Anon lay on his back, eyes fixed on the artificial sky beyond his dorm window.

  Even from here, he could see it.

  The faint curve.

  The imperceptible distortion where blue met something… solid.

  A ceiling.

  The illusion was good. Too good. Rolling clouds drifted lazily across a perfect sky, sunlight casting soft shadows over the grassy plains below. In the distance, small mountains rose to the south, and a silver ribbon of river cut across the landscape. Beautiful. Calm.

  And undeniably fake.

  They were inside something.

  Inside the Tower

  Seven days.

  Seven days since everyone had woken up in their own rooms — disoriented, confused, alone.

  Three thousand students from three different colleges, abducted without warning. No memories. No explanation. Just a dormitory room assigned to each of them inside a massive circular complex.

  Anon closed his eyes.

  He still remembered that first morning. The murmur in the hallways. Doors opening cautiously. People calling names. Panic barely restrained.

  The complex itself was overwhelming — a white-stone arc-shaped city built along the northern edge of the floor. Symmetrical. Futuristic. Clean lines and wide corridors. A massive cafeteria that could feed hundreds at once. Sports courts. Training rooms. Private dorms with upgrade panels.

  And then the amphitheater.

  That presentation.

  The screen had lit up without warning, projecting instructions across a floating interface above the stage. No explanation of how they got here. No apology. No captor revealed.

  Only rules.

  Welcome to the Tower.

  Reach level 100.

  Your wish will be granted.

  Death is not permanent.

  Anon’s fingers tightened slightly against the bedsheets.

  Not permanent.

  He’d read the details again and again on his wrist interface. Death meant sensory deprivation. Darkness. Isolation. And if it happened again within three months, the punishment doubled.

  The system even allowed you to set a pain limiter — not to reduce pain, but to define the threshold at which the system would forcibly kill you.

  It was clinical. Structured. Like a game manual.

  Which made it worse.

  He turned his head toward the door.

  The mood outside had changed drastically over the week.

  On Day 1, people were scared.

  On Day 3, confused.

  By Day 7, the atmosphere had grown heavy.

  Groups had formed quickly — old friendships, classmates clustering together, athletes naturally gravitating toward each other. The louder personalities had taken space. Some people were already organizing dungeon runs. Others were hoarding information.

  There had been arguments in the cafeteria yesterday. Accusations. Blame. Someone crying near the elevators.

  Scarcity did something ugly to people.

  Even if food could be bought safely on the ground floor.

  Even if monsters didn’t spawn on weekends.

  Even if, technically, they couldn’t truly die.

  Fear lingered.

  Anon didn’t fit into any of the loud circles.

  Reserved, with a presence that tended to fade into the background, he had always been more comfortable behind a screen than at the center of attention.

  Programming.

  That had been his thing.

  Logical systems. Clear rules. Predictable outcomes.

  The Tower was, in a way, the ultimate system.

  Monsters spawn during the week.

  Clear objectives. Earn currency. Upgrade.

  Progress.

  It should have been perfect for him.

  So why hadn’t he stepped inside a dungeon yet?

  Because systems were safe when you were behind them.

  This one required him to enter.

  To fight.

  To bleed.

  Even if death wasn’t permanent, pain was. Trauma was. Isolation in a sensory void was.

  He imagined himself in that darkness.

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  No sight. No sound. No touch.

  Just time.

  His chest tightened slightly.

  He hated that he was hesitating.

  Nobody had entered the tower yet.

  People talked about it — in low voices, between half-finished meals, during tense meetings in the common room.

  But talk was safe.

  No one had actually stepped inside.

  The elevator still felt like a boundary no one was ready to cross.

  A part of him kept analyzing the information anyway.

  Structured progression. Clear objectives.

  It was a system.

  And systems could be understood.

  For once, results would matter more than charisma.

  For once, being invisible wouldn’t be a disadvantage.

  He sat up slowly on the edge of the bed.

  The hallway outside was quieter this morning. Just tension simmering beneath polite conversations.

  He didn’t want to deal with it.

  The looks.

  The competitive undertone.

  The subtle selfishness creeping in.

  He needed distance.

  He needed data.

  There was one place he hadn’t explored yet.

  The library.

  It had been discovered on Day 4 — tucked behind one of the inner corridors near the amphitheater. Most people had glanced at it once and dismissed it. No flashy reward screens. No visible experience gains.

  Just shelves.

  Books.

  Archives.

  If the Tower was structured, then its creators were structured too.

  And structured systems left documentation.

  Anon exhaled slowly.

  He was scared.

  Not of monsters.

  Of stepping into something irreversible.

  But sitting still wouldn’t change anything.

  If level 100 truly granted a wish…

  His gaze drifted once more toward the artificial sky.

  A wish.

  Freedom? Answers? A way home?

  Or something more selfish?

  He stood up.

  One step at a time.

  He’d start with information.

  He crossed the room, fingers brushing the holographic interface on his wrist as the door slid open with a soft hiss.

  The hallway stretched ahead — white stone, symmetrical lighting, distant murmurs.

  Anon stepped out, closing the door behind him.

  ---

  Hunger eventually pushed Anon out of his thoughts.

  He left the dormitory wing and followed the curved corridor toward the central facilities. Even after a week, the scale of the place still felt unreal.

  The cafeteria occupied one of the largest halls in the complex.

  High ceilings. Long, symmetrical rows of tables. Clean white walls reflecting the artificial daylight pouring through tall windows. It could easily feed a thousand people at once.

  Today, it was half full.

  Clusters.

  Always clusters.

  Anon grabbed a tray and walked along the self-serve counters. The food looked normal — bread, eggs, fruit, warm dishes that rotated daily. Safe-zone provisions. He selected a simple breakfast and tapped his wrist interface against the payment panel.

  Monthly base allowance deducted.

  Even here, everything was transactional.

  He scanned the room out of habit.

  No one familiar.

  He chose a table near the edge of the hall and sat alone.

  A few glances drifted his way. Quick assessments. Recognition without acknowledgment.

  Anon didn’t lower his gaze.

  If the Tower’s rewards were real, if strength and results truly determined status here, then these shallow hierarchies would collapse soon enough.

  Popularity didn’t kill monsters.

  Efficiency did.

  He ate slowly.

  The food was good. Better than campus cafeteria standards. Warm. Real. Comforting in a strange way.

  For a brief moment, the tension in his chest eased.

  Seven days.

  No one had entered the tower yet.

  The elevator remained untouched — a silent monolith at the center of everything. People circled it metaphorically, but no one crossed the line.

  Fear was the only true monster on this floor.

  When he finished, he returned the tray, wiped his hands, and left without speaking to anyone.

  ---

  The library was quieter than he expected.

  Tucked behind a secondary corridor near the amphitheater, it felt almost forgotten. Tall shelves curved along the circular architecture, white stone blending with dark wood panels. Tables with integrated light strips. Several terminals embedded into sleek desks.

  Only a handful of people were inside.

  A small group of Japanese students sat together near one of the computers, whispering in focused tones. Others browsed silently through manuals.

  No tension here.

  Just curiosity.

  Anon felt more at ease immediately.

  He moved toward one of the terminals and activated it. A holographic interface expanded outward, revealing a searchable database.

  Structured categories.

  Magic Theory.

  Combat Fundamentals.

  Dungeon Mechanics.

  Affinity Evaluation.

  His pulse quickened slightly.

  He started with magic.

  Several introductory manuals described the core principle: individuals possessed natural affinities that shaped how energy responded to them. Fire, water, wind, earth. More abstract paths — enhancement, illusion, reinforcement. Some affinities were common. Others rare.

  Spells were not entirely standardized.

  The Tower adapted techniques to the individual.

  Meaning two people with fire affinity might cast fundamentally different flames.

  Unique talents could manifest as well — personalized traits tied to personality, instinct, or subconscious alignment.

  The system wasn’t just mechanical.

  It was responsive.

  Anon leaned back slightly in his chair.

  This changed things.

  If abilities were shaped by disposition, then brute force wouldn’t be universal.

  He flexed his fingers unconsciously.

  Dexterity had never been his strength. He wasn’t clumsy, but he wasn’t fast either.

  Magic.

  That felt right.

  Distance. Calculation. Pattern recognition.

  He navigated to the Affinity Evaluation section. Basic guidelines suggested meditation exercises, and sensory focus drills.

  No automatic scan.

  No free answer.

  The Tower demanded initiative.

  Good.

  He downloaded several manuals onto his wrist interface and removed two physical copies from the shelf: *Foundations of Mana* and *Basic Elemental Spells*.

  Preparation.

  That was step one.

  He left the library, manuals tucked under his arm.

  Outside, the artificial wind brushed against his face. The plains stretched toward the distant mountains. The faint curve of the ceiling shimmered far above.

  A contained infinity.

  He walked away from the complex, toward a quieter patch of grass near the river.

  Time to test.

  Time to find out what answered him.

  He sat down, opened the first manual, and began to read.

  The tower - ground floor