Capital — Armand Family Compound, 5:30 A.M.
In a sprawling old courtyard estate in the imperial capital, lights flared in windows one after another as people rushed from their rooms. The Samsara Space had just closed for the night — 5:00 A.M. — and players were re‑materializing back to reality.
But one bedroom remained empty.
A woman pushed through the doorway, saw the unused return pad, and collapsed with a strangled cry. "Solis!"
Her son hadn’t come back. That meant only one thing: he’d died in the dungeon world and would never return.
Among the gathered family stood an elderly man in a wheelchair. Seventy? Eighty? Age had bent his spine but not his presence; the weight of long command clung to him like a mantle. Power radiated from him even as grief hollowed his eyes.
His beloved grandson had attempted the First Floor of the Samsara Tower tonight... and failed to reappear.
The Samsara Space forces all living Samsaras back to reality at closure. If they don’t come back, it means they didn’t survive.
Silence thickened.
At length, the old man rasped, "Third Child."
A broad‑shouldered middle‑aged man in his thirties stepped forward. His knuckles and brow ridge were scarred and callused like hardened steel. His stare cut like a hawk’s. A faint reek of killing intent hung around him.
This was no ordinary relative. He was "One Leaf Knows Autumn," ranked #97 on the Global Master List of the Samsara Space.
"Father," he said. "Your orders?"
The old man’s voice hardened. "The Tower of Samsara is deadly. We accept that. But a man of the Armand Family
"Yes." The middle‑aged man bowed slightly. "I’ll have an answer before tomorrow night."
"Be careful in there," the old man warned. "Our Armand Family is not what it once was. We lean on you now. Your safety comes first."
"I understand, Father."
He turned to the grieving woman and softened, just barely. "Sister‑in‑law... don’t lose heart. I will find out what happened. I’ll get you the truth."
—--
Morning.
Fenric jolted awake and knew instantly something was different.
His mind was clear, crystalline. Every perception felt dialed up. His senses hummed.
He could see lingering strands of moisture still hanging in the morning air. He could hear the traffic from the avenue beyond the gated community — individual engines, distant horns, even the rhythm of crossing signals.
None of that had ever been audible before.
Triple‑digit Spirit. So this is what it meant.
He’d probably have noticed last night... if he hadn’t been completely wrecked. Ten straight hours of slaughter in World War Z, riding fever, forbidden drugs, and adrenaline had burned him empty. Even after the system purged negative states on extraction, the mental crash had been real.
He’d barely made it to the bed before blacking out.
Now rested, he could finally feel the change.
—--
Wash. Dress. 7:30 A.M. His father still wasn’t back — must’ve worked late again. Fenric pocketed some change, grabbed hot breakfast from a street stall, and headed to school while eating.
He didn’t make it past the gates before the chatter hit him.
—--
"F**k, the Shura God is really something — another SSS Super God evaluation!"
"Yeah! And now everybody wants him. Check the forum — someone’s offering 100 million for his strategy!"
"The night before last, an SSS in a Safe Zone copy. Last night? Samsara Tower. That’s insane!"
"I’m done. God Shura’s my new idol!"
"The First Floor Tower matters more," another student argued. "World War Z is the Tower’s first floor. Anyone who wants to climb the Tower must clear it. Most people never try because it’s too dangerous, but with Shura’s strategy—"
"If he shares it, we could mass‑train new powerhouses!"
That triggered a debate cluster.
"Yeah! If Shura released the strategy, it would help everyone!"
"It would benefit all mankind! He should share!"
"Hoarding power is selfish!"
"Shut up. Why should he hand over what he bled for so you can freeload?"
"I mean... maybe free to citizens of our country?"
"Use your head. Once it’s out, everyone gets it. You think foreign forces won’t copy it?"
The argument spread through nearby rows like fire through dry grass.
Fenric listened at first, faintly amused.
Then the tone shifted — entitlement, political leverage, moral pressure — and his expression cooled. A frown slowly creased his brow.