Tower of Champions [LitRPG]

Scott studied the young man lounging on the glass throne, dressed in a luxurious red suit and a fur cape. His inky-black hair flared in every direction, defying gravity in the absence of wind. Long, oblong earrings chimed softly with each movement.

Scott met his piercing blue eyes without flinching, recalling their last encounter.

Back then, he was like a mountain I couldn't climb… but now—Scott smirked faintly—I feel nothing.

Like Ember, the man had once been one of the powerful champions who descended the Judgment Road. He was also among the first summoned by Scott's former title: Chaos Caller.

"Oh?" the man murmured, tilting his head. "You're smiling?"

"Shouldn't I?" Scott replied. "It's been a while."

The man stood, towering over Scott by nearly three feet. His eyes narrowed.

"Back then, you were pitiful. Weak. But stubborn. Or maybe just arrogant," he said, removing his fur cape with slow precision.

Scott watched him fold it over the throne, then remove his gold crested cufflinks and set them gently on top. He ran a hand through his floating hair.

"Now? That arrogance might be earned," the man said. His tone sharpened. "But who the hell do you think you are to show it to me?"

Heat exploded across the land as he spoke. Corpses scattered across the battlefield ignited instantly, reduced to ash in seconds. Even the ground blackened and cracked, the earth itself wilting under the pressure.

Scott stood motionless, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Surely this isn't your best—"

A massive flaming fist materialized in front of him before he could finish. Fire spirits—hundreds of them—rose from the charred soil, charging to incinerate him.

Scott didn't move.

The chains coiled around his gravitational field came alive, rattling and spinning with a rising hum. They whipped in wild arcs, forming a cyclone of blinding speed.

The fire spirits were drawn in—sucked into the vortex one after another, their shrieks lost to the roar.

The chains didn't stop.

They spun faster, consuming the very heat from the air. In seconds, the flames vanished. Only black sand remained—cold, scorched, and silent.

Scott stood at the center of it all, the chains floating quietly around him. Faint whispers echoed from their links—flame spirits devoured, still screaming within.

He grinned. "As you were saying?"

The man smiled, unbothered, rolling up his sleeves with deliberate calm. "Interesting. I underestimated you. That weapon of yours—"

"Thanks," Scott said flatly, cutting him off.

The man chuckled. "Divine Ore, I take it?"

Scott nodded.

"Impressive. I assume the hammer's the same?"

"You'll find out when it hits you," Scott replied. "Just a heads up—your head won't survive the meeting."

The champion grinned, settling into an orthodox boxing stance. "You with Authority?"

"Maybe," Scott replied.

"Good," the man said. "I won't hold back then." He nodded once. "Ready?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

Scott shot forward, war hammer raised.

In a flash, he was upon the man, swinging down with the full force of his gravitational field.

Then he saw it—those blue eyes turned molten crimson, glowing like living fire.

The champion threw a punch—simple, almost lazy.

But it struck first.

The blow hit Scott square in the chest. His body exploded instantly—flesh liquefied, bones shattered. Only the hand holding the hammer remained.

In that same instant, time blurred. A new hand snatched the war hammer as the old one disintegrated into ash. The man dodged effortlessly, and the hammer slammed into the spot he had just vacated.

He countered with another jab—this time to the head.

Crack.

Scott's skull erupted in flame. His headless body collapsed.

And again—before the hammer hit the ground—a new hand caught it. Another Scott emerged, charging forward without hesitation.

The champion punched.

Scott shifted mid-motion—but not fast enough. Half his face and upper torso were obliterated. Before his body hit the ground, another form seized the war hammer.

This time, the champion threw two punches in succession.

The air shrieked. Power cracked reality.

The next variant exploded before reaching him.

The one that followed was obliterated even faster.

Still, the hammer never fell.

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This time, a giant took its place—another Scott, massive in scale. The war hammer expanded to match.

The champion shifted his stance again, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. Three quick jabs snapped through the air.

Across from him, the towering variant raised the war hammer high.

A crushing pressure dropped over the land. Fifty miles of terrain fractured under the weight of the gravitational anomaly. Deep cracks tore across the battlefield like spiderwebs spun by gods.

Three massive shockwaves exploded between them.

The champion stood firm—flames crawling across his arms and legs—but he didn't flinch. His body burned, yet he moved with agile ease beneath the suffocating pressure.

Then he stopped bouncing.

Without warning, he unleashed a flurry of punches—faster, heavier, relentless. Each one detonated with a sonic boom, blasting craters into the land. Unlike the lazy blows he began with, these were sharp, honed, and deadly.

The gravitational field held—but the world around it didn't. The ground splintered and heaved, deep fissures vomiting flame and ash.

The champion switched to a southpaw stance. He fired six rapid punches with his right fist. Each one birthed a sonic shockwave. A blazing spear of flame seemed to form mid-air—but it shattered before impact.

Then came the uppercut.

The sky dimmed. Darkness rolled in.

The variant looked up. Fire circled the gravitational field like a crown of flame, spiraling higher.

A voice whispered—suddenly close.

"Where are you looking? Did you forget this is a fight?"

The champion was inches away. His fist already flying.

It connected.

The variant's head exploded. The raised arm turned to ash. The war hammer slipped from lifeless fingers, beginning its slow fall.

The gravitational field collapsed.

Rolling waves of fire swept in, swallowing the variant's remains and the falling hammer. In an instant, the surrounding miles vanished into a crucible of searing heat.

The war hammer crumbled to dust.

Yet the champion didn't celebrate. He simply looked to the sky.

"Still dodging?" he muttered. "That's no fun."

Giggles echoed across the battlefield. The air warped.

Dozens of variants appeared—each one different. Among them, a slender, emaciated version of Scott held the war hammer, grinning madly.

"You're right. It's no fun if—"

The variant burst into flames before he could finish.

Another caught the hammer before it hit the ground.

Then came the wave.

Like living missiles, the variants lunged with suicidal fury, all aimed at the champion.

He adjusted again—calm, precise. His fists blurred.

The war-hammer-wielding variant met him head-on, swinging in rhythm with each blow.

Explosions shook the sky. Air twisted into hot pressure pockets. Some variants vanished entirely—caught in the crossfire between gravitational distortion and spontaneous combustion.

The first few variants reached the champion—too close.

Massive flaming fists erupted from the ground, swatting the attackers from existence.

Amid the chaos, the champion and the hammer-wielding variant dueled in mid-air. War hammer clashed against fists, neither side gaining ground. Reality itself buckled—flickering between scorched wasteland and warped gravitational dreamscape.

Then the variant spun the hammer.

It grew.

The shaft extended, the head expanded until it dwarfed the variant's body. He could barely hold it.

Another version—a titan in form—appeared behind him. It shoved the smaller one aside and grabbed the war hammer.

He swung.

For the first time, the champion's expression changed. His brows narrowed.

He raised both arms to guard, and the flames responded. A massive fire shield flared around him.

The hammer landed.

Boom.

Hundreds of variants vaporized on impact. The battlefield cracked like shattered glass. Molten magma surged upward, geysering into the air. Fire rained down. Noxious fumes clouded the sky.

The fire shield trembled atop the boiling sea, battling the gravitational pull that threatened to erase everything.

Then—a figure burst from the flames, riding a wave of magma. Unscathed. Calm. Clothes untouched.

Scott sat upon the glass throne, watching the champion rise from the molten pool.

"Still want to keep going?" he smirked, slowly twirling the war hammer.

They locked eyes. Neither moved. The world around them burned and verged on collapsing.

The champion smiled and clapped.

"Impressive," he said. "Better than I expected."

He kicked the magma beneath his feet. It cooled instantly, hardening into an intricate staircase leading back to the ruined ground.

Scott watched as the champion descended the magma-stone staircase, each step deliberate. Then the man's voice drifted back up.

"Unfortunately, I doubt the Overseer would've allowed any further destruction."

As he spoke, a new cape and a fresh pair of cufflinks floated from his inventory. They hovered lazily in the air before snapping into place.

"You're the Primary Target, aren't you?" the man asked casually.

"And if I am?" Scott replied.

"Relax," the man chuckled, fastening his cape. "I've no use for the title or its perks. Not even you can keep me from reaching the Banquet."

Scott's eyes narrowed. The Banquet… that's what the 5th Zone is called.

He remembered the Curse Widow telling him it was the furthest one could go without being the Primary Target.

"What exactly happens during this 'banquet'?" Scott asked.

"It's pointless to ask," the man said, halfway down the stairs. "The Overseer wouldn't allow it."

He nodded toward the horizon. "Instead of wasting time, we just need to descend."

Scott turned. In the distance lay a gaping gorge that swallowed all light—pure void.

Hollow Earth, he thought. The name of the 6th Zone suddenly made sense.

When Scott looked back, the champion was walking calmly across the magma. The boiling surface didn't touch him.

"Why did you annihilate the Garden Servants in the Final Zone?" Scott asked flatly.

"They were disgusting," the man said without hesitation. "How dare they try to block my path?"

Scott smirked. "And the ships in the harbor?"

"Because I can," the champion replied, without pause.

He was closing in now, approaching the shattered remains of the throne.

"My turn to ask questions," he said.

Scott said nothing. He was curious what would come next.

"How did you enter the Chained Expanse? Through the Endless Bridge, or... some alternate route?"

"There are alternate routes?" Scott asked, raising a brow.

"So it was the Endless Bridge," the man said, ignoring the question entirely.

He stopped in front of Scott, now towering over him again.

"You've got quite the bounty on your head," he said.

"So what?" Scott shot back, locking eyes with him.

"Multiple timelines are in disarray. Champions are tearing holes through realms searching for you. It's only a matter of time before they realize you crossed the Endless Bridge."

Scott laughed, shaking his head. "Then your intel's out of date."

The champion frowned. "How so?"

"They're already here," Scott replied with a slow smile.

A subtle crease appeared on the man's brow. He hadn't known.

Was he trapped in some sealed space? Scott wondered. Something like the Chaos Vault, where time distorts?

The champion quickly composed himself.

"The dragonkin," he asked. "Is she dead?"

Scott didn't answer.

The glass throne shattered beneath him.

The champion didn't react. "That's unfortunate," he said with a sigh.

He stepped forward and tapped Scott on the shoulder.

Scott didn't stop him.

"I'll be going ahead," the man said.

He turned and walked through the ruined battlefield.

Scott didn't move. But the champion's voice reached him once more.

"Piece of advice," he said. "Your authority is powerful, but it can't be classified. The seat you draw from is still vacant."

Scott narrowed his eyes.

"So?"

"When you face someone pulling from an actual god—real Arcane Authority—you'll understand the difference. What you have is a spark. They wield the source."

He paused. "Fortunately, arcane manifestations can't exist on the Endless Bridge or in lower realms. You're safe—for now."

Scott scowled. "Then stop speaking in riddles. What are you trying to say?"

"If you want peace, don't cross the Point of No Return."

Scott chuckled. "Peace?" he scoffed. "You think that was ever an option?"

He didn't wait for a response. "Thanks for the warning. But I can handle myself."

The champion said nothing more. His footsteps grew faint.

Scott stared at the scorched remains of the battlefield.

Arcane Authority, huh? he smiled.

Beyond the veil of perception, countless variants of himself smiled back—each more deranged than the last.

I've already touched that realm…