" he muttered. It wasn't just brute force—it was mastery. If he wanted the same destructive power, he needed to mimic not just the injury but the intent behind it.

He kept moving, deeper into the labyrinth, testing the limits of his new magic. He recalled the fluid strikes of a Lost martial artist from an earlier floor—a being whose technique was refined through centuries of battle. Seiito's body shifted effortlessly, matching every motion. His limbs twisted, stretched, and struck with inhuman precision—like his body was no longer his own.

"This…" Seiito whispered, his eyes widening. "This is broken."

His lips curled into a grin—a grin that didn't belong to the timid boy trapped in the tower. This was something else. Something dangerous.

He had figured it out. Harm Magic was more than pain. It was absorption. If he survived an opponent's attack, their abilities became his. Every wound healed was another skill etched into his body—another strength stolen.

But there was a dangerous catch—a fatal one.

He had to survive the skill.

If an enemy's attack was meant to kill him instantly, there would be no second chance. No healing. No new skill. Only death.

Seiito's grin faltered for a moment, the weight of his discovery settling in. This wasn't just a gift—it was a gamble. To grow stronger, he had to willingly step into the jaws of death, knowing that one wrong move would end everything.

But he wasn't afraid. Not anymore.

He welcomed the pain now.

Pain wasn't the enemy. It was fuel. Every scar was a door—and Seiito planned to break through every single one.

He clenched his fists, and for the first time since being trapped in the tower, he didn't feel helpless. He felt unstoppable.

"I'll survive," he whispered, his voice low, steady. Cold.

"I'll survive…no matter what it takes."

Seiito slaughtered his way through the lower floors, monsters falling like test subjects beneath his magic. He used them mercilessly, treating them like experiments in his pursuit of mastery.

He poisoned one beast slowly, watching as the toxic mist ate away at its flesh. The creature coughed, staggered, and collapsed, writhing in agony as the venom spread through its veins. It begged for release, but Seiito watched in silence until it finally stopped twitching.

The next monster—a hulking brute with blue skin—he stabbed to death with phantom wounds, reopening injuries that had once been carved into his own body. Every cut was precise, every tear deliberate. It was as if he was reliving his pain through them—replicating his suffering onto their flesh.

He found no mercy in the monsters' cries. Their agony mirrored his own past torment, and it only fueled him further.

Each new creature he fought became a blueprint—their strengths memorized, their weaknesses exploited. He wielded their abilities as his own, refining them with every encounter. Poison, flame, claws, brute strength—nothing was beyond his reach as long as he survived the pain.

The monsters' howls echoed through the labyrinth, but Seiito's expression never changed. He had become a reaper, harvesting strength from every wound he endured.

The only sound that accompanied him now was the drip of blood—his enemies and his own. But pain was no longer a deterrent—it was the price of power.

Seiito's hands trembled with exhilaration, his breath coming in slow, steady beats. This wasn't just survival anymore. This was conquest.

He ran a hand over the blood-streaked edge of his eye and smiled—a quiet, dangerous smile.

No more fear. No more weakness. Only power—is earned through suffering.

And he would keep going. Because if he stopped, he knew the pain would catch up to him.

And there was no room for weakness in the tower.

Not anymore.

"This is getting exciting..." Seiito whispered, a crooked grin tugging at his lips. The thrill of power crawled under his skin, filling every empty corner of his being. The abilities he stole, the skills that didn't belong to him—they made him feel complete. It wasn't just strength. It was hunger. A ravenous need to take more, become more, and leave nothing behind.

He flexed his fingers, reliving the moments when the pain had transformed into power, where the agony he endured had carved new abilities into his soul. He craved it now— the rush, the madness, the overwhelming satisfaction of ripping strength from the bones of his enemies.

"Am I really a healer now?" he muttered with a grin as if mocking the gods themselves. Healing? No, this was something far more sinister. He wasn't mending wounds—he was feeding on them.

The cavern's shadows stretched long before him, but Seiito didn't care. He walked through the darkness like it belonged to him, a predator stalking deeper into the abyss. With every step, the weight of his old self faded, replaced by something sharper, colder—a creature that understood pain not as suffering, but as opportunity.

The tunnel expanded suddenly, and his breath caught in his throat. A massive castle loomed in the distance, its spires stabbing into the blackened sky like ancient fangs. Its presence was suffocating, a structure carved from the night itself, radiating malice and mystery.

Seiito blinked, stunned by the sight. It was beautiful. Terrifying. And utterly wrong.

He hadn't expected to find something like this—not here, not yet.

It pulled at him. The power radiating from the castle felt tangible, a heavy pulse in the air that resonated deep in his chest. It was a promise—a promise of more strength, more abilities, more conquest. And Seiito wanted it all.

He took a step forward, his heart hammering in his chest. He was so fixated, so entranced by the dark majesty of the structure, that he failed to notice the figure standing at the gate.