Tower of Champions [LitRPG]

Scott watched the champion approach the gorge ahead, his steps calm and unhurried. The land around them still smoldered, cracked and scarred—evidence of a colossal battle.

Should I really let him go first?

Scott folded his arms, the war hammer and chains now dormant. The toxic gas and searing heat failed to reach him.

Is there even a downside? he mused with a quiet chuckle.

Every time that man went ahead, he simply destroyed anything in his path. Scott figured this time would be no different.

Then the man jumped—vanishing into the bottomless chasm without hesitation.

Scott stood still.

One minute. Two. Three...

Boom.

A thunderous explosion echoed up from the depths. Flames burst skyward in a violent plume.

Scott smiled. There it is.

Some poor bastards had met the champion.

He moved forward, calmly. Step by step, he approached the roaring column of fire. The heat turned the surrounding stone to glass, fracturing under its own intensity.

With a flick of his wrist, the chains returned, coiling around his limbs and body. They lifted him slightly above the cracking earth as he continued his measured advance.

Seconds later, Scott reached the gorge's edge.

The pillar of fire had vanished, leaving only a heavy stench—ash, scorched earth, and something too mangled to name. A void yawned below, impenetrable even to sunlight.

Only a single, glowing glyph floated above the abyss—a hollow arrowhead pointing downward, as if inviting him in.

Here goes nothing, he breathed.

Then, he jumped.

Darkness engulfed him—then parted.

He was inside a massive vertical shaft, its walls glimmering with dim, luminous stones. Crude outposts jutted from the rock at irregular intervals—burned, collapsed, abandoned. Only ash and bone remained.

Scott glanced at the remains as he plummeted past. I'm going to be falling for a while. Definitely made the right call letting him go first.

Still, curiosity tugged at him. How did those people build stations inside a freefall vacuum? What were they guarding?

He didn't dwell on it. Whatever purpose they served had long been erased.

Hours passed.

Scott kept falling.

The outposts grew sparse. Every one he passed was destroyed—scorched, shattered, or crumbling. Not a single one had a visible exit. No doors, no alternate paths. Just tombs.

How would a regular person survive a fall like this? he wondered. Especially at this speed?

He could already envisage a field of smashed and withered bones awaiting him at the bottom of the gorge.

Oddly, the champion hadn't used his signature fire attack recently. The stench of ash was fading, replaced by cooler, fresher air.

Yet Scott could sense nothing. No signs of the champion ahead. Not even a ripple of his presence.

More hours bled by.

Scott's speed increased tenfold. The pull grew stronger with each mile. At this pace, even a near-immortal would be reduced to pulp before hitting anything.

Forget about being smashed to smithereens. No normal person can survive falling at this speed for long, Scott mused.

No new outposts. No sound. The glowing crystals had thinned out, and the darkness below was deeper than night.

Eventually, Scott lost track of time altogether.

The speed, the pressure, the isolation—they gnawed at him. The chains groaned under the weight of the descent, but the void devoured the sound.

Any normal body would've shattered by now.

Scott discarded his previous assumptions. The combination of the forceful falling speed, the bone-crushing pressure, thin and cold air, and maddening darkness, were more than enough to eliminate even the sturdiest of champions.

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The air was paper-thin—barely enough for a few breaths a minute.

Still, no end in sight.

He couldn't say how long it had been.

The sensation of falling had blurred. It felt like drifting through nothingness.

He no longer remembered when he last inhaled. Couldn't count the number of variants he'd burned through to sustain himself in this crushing dark.

Scott hovered in silence, weightless and waiting, surrounded by endless pressure and fading time.

The chains, unable to withstand the crushing pressure, had disappeared into his inventory along with the inactive war hammer.

Each second, a new variant crumbled to dust—instantly replaced by another, only for the cycle to repeat.

Endless slaughter. Endlessly endured.

Scott clung to existence, refusing to be crushed. Refusing to die.

In other zones, sheer will might be enough. Here, survival demanded something more—an obsession with life so fierce it bordered on madness.

Without Authority, anyone would have been swallowed by the void long ago.

I've left mortality behind, Scott realized. This is demi-god territory now.

No mortal could survive the dark. This was the territory of demi-gods.

It took ten variants just to process the message—each one disintegrating in turn.

I don't like this… Scott thought.

He'd seen redacted system messages before. They always hinted at one thing: entities too powerful to be understood.

Then another notification appeared.

Fifteen variants passed before the message fully registered.

And then—something changed.

The newest variant didn't crumble. He remained, trembling in the still darkness.

The system notification hovered in his mind, unread and ignored.

Scott couldn't move.

His body shook uncontrollably. A primal urge to prostrate overtook him—worse than pain, worse than fear. It was worship, involuntary and absolute.

This feeling…

His teeth clenched. It's the same pressure…

The kind the slumbering god exuded by simply existing.

A voice whispered—so soft it flayed the soul.

"Don't think of god."

The sound paralyzed him. His thoughts began to fragment.

Then another message appeared.

The pressure and whisper vanished.

Light exploded across Scott's vision. Blinding and pure.

He screamed.

His eyes burst. His variant's body hit the earth like a meteor—shattered bones, liquified flesh, a smear of ruin.

Bang.

Darkness swirled above the remains—and from it, Scott emerged.

Where the hell am I?

The forest breathed.

Towering trees rose like cathedral pillars, their bark alive with iridescent hues—deep violets shifting to aquamarine in waves. Leaves didn't grow; they floated. Suspended midair, weightless and still, as if gravity had been politely asked to leave. Translucent veins glowed softly, casting prismatic shadows on the forest floor.

Silver mist coiled at the roots, writhing like sentient smoke. The ground felt warm—neither dirt nor moss, but something between. Each footstep rippled outward, as if he were stepping through a lucid dream.

Above, the sky defied understanding.

One half spun with galaxies—stars blinking like curious eyes. The other bloomed with soft oranges and blues, where waterfalls cascaded upward into nothing. Cracks split the heavens, exposing alien constellations and impossible cities suspended upside down.

Scott's brow creased.

Where is the system message?

No notification. No mention of a Banquet. Nothing.

Then—

"Ahem."

Scott flinched. He turned.

Someone stood inches away.

The figure wore a simple charcoal-grey suit—flawless, ageless, almost unreal. His posture was relaxed, like a man waiting for a bus that would never come.

But his face—or the lack of it—broke the dream's balance.

A white cloth was wrapped tightly around his head, stretched taut over subtle features. No eyes. No mouth. No openings.

Only one thing marked the cloth: an inverted question mark, drawn in thick, black ink.

Scott stepped back instinctively.

Where did he come from?

"Welcome to the Banquet," the figure said. His voice was calm. Hollow.

"I'll be your guide. The others have been waiting."

Scott didn't move. He didn't speak. He simply stared at the man.

But the longer he looked, the less he understood.

No features, no aura, no hints of presence at all. Just the suit, the tightly wrapped cloth, and the inverted question mark drawn where a face should be.

"Who are you?" Scott finally asked. "What is this place?"

Silence.

The figure stood motionless, like a statue immune to time.

Scott scanned the dreamlike landscape. No sign of the champion who went ahead of him, or any other sentient being. Nothing but the pristine forest, untouched except for the ruined spot where his last variant had crashed. The body was gone, but the crater remained.

"Are you leading me to the Banquet?" he asked again.

This time, the man shifted.

"The others await your arrival," he said evenly. "Let me know when you're ready to proceed."

Scott frowned. Not the answer I wanted.

He stepped forward.

The world convulsed.

Everything blurred and warped, as if space itself rippled. Then—stillness. Scott stood exactly where he'd started.

What the hell?

He tried again. The distortion returned.

He took another step. The peculiarities returned.

It was as if the world itself afforded him a step. Nothing more. No matter what direction he moved, he returned to the same spot.

His eyes drifted back to the impact zone. He hadn't moved an inch beyond it.

Scott turned to the faceless figure again. Opened his mouth to speak—but stopped.

He studied him. Then sighed. "Lead the way."

The figure gave a small, courteous bow. "Please, follow me."

Without waiting, he turned and began walking—slow, deliberate steps.

Scott followed, keeping his distance.

The world didn't blur this time. No distortions. The strange rules had lifted.

He glanced back. Then, he suddenly stopped.

The impact zone was gone. The landscape was different once again.

As Slim would say… nothing's ever straightforward in this damn place, Scott wore a wry smile, shaking his head.

He pressed on, silent and alert, shadowing the man in grey.