Tower of Champions [LitRPG]

Scott and the faceless figure walked in silence through the dreaming forest; their pace deliberate but unhurried. They never turned—only moved forward—and the farther they walked, the more distorted the forest became.

This place... it feels like an illusion, Scott thought.

He sensed a dissonance between what his eyes perceived and what truly existed—but he couldn't pierce the veil.

More than twenty minutes had passed since his arrival, yet he hadn't seen another soul. No other champions. No wildlife.

The air was silent. Too silent. And yet, the world felt vivid—alive with motion he couldn't see.

Every time he looked back, the forest had changed. Trees bent in new directions, the sky cracked differently. The only constant was the man ahead, leading him onward.

Scott had asked dozens of questions—about the Banquet, about the forest, about the guide himself—but the man never answered.

It's probably nothing, Scott mused, but… ever since I arrived, my connection to the Throne of Madness feels weaker.

He didn't feel drained or threatened. Just… muted.

The lack of system notifications gnawed at him too.

He flicked his right wrist.

Nothing.

He sighed. Still not working.

To his dismay, he'd confirmed that he'd lost access to the system—no inventory, no summons, no interface. Whether he spoke aloud or thought the command, nothing responded.

And yet... My link to the Nihilistic Zone is back.

He didn't celebrate. Something still felt wrong.

I don't know why, but every instinct I have says calling on the Nihilistic Zone here would be catastrophic.

Scott frowned. His instincts rarely lied—unless he ignored them.

If whatever happens here is beyond me, I'll open the gate and leave. Consequences be damned.

He pressed on, keeping pace behind the silent man.

More time passed.

The forest still stretched infinitely, looping in impossible ways.

Then the man stopped. Scott halted beside him.

Before them stood a table—tall, flawless, carved from polished wood. Five feet high. A single, matching chair stood beside it. Both were ornate but untouched. No utensils, no adornments. Leaves danced all around but never landed on the surface.

"This is?" Scott asked, uncertain.

The man bowed. "Please, have a seat. The others are waiting."

"That's not what I—"

He froze.

The man was gone. No sound, no trace. Just gone.

Too fast. Too surreal.

Scott scanned the surroundings. Still no one. Still no danger. Just the same polished furniture… and silence.

He keeps saying "the others," but I can't sense anyone at all… Is the chair a gateway?

He stepped back. The world spun.

Then stopped—right where he'd started. No matter where he moved, he returned to the same position, always just a couple of feet from the furniture.

Scott exhaled with a dry smile.

Whoever's running this place has no interest in giving me a choice.

He studied the chair. Then the table. Then the ground beneath them.

No signs of a trap. No malice in the air. If there had been, he would've left without hesitation.

Slowly, he stepped forward.

He traced his fingers along the polished table. Cool to the touch. Yet, nothing happened.

He touched the chair next.

Still nothing.

Something's going to happen the moment I sit down, he thought.

To him, he had only two viable options: sit or escape into the Nihilistic Zone.

The only reason he hadn't fled already was the complete lack of hostility. If anything had felt wrong, he would've torn a hole in space and vanished.

Scott dragged the chair back slightly. Its legs brushed the grass without leaving a mark. Even the earth didn't stir.

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He paused.

Then inhaled.

And sat.

Crack.

The sound of shattering glass filled the air.

I fucking knew it…

Reality split. Cracks raced across the sky, the ground, the trees. Even the table fractured, lines spiderwebbing across its surface.

The only thing untouched was the chair beneath him.

Then—it crumbled.

Scott remained seated, eyes narrowed, as a new world unfolded before him.

The forest was gone.

In its place: a boundless ocean of clouds. No ground. No sky. Just endless, weightless white.

His seat was no longer a chair. It had become a throne—blackened, ornate, wrapped in slow-burning voidfire.

He was one of twelve.

Twelve thrones, arranged around a circular table that shimmered like molten obsidian, floating in an impossible place.

None of the twelve thrones were empty.

Each one was occupied by a presence Scott couldn't comprehend—as if a censor had been embedded deep in his mind, filtering reality itself.

Where the hell is this?

He adjusted in his seat, glancing around. His throne crackled with black flames—the same fire that once cloaked his war hammer and chains. Flames he hadn't summoned in ages.

Each of the other eleven thrones radiated its own identity. One glowed like molten magma. Another loomed like a monolith. One barely appeared at all, its form flickering in and out of perception as if it refused to be seen.

"Two newcomers within moments of each other. What a day," a deep, gravelly voice said.

"Truly," came another—refined, composed. "Our little club finally has a full set."

A booming laugh erupted. "I've waited a long time for this day."

Scott's eyes darted between them, trying to match voices to thrones. It was impossible. Their speech came warped and indistinct—like echoes passed through glass.

Who the hell are these people?

He opened his mouth to speak—but a different voice beat him to it.

"Welcome," it said warmly.

Scott turned instinctively.

The voice came from the throne at the head of the circle—a jagged seat of cracked mirrors, a million fractures glittering like starlight.

There, seated comfortably, was the same figure in the charcoal-grey suit.

"It's you," Scott said before he could stop himself.

The figure gave a light clap. The other thrones vanished.

Only Scott and the masked man remained.

"Don't tell me you've forgotten me already," the figure said, a smile stretching the fabric over his face. Even the inverted question mark warped slightly, curling like a grin.

Scott's chest tightened. His breathing hitched.

"It's you…" he whispered.

The voice. The posture. The mocking politeness.

He remembered.

"You're... wait—how is this even possible?" Scott's voice sharpened. "How did a lesser god manage to interfere in all this?"

The man clapped, laughing. "Ah, so you do remember. I'm touched—truly."

He stood from his throne.

A soft ping echoed.

Scott's gaze snapped from the notification back to the masked figure.

His lips parted, but no words came out. He just stared.

Of course.

Of course, the Overseer was a god.

No mortal could repel divine invaders, let alone banish two from separate zones.

Scott inhaled sharply. Then, slowly, he found his composure.

"That's not your true form, is it?" he asked.

The lesser god nodded and sat again. "No. Think of this as an avatar."

Scott nodded back. He wasn't sure if the form was meant to comfort him, hide from others, or serve some larger game—but one thing was clear: if this being revealed its true self, Scott wouldn't have lasted a second.

"That forest... and this place—are they illusions?" he asked.

"The forest was," the avatar said easily. "But not here."

He leaned back slightly. "I have no control over how you perceive spaces before entering here. That comes from the essence of your being."

Scott frowned. That forest came from me?

He didn't buy it. His true self wasn't serene or beautiful. That place had been almost peaceful.

The lesser god chuckled. "You don't believe me."

Scott said nothing.

"But I've no reason to lie," the god continued. "What you saw was shaped by your essence. Whether you understand it or not… that's another matter."

Scott eyed him closely. "You speak like you didn't see what I saw."

"You're half right," the god replied. "I didn't see it."

He shifted his seat slightly. "Not because I couldn't… but because I chose not to."

Scott raised an eyebrow.

"Nothing good comes from peering into the essence of someone you want to align with."

Scott stiffened. That last word hung in the air like a blade.

They sat in silence for a beat.

Then Scott broke it. "So… what's this really about? Why bring me here?"

Most gods wanted him dead. Burned, erased, forgotten. But this one?

He wanted something else.

The avatar tilted his head. "Do you know how many thrones remain empty?"

Scott frowned. How the hell would I know that? Who even cares?

Still… it wasn't a casual question. Not from a god.

"I don't," Scott said flatly. "Why do you ask?"

"I know," the lesser god chuckled, shifting in his seat. "It would be more surprising if you did know. Even most gods aren't sure. Only a handful…"

He paused, choosing his words carefully.

"Let's call them the Ancient Ones. Only they know the true number of empty thrones."

Scott narrowed his eyes. "Why are you telling me this? What does any of it have to do with me?"

Internally, though, the news gnawed at him. He'd always known gods could die—he'd met the previous God of Madness, after all—but this? The idea that multiple thrones sat empty?

It meant one thing: gods had been slain. Many. Over time.

With enough time… I'll be able to slay them too.

But Scott wasn't naive. Power didn't mean immortality. Even if he reached that level, he could still fall. That truth was terrifying—and exhilarating.

The avatar broke the silence.

"Most mortals believe gods are eternal," he said.

"Aren't they?" Scott asked, feigning ignorance. "Aren't you?"

He tilted his head slightly. "What's the point of being a god if you're not eternal?"

The lesser god smiled beneath the cloth. "Gods are eternal. But what mortals and gods mean by 'eternal'... is very different."

"How so?" Scott asked, watching him intently.

"Your predecessor is dead, correct?" the avatar asked suddenly.

Scott's expression tightened. That was common knowledge. But he could tell the god was building toward something else.

"Yes," he said. "The throne is empty. That's proof, isn't it?"

The avatar sighed, almost gently. "Is it?" he asked. "Is that truly death?"

Scott didn't reply. His frown deepened.

"Death for mortals," the god continued, "means annihilation. Mind, body, soul—wiped from existence. But for gods… death is different."

Scott's stare hardened. "Are you saying the slain gods are still alive?"

"Of course," the avatar said, chuckling. "I'm speaking with you, after all. The incarnation of Arkhontis."

Scott's breath caught.

He sat motionless, but something inside him trembled.

The god's voice turned quiet—measured.

"When a being becomes a god, it means existence itself has acknowledged them. Their essence is recorded—engraved into the laws of reality."

He leaned forward slightly.

"They can be killed. Banished. Even forgotten. But they cannot be erased. The universe won't allow it. As long as reality exists, so does that record."

He pointed at Scott.

"You—and every incarnation of Arkhontis—are proof. Even if none of you rise to godhood in this life, others will come. Again, and again."

He reclined, letting the words settle.

"Now tell me…" he said softly, "does that really sound like death to you?"