Veyne stood before the eleventh door, and for the first time, it was already open.
Not invitingly. Not as a gesture of welcome.
The space beyond was smoke.
Thick, oily, scentless. The kind that moved with intention. He squinted through it but saw only the vague outline of a corridor.
Revelation Instinct activated.
[Floor Type: Test of Self-Assertion]
[Warning: False Realities Active]
False realities. He hated those. Too close to the mind games from the Hollow.
He stepped through.
Instantly, the smoke solidified behind him. He turned. The door was gone.
In its place… a cottage?
It was small, clean. A garden swayed outside. Someone hummed from within. A kettle whistled.
Veyne took a step back, heart hammering.
Because he knew this place.
He had lived here.
Once.
Before the Tower. Before everything fell apart.
The door creaked open.
She stood there.
"Veyne?" his mother said, smiling softly. "You're back early. Did the fields treat you well?"
His throat dried. She looked exactly the same. Same gray-streaked hair. Same calloused hands. Same eyes that never judged, even when she should have.
He shook his head. "No. No, you're dead."
She tilted her head. "What a strange thing to say, dear. Come inside before the food gets cold."
The warmth, the smells, the memories—they clashed against the instincts that screamed wrong. He activated his skill again.
Revelation Instinct: Activated
Nothing happened.
Blocked.
He stepped forward—slowly. Not toward her. Around her. Into the house.
Everything was too perfect.
No dust.
No creaks.
No wind.
Nothing real.
"Why show me this?" he muttered. "What's the point?"
She stepped forward. Her face flickered.
And suddenly, she wasn't his mother anymore.
She was everyone.
Every life he'd touched. Saved. Failed. Dozens of faces overlapped—Lera, Brant, the hollow-eyed man from Floor 5. Even himself.
"You've shaped much," they all said in unison. "But have you decided what you are?"
The world shattered.
He was standing before a thousand mirrors, stretching into infinity. Each reflected a version of him.
—A tyrant in golden armor.
—A weeping scholar, blood on his hands.
—A child with eyes stitched shut.
—A man with no reflection at all.
They spoke.
"You've devoured. You've spared. You've chosen memory over power. Are you building something—or running?"
Veyne bared his teeth. "Why does it matter to you?"
One mirror cracked. A voice echoed from it—his voice.
"You don't even know what you want. That's why the Tower lets you climb."
He clenched his fists. "The Tower doesn't let me do anything."
He threw a punch.
Glass exploded.
Pain seared his knuckles—but the mirror didn't just break.
It bled.
Black-red fluid oozed down, steaming.
Devouring Insight triggered: Error — Conflicting Identities.
The entire floor was him.
Every inch. Every breath. It wasn't a trap.
It was a question.
And the only way forward was to answer it.
He took a breath and closed his eyes.
"Who am I?"
A whisper.
"You are the sum of your hungers."
He opened his eyes.
"No. I'm the one who chose."
The world rumbled.
The mirrors screamed.
Each exploded inward, shards flying—but none touched him.
Instead, a corridor formed. Steps descending.
Not up.
Down.
That had never happened before.
He descended. Each step bled.
At the bottom: a door of bone and reflection.
Above it, written in old, cracked ink:
[Truth of Self Test Passed — Trait Gained: Anchor of Will]
[Skill Gained: Shatter Facade – Nullify 1 illusion per floor]
He stepped through.
And the Tower pulsed, slow and deep.
It was not pleased.