Regression of the Tower's Final Survivor

Chapter 114: The First Test

The combat trial announced itself with silence as Dante emerged from the living corridor into a circular arena of ancient stone, its walls marked with symbols that glowed faintly. The floor was smooth and worn, polished by centuries of footsteps from challengers who stood where he now stood, and in the center of the arena, eleven figures waited.

He recognized them immediately.

His old team. His original timeline family. They stood in formation as if preparing for battle, their forms made solid by whatever magic powered this place.

"THE FIRST TEST," the dungeon announced. "FACE YOUR FALLEN. PROVE YOUR WORTH THROUGH COMBAT."

His hand moved to his sword without conscious thought. "You want me to fight them?"

"DEFEAT THEM. MOVE FORWARD. OR FALL TO THOSE YOU ALREADY FAILED."

Drayven drew his weapon first. The motion was exactly as Dante remembered: smooth, practiced, the result of years of training. The blade gleamed in the dim light as he settled into a fighting stance.

"Sorry about this," Drayven said, his voice distorted and echoing strangely, though the underlying warmth was unmistakable. "For what it’s worth, I don’t want to do this either."

"Then don’t." Dante matched the stance, his own blade coming up. "This is a construct. A test. You’re not really him."

"Does that matter?" Drayven’s shadow-face shifted into something like a smile. "I have his memories. His feelings. His love for the team and his trust in you. When you cut me down, you’ll feel like you’re killing him all over again."

"That’s the point, isn’t it." Not a question. "The trial isn’t about testing combat skill. It’s about testing whether I can do what needs to be done, even when the cost is unbearable."

"Exactly." Drayven raised his blade. "Ready?"

Dante’s answer was steel.

Fighting shadows of people he loved was exactly as horrible as he anticipated. Drayven came at him with the aggressive style he remembered, a blend of power and precision that made him one of the most dangerous fighters in their old party. Dante’s body remembered how to counter it even as his heart screamed at him to stop, to find another way, to do anything except cut down the echo of his closest friend.

He cut him down anyway. The blade found Drayven’s side just as it would in a real fight, and the shadow gasped, taking a stumbling step back before dissolving into motes of light that drifted toward the ceiling.

"Well done." The voice came from nowhere and everywhere. "Eleven remain."

Vesper was next. The healer didn’t carry weapons so she came at him with magic instead, waves of light that burned where they touched. He dodged through the barrage, closing distance, and ended it with a single thrust that pierced her heart.

Her face as she faded was gentle, forgiving, and it made him want to scream.

"Ten remain."

He killed them one by one. Raza, the rogue who taught him to move unseen. Torch, the pyromancer who laughed at his own terrible jokes. Sera the younger, not the Sera he knew now but an older version who served as their backup healer before the massacre claimed her.

Each death hurt, and each dissolution felt like murder. By the time he cut down eight of them, his hands shook and his vision blurred with tears he refused to let fall.

"Four remain," the dungeon’s voice observed, neutral and cold. "You are efficient. You do not hesitate. But your pain is evident."

"Does that fail me?"

"Pain is expected. Pain is appropriate. Breaking would fail you. Continuing despite the pain... that is worth something."

The last four shadows circled him, and he recognized them as the core of his old team: Drayven, reformed from the motes he dissolved earlier, Vesper, similarly reformed, and two others who were closest to him. Somehow the dungeon determined these were the hardest to face.

They attacked as a unit and he fought like a machine.

Strike, parry, dodge, counter. Blade found shadows, shadows dissolved into light, and light reformed into attacks he had to block. The trial became a cycle of death and resurrection, endless combat against people who wore the faces of his deepest regrets.

Finally, the last shadow fell and the arena went silent.

He stood alone among the fading motes of light, breathing hard, his sword trembling in his grip. "I killed them again," he whispered. "I killed them all again."

"YOU DEFEATED ECHOES," the dungeon replied, its voice surprisingly gentle. "NOT PEOPLE. THE DEAD CANNOT BE KILLED TWICE."

"That’s not how it feels."

"FEELING AND FACT OFTEN DIVERGE. THE TEST IS NOT WHETHER THE VIOLENCE HURT YOU. THE TEST IS WHETHER YOU COULD COMPLETE IT DESPITE THAT PAIN."

The motes of light gathered in the center of the arena, swirling together into something new. Not a shape or a figure, but a presence, an acknowledgment.

"YOU CARRY THEM STILL." The voice shifted, becoming something almost warm. "GOOD. A WIELDER WHO FORGETS THEIR DEAD IS NOT WORTHY OF THE BLADE THAT WAITS. A WIELDER WHO BREAKS UNDER THAT WEIGHT IS NOT STRONG ENOUGH. BUT A WIELDER WHO CARRIES THEM FORWARD, WHO USES THAT WEIGHT AS FUEL FOR PURPOSE..."

The presence pulsed once, brightly. "THAT IS WHAT WE SOUGHT."

A section of wall slid open, revealing the next corridor. "PROCEED. TWO TRIALS REMAIN BEFORE THE FINAL CHAMBER."

He walked forward on legs that felt like they belonged to someone else. The corridor beyond the combat trial was mercifully quiet, the walls returning to the soft breathing of living stone. He could still feel the echoes of what he did, the phantom sensations of blades biting into bodies that wore familiar faces.

’It wasn’t real.’ He forced himself to breathe, to steady his shaking hands. ’They weren’t really them. Just shadows. Just tests.’

But the test worked. He proved he could do what needed to be done even when every fiber of his being screamed against it. He proved he could kill people he loved if the situation demanded it.

He wasn’t sure that was something to be proud of.

But it was something the dungeon valued, and Eclipse valued, so maybe there was wisdom in that. The enemies he would face wouldn’t hesitate to use his attachments against him. The Archon would throw his team’s faces at him if it thought the tactic would work.

Now he knew he could push through. He knew the cost of pushing through.

Both lessons were valuable, but both lessons hurt. He kept walking, and the next trial waited somewhere in the depths ahead.