Morning on Floor 10 never had sunlight.

  Instead, it had something colder.

  The smell of hot machine oil vaporizing from ancient ventilation pipes.

  The faint metallic dust drifting down like artificial snow.

  The damp chill rising from rusted conduits and leaking refrigeration lines.

  And beneath it all—the scent of thousands of people preparing for violence.

  Z-69 stood alone in the small training yard behind the arena, a cracked square of concrete wedged between two abandoned storage blocks.

  The overhead neon strips flickered unevenly, painting violet shadows across the ground and across his face.

  He sat atop a stainless-steel cargo crate.

  The Heaven-Sundering Blade rested between his fingers, turning slowly with each shift of his wrist.

  He wasn’t polishing it.

  Wasn’t sharpening it.

  Wasn’t even checking for damage.

  He simply watched the blade rotate—as if staring at it long enough might unlock a memory that refused to surface.

  Whenever the metal caught the light just right, something pulsed inside him.

  A battlefield.

  A silhouette.

  A stance.

  A motion.

  A strike pattern.

  All things his mind couldn’t recall, but his body remembered.

  But the moment he tried to grasp it with thought alone, the memory dissolved into static.

  He let the blade slow to a stop.

  Footsteps echoed from the corridor.

  Ten arrived breathless, still wrapped in bandages like someone held together with tape and hope.

  Sweat dripped from his chin, bandages stained with patches of faint red.

  He clutched his side, trying to stand tall despite the pain.

  “I—I'm here!” Ten shouted, hand raised in an awkward salute before he instantly regretted it and lowered his arm.

  Z-69 looked at him.

  Calm.

  Unblinking.

  Silent as an old machine booting up.

  “You’re still alive.” Z-69 said. “Good. Let’s begin.”

  Ten swallowed hard and nodded with excessive enthusiasm, like a soldier being told he somehow passed inspection.

  Z-69 rose, motioned for Ten to follow, and they walked to the center of the yard.

  “Attack me.” Z-69 said.

  Ten lifted his hands into a stance—not perfect, but not bad.

  Someone had taught him the basics at some point, and Ten had clearly practiced.

  His first punch came from the shoulder, straight and earnest, not sloppy.

  But when his fist struck Z-69’s open palm—

  Clack*.*

  It was like hitting the side of a steel container.

  Ten yelped, stumbling back and clutching his knuckles.

  “Ow—ow—ow—! My hand—!”

  Z-69 inspected Ten’s trembling wrist briefly before stating, without emotion:

  “You’re very weak.”

  Ten wilted like a wet rag.

  “I… I know…”

  “No.” Z-69 said. “You’re not ordinary weak. You are F-rank weak.”

  Ten blinked twice.

  “…Huh?”

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  A voice rang out from behind them:

  “F-rank? Ha! This brat’s bones aren’t even F-rank—they’re spaghetti rank! One hit and he snaps like a breadstick!”

  John had arrived.

  He walked out of the back door with a cigarette hanging from his lips, one hand in his pocket, looking exactly like someone who had zero expectations of humanity.

  Ten’s shoulders drooped so fast he looked like he might melt onto the floor.

  “I really am trying…” he whispered.

  John jabbed a solder pen at him like an accusing finger.

  He looked Ten up and down as if inspecting a malfunctioning appliance.

  “Kid, I need to ask.” John said, voice full of disbelief. “How—THE FUCK—did you pass Round Three?”

  Ten straightened like he was answering a teacher.

  “Well… uh… I—I don’t really know. The only match I won was because my opponent slipped… fell into a pit… and knocked himself out. I still don’t understand…”

  John stared.

  Then slowly—inevitably—burst into hysterical laughter.

  “Oh my god. Oh. My. GOD. This kid is literally powered by divine accident! He’s the chosen one of dumb luck!”

  Ten looked devastated.

  Z-69 didn’t laugh.

  He simply lifted a hand and motioned Ten forward again.

  “Don’t use your body.” Z-69 said. “Use something else.”

  Ten blinked. “Something else? Like… my heart?”

  “No.”

  “My… my spirit?”

  “No.”

  “My faith?”

  “No.”

  “Then what—”

  Z-69 didn’t explain.

  He bent down and picked up a small metal pellet from the toolbox lying nearby.

  “Close your eyes.”

  Ten hesitated.

  Then obeyed.

  Z-69 flicked the pellet.

  Whoosh*.*

  Ten tilted his head left a split-second before the pellet passed by.

  Z-69 threw a second pellet.

  Ten ducked under it—not fast, but perfectly timed.

  He wasn’t physically agile.

  He was precise.

  Z-69 threw a third pellet from behind.

  Ten stepped backward—not too far, not too little, just enough.

  Z-69 nodded to himself.

  “That. Your strength.”

  Ten opened his eyes, completely lost.

  “Huh? I thought… that was just luck.”

  John puffed out smoke dramatically.

  “Luck? No. That thing you’ve got—that’s instinct. Sensory reflex. Battle intuition. Normal F-ranks don’t have those. That’s a gift.”

  Ten looked stunned.

  As if someone had told him he wasn’t garbage after all.

  Z-69 stepped closer.

  “Your body is weak.” he said. “But your instinct is strong.”

  He demonstrated how to stand without wasting energy, how to hold his breath to feel ground vibrations, how to sense air displacement before attacks.

  Z-69 wasn’t really teaching—

  He was describing things that he himself did instinctively.

  Combat memory carved into his bones.

  Movements older than his broken recollections.

  Ten copied them earnestly.

  And shockingly—

  He learned fast.

  Too fast.

  Within minutes, he was dodging 3 out of 5 of Z-69’s normal-speed strikes—not from technique, but from prediction.

  John’s eyebrows shot halfway up his forehead.

  “This brat… has more potential than I thought.”

  Z-69 didn’t smile.

  He simply said:

  “Now choose a weapon.”

  Ten hurried to the weapons rack.

  He grabbed a wooden stick.

  Z-69: “No.”

  Ten returned it and grabbed a wooden sword.

  Z-69: “No.”

  Ten grabbed a rusty iron pipe.

  Z-69: “Absolutely not.”

  John finally groaned, opened his coat, and pulled out a battered military dagger and a worn-out energy gun that had clearly seen better centuries.

  “These two suit you.” John said. “I’m lending them. Return them when you reach Floor 9. They have sentimental value.”

  Ten held the weapons like he was holding treasure.

  Z-69 glanced at John.

  “Why didn’t I get a gun?”

  John froze.

  “…What?”

  “You didn’t give me a gun.” Z-69 repeated. “Give me one.”

  John nearly choked on his cigarette.

  “Excuse me? YOU? With a gun?! You’re the Immortal Thunderlight. You fire lightning from your hands! Gun users are supposed to—”

  Z-69 cut in:

  “I want one now.”

  John muttered curses, then reluctantly pulled a compact pistol from a pocket.

  “This was from my younger days. Don’t lose it.”

  Z-69 took it without expression.

  Training resumed.

  Z-69 moved slowly on purpose—no lightning, no enhancements.

  He forced Ten to rely entirely on instinct.

  Ten attacked with the dagger.

  Correct angle.

  Correct direction.

  Pathetic force.

  Z-69 dodged with a lazy lean.

  Ten switched to the gun.

  The gun was old.

  The energy cell inside buzzed like a dying insect.

  But Ten’s aim—

  Was frighteningly good.

  Not fast.

  But accurate.

  Every shot aimed naturally at weak points.

  Every bullet’s angle aligned with Z-69’s movement rhythm.

  Z-69 dodged everything.

  But inside, he acknowledged it.

  “His instinct… syncs to my movement pattern.”

  The boy wasn’t strong.

  But he was dangerous—in the exact right environment.

  Eventually, after several rounds, Ten collapsed to the ground, lungs burning, arms shaking violently.

  But his eyes—

  Glowed with determination.

  “D… Did I do okay…?”

  Z-69 picked up the dagger Ten dropped and nodded once.

  “You did well.”

  Ten nearly cried.

  The speaker on the wall crackled.

  “ATTENTION: ROUND FOUR – THE TOWER – WILL BEGIN IN 4 HOURS.”

  Ten straightened immediately, like a soldier hearing a war horn.

  John walked over with a small pouch.

  “Rations, water, painkillers. Don’t die—return my damn weapons.”

  Ten bowed violently.

  “YES, SIR! Thank you, sir!”

  Then he spun toward Z-69.

  “Thank you… for today. I won’t give up. I swear I’ll reach Floor 9!”

  Z-69 nodded.

  “Don’t die.”

  It was the closest thing to encouragement Ten had ever received.

  He ran off—bandages flying behind him like battle flags.

  Back in their quarters, John grabbed his tools and immediately began hammering dents out of Z-69’s armor.

  Lumina curled up against Z-69’s neck, tail wrapped around him like a fluffy scarf, occasionally twitching in her half-sleep.

  Her spiritual reserves were still dim, she radiated exhaustion like a lantern running out of fuel.

  Z-69 sat quietly.

  His fingers opened and closed slowly, observing the motion.

  Because during training—

  His body had moved before he thought.

  His feet had shifted before he commanded them.

  His blade had parried before he consciously decided to counter.

  His body wasn’t responding to his memory.

  It was remembering for him.

  Lumina peeked up at him, her voice soft as a sigh:

  “…Did something come back?”

  Z-69 stared at his hand for a long time.

  “…No.”

  Lumina nuzzled into his jaw gently.

  “But your body remembers.” she whispered. “That’s enough for now.”

  Z-69 didn’t argue.

  It was the truth.

  The loudspeaker boomed suddenly, echoing through the walls:

  “CONTESTANT NUMBER 69—PREPARE YOURSELF.”

  “THE TOWER HAS OPENED.”

  Z-69 stood.

  A faint violet spark flickered inside his green eyes.

  Not memory.

  Resolve.

  He took the Heaven-Sundering Blade, put his armor on, strapped the new gun to his hip, and walked toward the door.

  Lumina jumped off his shoulder and onto the bed.

  "Good luck and please don't eat the other contestants.” The little fox waved her little paws at Z-69.

  John watched him go, leaning back, cigarette glowing in the dim light.

  “See you on the 9th floor.” John muttered.

  "See you all later." Z-69 replied briefly.

  The door slid open.

  Cold hallway air swept in—carrying the scent of dust, metal, old fear, and new danger.

  The scent of a climb that would change everything.

  Z-69 stepped forward.

  “The Tower… begins.”