Chapter 3

The next morning, sunlight filtered through a shattered window, casting fractured rays across the cracked concrete floor. Shiro stirred as the warmth touched his face, golden light painting his sharp features and catching in the streaks of gold in his dark, tousled hair. He blinked slowly, eyes adjusting to the brightness, his breath steady, calm.

The others were still asleep.

Their quiet breaths filled the building's hollow silence—Sera curled beside her pack with her arm wrapped around a scavenged blanket, Izumi resting with her back against a half-collapsed pillar, and Toshiro slumped near the entrance, weapon still in his lap.

Shiro rose without a sound.

Stepping carefully over loose debris, he made his way up the stairs, the old metal groaning underfoot as if the very bones of the building still remembered what it meant to carry weight. He ascended to the roof, ducking through a rusted hatch that had long since stopped locking.

The sky greeted him—soft blue, pale gold on the horizon, clouds drifting slow and indifferent above the ruins. Birds passed overhead in lazy arcs, distant shadows in a world that had long outlived gods.

And there it was.

The Tower of Fate.

Still distant. Still immense. Still watching.

Its form cut the skyline like a black monolith, endless and perfect in its symmetry, reaching into clouds so high they looked like smoke from a divine forge. It looked less like a building and more like a scar on the world—something that had no right being here, and yet had always been here.

Shiro took a deep breath and held out his right hand.

In an instant—silent, weightless—his weapon materialized into being.

A claymore.

Massive. Imposing.

The blade was sleek and angular, the double-edged surface tapering to a spear-like point. It was broad, forged in matte black steel, overlaid with glowing icy-blue veins of light that pulsed faintly like a heartbeat. Intricate patterns etched into its flat resembled circuitry or alien glyphs—runes from a forgotten age, or perhaps something never meant to be understood by human minds.

The guard flared outward into jagged, wing-like projections—part armor, part threat. The hilt was thick, industrial, wrapped in dark grip tape, the handle terminating in a core that pulsed with the same soft blue light as the blade, hinting at a hidden energy source humming beneath the surface.

Shiro stared at the sword, unmoving.

Takashi's sword.

He'd only held it once before it was handed down to him.

Takashi had been frail, bedbound, lungs ravaged by the sickness that would soon take him. His fingers trembled as he presented the weapon, laid it across Shiro's lap like an heirloom, like a burden.

"This isn't just a weapon," Takashi had said, voice soft and cracked. "It's part of the Tower. A key. A curse. I don't know which. But it has power... power I could never unlock."

Shiro hadn't believed him then. It sounded like one of Takashi's stories. But something had always felt different about the blade. Something deeper than steel. Something alive.

He raised it now, feeling its weight like a memory reborn.

He swept the blade through the air in a clean arc. The whoosh of its passage felt heavy, absolute. He stepped forward, rotated his hips, pivoted—struck again.

Each motion was deliberate.

Measured.

Controlled.

He moved across the rooftop with practiced grace, letting instinct take over, letting the weapon become an extension of his body. The wind rushed around him, tugging at his hoodie, pulling strands of hair into his face, but he didn't stop.

A slash. A step. A spin. A downward strike that cracked the rooftop beneath him.

Then—he stopped.

Lowering the claymore, Shiro brought it upright, placing the tip against the ground.

He gripped the hilt tightly—and with a sharp pull, drew something out.

From the core of the claymore, a second blade slid free, as if the first had simply been a sheath.

It sang as it left the scabbard.

The Katana of Fate.

Forged from the unknown metals of the Tower itself, its design was unlike anything else in the world. Sleek, lethal, beautiful.

The blade curved gracefully, glowing with a deep orange hue that pulsed like fire trapped in steel. The energy ran along the edge like a stream of molten light. Along the spine, segmented ridges gave the weapon a jagged, serrated feel—organic, almost predatory. It looked less like a sword and more like a piece of the Tower itself, sharpened into rage.

Its handle was stark and blocky, wrapped in matte-black composite. Hollow slots cut through the grip to reduce weight, while a single glowing orange node at the guard pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat synced to Shiro's own. Energy flowed from that node into the blade, feeding the fire within.

No one knew about this sword.

Not the others. Not even Izumi.

Only Kiyomi.

He had shown her once, when he first discovered it. When the claymore had cracked during battle, and this glowing blade had emerged like a second soul hidden within.

"This is its true form," she had said. "The Tower chose this sword. And now it's choosing you."

Back in the present, Shiro stared at the katana.

Held it up.

Looked down its glowing edge.

He turned to face the Tower again.

So many had tried to reach it. Most had failed before even reaching its base. Others had entered, only to vanish within its labyrinth of shifting floors and cruel tests. The Tower took things from people. Time. Memory. Identity.

And yet... it called to him.

Not with words.

But with weight.

A promise. Or a dare.

He slashed once—fast. The energy hummed, carving a line of glowing heat through the air. Then again—precise. Controlled.

Every motion reminded him of what was at stake.

Of what he still had to lose.

And what he had already lost.

He stabbed the katana back into the claymore's core. It slid into place with a soft mechanical click, vanishing like it had never been separate. One blade hiding another. One truth buried inside a greater one.

He planted the claymore into the rooftop, stepping back.

And for a moment, he just stood there.

Breathing.

Watching.

Waiting.

The Tower loomed in the distance, silent as always.

But now, he didn't just see a monument.

He saw fate.

And he knew...

One day soon, he'd walk into its shadow.

And either come back with the answers the world had buried...

...or never come back at all.

"Good morning," came a soft voice from his left.

Shiro glanced over, and there she was—Kiyomi—standing just beyond the edge of the rooftop, the early sun behind her. Golden light poured over her silhouette, outlining the curves of her form and catching the edges of her long black hair, making it shimmer like strands of obsidian dipped in fire. Her eyes, bright magenta, sparkled faintly under the morning light.

"Good morning," he replied, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth despite the weight he always carried. Somehow, she always brought out a softer part of him.

"Up doing some early morning training, I see," she said, stepping closer.

"Yeah," he replied, rolling his shoulder as he exhaled. "Gotta stay in shape."

"I see," she said again, voice warm but edged with a playful tone.

In a flash of violet light, twin gauntlets materialized over her hands—sleek, high-tech constructs made of some unknown alloy, each one glowing faintly with purple circuitry that pulsed like blood through veins. The gauntlets wrapped around her arms up to her elbows, a mixture of form and brutal function. Arc nodes near the wrists hummed with barely-contained kinetic energy.

"Wanna spar?"

Shiro looked at her for a beat, eyes narrowing with a mixture of challenge and amusement. "Sure."

They stepped onto opposite ends of the rooftop, feet finding balance on the uneven surface as the wind picked up. Between them, the old world stretched out endlessly—roofs of broken cities, towers gutted by time, streets overtaken by moss and silence.

Shiro gripped the claymore with both hands and slid into a defensive stance. The icy-blue veins along the blade flared softly in response to his intent, sensing the tension rising in his frame. Kiyomi flexed her fingers, the gauntlets responding in kind with faint pulses of purple energy that danced across her knuckles.

Then—they moved.

Shiro launched forward, boots grinding over the rooftop as he swung wide with a side slash, blade whistling through the air.

Kiyomi jumped—fluid and precise—vaulting cleanly over the arc of his strike. While mid-air, her fist ignited with energy, and she brought it down toward him in a powerful punch aimed at his shoulder.

Shiro turned, faster than she expected, and intercepted the blow with the flat of his blade. Sparks erupted from the contact—violet and blue light flashing in their faces. The force of her punch rippled through his arms, but he held firm.

He pivoted, repositioning his weight and went for another side slash, this one faster, lower.

Kiyomi dropped, bringing her forearms up to catch the blade on her gauntlets. The impact sent a shockwave across the rooftop, pebbles and debris scattering at their feet. The metal sang with the force of the collision.

Attack. Defend.

Strike. Parry.

Again and again, they moved like dancers locked in a deadly rhythm. Neither gaining ground. Neither backing down.

Kiyomi spun, delivering a rapid three-strike combo with her gauntlets—right hook, backfist, elbow. Shiro deflected the first, ducked under the second, and narrowly stepped back from the elbow, feeling the air burn as it passed his cheek.

He responded with a quick jab of the blade's tip, forcing her to leap back.

But she didn't stop.

Kiyomi rushed again, this time feinting a punch before dipping low, sweeping her leg beneath him. Shiro jumped over the leg sweep and twisted mid-air, bringing the blade down in a heavy vertical strike.

Kiyomi rolled to the side, barely avoiding the blow as it cracked the rooftop beneath where she had stood moments before.

Their breathing grew heavier.

The wind howled louder.

Kiyomi's eyes narrowed—she charged again, this time more aggressive, less controlled. Her right gauntlet pulsed brighter than before, energy gathering at the knuckles. She jumped upward, twisting into a spinning uppercut with both hands.

Shiro raised his sword to block—but the power behind the punch exploded.

Her gauntlet struck the flat of the claymore with an almost thunderous impact. The blade was ripped from his grip and sent flying, spinning end over end before embedding itself into the rooftop several meters away—sunk deep into the concrete, trembling from the force.

Shiro stumbled back a step, hands tingling from the shock.

Kiyomi landed gracefully, one knee bent, arms loose at her sides. Her chest rose and fell with quick breaths.

He stared at her for a second, then smirked.

"GG," he said.

"To you as well," she replied, smiling as the glow faded from her gauntlets. They dissolved into particles of light, vanishing with a soft hum.

They both stood there for a moment, catching their breath, letting the morning light bathe their bruises.

"You've gotten faster," Shiro said, rolling his wrist.

"You've gotten more reckless," she replied, brushing sweat from her brow. "That last slash could've knocked the building down if you missed."

He chuckled. "Wasn't planning on missing."

"Mm-hm."

He walked over to where his blade stood impaled in the concrete. With a grunt, he pulled it free, the metal shrieking slightly as it came loose. He rested it on his shoulder.

Kiyomi walked up beside him. The two stood there again, side by side.

The Tower loomed in the distance.

"You're still thinking about it, huh?" she asked.

"I never stopped."

She looked at him, eyes soft. "You're going to climb it."

He nodded slowly. "Yeah. When the time's right."

A silence passed.

Then she spoke, quieter this time. "When I'm gone?"

He hesitated, the weight of her words catching him mid-breath. He looked down.

"...Yeah."

Kiyomi looked forward again, toward the Tower.

"Make sure you don't die before you reach it," she said.

He smirked. "Wasn't planning on it."

She nudged his arm lightly. "You're too stubborn to die anyway."

Another silence. But this one wasn't heavy. It was warm. Familiar.

The wind blew through the ruins. Somewhere, a bird called.

The city, broken as it was, seemed to hum gently beneath them.

Shiro looked down at his blade, then back at her.

"Same time tomorrow?"

Kiyomi smiled. "You know it."