The land was still... but not as land stills in a moment of peace, rather as a dying heart fades before stopping.
The mountains on the horizon, unmoving, did not draw near. But they were not what mattered at that moment.
From the crack that opened between the dark rocks, smoke emerged first.
Then the tower rose.
It was not a tower like others, but as if the earth had spewed it from its womb—jagged, black, rooted into the crust of the sky.
Green clouds coiled around its peak, quivering silently, as if breathing.
At its base, around flames untouched by wind, stood beings neither alive nor dead... their faces masked, their eyes dim like soaked embers, and each held a torn banner, its color belonging to no known faction.
Neglected symbols... remnants of fallen squads who never left this place.
Then from the shadow of the tower, a man emerged—unlike them.
He was not alone.
He was something else.
A tall knight, rising from the ground like a nightmare sprung from a dark root.
Armor wrapped around him, fused from black horns, with glowing emerald symbols scattered across his joints.
His helmet resembled the skull of a beast from a time long forgotten.
But from the slits of his eyes... a dark green glow radiated, pulsing like a hell just sealed and not yet extinguished.
He stood motionless, his massive sword planted before him in the ground... not held, but stood upon, as if it too had sprouted from his bones.
Silence.
Then, in a fractured voice, as if thousands of throats spoke at once:
"Those who have not yet died… must prove they are worthy to approach the mountains."
One of the nearby squads stepped forward, a haughty boy in a purple cloak laced with golden threads, who challenged, "We are neither your slaves, nor your disciples, you ancient dust!"
But he did not finish his sentence…
The knight's hand extended from the very void, as if it emerged from an invisible rift, and split the boy in two without moving from his place.
The wind fell silent.
All the squads froze, as if icy blood had been poured into their veins.
Some stepped back, others clutched their weapons unconsciously, their eyes not daring to rise to the knight.
One of the leaders whispered: "There's no time for pride… this is not a being we face, but a judgment."
Then the earth trembled.
From within the ranks, the crowd slowly parted.
Another squad… had not yet announced their presence.
They came in silence, their faces hidden behind iron masks.
The squad of the Mute Archers.
It is said they lost their tongues in an ancient rite to become pure instruments of death.
With unseen swiftness, their bows were raised.
Six arrows, each coated in the blood of a white dragon.
They were loosed.
In the air… time froze for a moment.
The arrows approached the knight.
But he did not move.
It was the sword… that acted.
It trembled in the ground, and from its edge surged a gray wave, as if it were the ash of time itself.
It collided with the arrows and erased them, erased even the air between him and them.
One of the mute archers charged, raising her long dagger and letting out a voiceless scream.
But she never reached.
The knight was suddenly before her.
His hand did not rise, he merely looked at her.
Then… she fell. As if her bones had evaporated from within.
...
The Hidden Tongue squad was watching.
Neera placed her hand on her blade's hilt.
But the old man with the square turban, from the Whispering Shadow squad, said calmly: "He does not move unless approached. He is a seal… not opened unless the mountains are touched."
Neera whispered: "And that tower behind him?"
He looked at her, with a gleam in his eye unseen before: "It is the Scale… where the next step is weighed."
Silence reigned again.
Until someone let out a dry laugh.
A thin young man in a red cloak, holding a crooked staff shaped like a scorpion's tail.
He said, "Well… no path but through him? So be it! Let's make it a game."
He stood, whistled loudly, and from the sky descended a small dragon of dark stone.
He mounted it, then pointed to the knight. "One of us will distract him… the rest will pass."
But the knight turned his head.
The green glow intensified.
And for the first time… his voice echoed over the mountains: "No one passes… except one who is reborn from death."
And so… the real game began.
---
The mountains remained distant… yet felt closer than ever before.
For what occurred at the foot of the tower was not a battle, but a massacre without fire.
The stone dragon roared, rising into the sky, dragging behind its rider who laughed maniacally, the crooked staff glowing with red threads.
But the knight… lifted his foot.
A single stomp.
The earth shook as if it were dying.
Green clouds burst from the tower's peak, and bleeding symbols rained down, as if the very letters mourned a coming death.
And from the sky… the dragon fell in two.
And the boy fell before he understood how.
The sword did not touch him.
It was simply… death declared upon him.
Then another squad charged—called the Deep Gasp. Their bodies covered in stony scales, moving like a wall of rocky muscle.
They screamed together, opening their mouths as they bellowed: "Kill us to resurrect us!"
They ran.
But this time the knight did not move.
Instead, the tower's phantoms… moved in his place.
They emerged from the flames, their eyes not shining, but absorbing all surrounding light.
They surrounded the squad, spun their blades, and closed in on them as caves do on those who enter uninvited.
No screams were heard.
Only the silence of sound… as if their souls had been distilled without trace.
Now… the squads began to retreat.
Some dropped their banners.
Others vanished beneath cloaks of sand, trying to crawl away in secret.
But the knight's shadow was taller than the land itself.
All who approached… evaporated.
All who snuck… were revealed, as a heart is revealed when stripped of its skin.
But something strange happened.
From the Hidden Tongue squad, the seventh moved.
The one who had not spoken a word since the journey began… whose name was unknown, and whose eyes had never been seen. He followed their group like an extra shadow, noticed only when the count was made.
He approached the knight.
No sword, no voice, not even a glance into the eyes.
His left hand was clenched, as if holding something ancient.
And when he stood before the knight, the tower trembled for a moment.
The seventh opened his palm.
A circular symbol, carved into bone, half-eroded, the other half glowing with a green light akin to the knight's eyes.
The knight was silent.
He did not move. Did not attack. He only… dimmed his eye's glow.
Then a sound issued from him, not a voice, but an echo:
"This… is the Seal of the First Covenant."
All the squads trembled.
Even the creatures around the fire… halted.
The symbol was a code from a time older than kingdoms.
A time when the knight was alive… and one of them.
The sword dropped slowly into the ground. Not as one defeated… but as one remembering.
Then… he stepped back.
And a passage of black stones opened beneath his feet, leading to a door within the tower… a door not visible before.
And the whole squad… passed through.
Without a word.
Without a raised sword.
Behind them… the knight sealed the passage, and returned to his stillness.
But he was no longer as he was.
Something… had broken within him.
And that seventh man… did not look back.
As if all he had done had been written since the first thread of fate.
It was never about survival… but selection.
The squads fell one after another, like leaves in a wind that does not recognize autumn.
But on the edge of the massacre, something happened the heavens did not expect.
From the eastern side, a silent squad advanced. Their banner black, with a crimson thread dangling like a frozen tear. They were known as the Final Offering Squad.
Their leader, a bald man with one eye and a voice that never rose, approached the knight until he touched his shadow, then said to his comrades without turning:
"The strong one is not who enters… but who chooses who dies in his place."
He then pointed to the youngest among them, a boy who neither objected nor asked, but bowed.
And the sacrifice was done.
A sacrifice with no blood… but an ancient rite.
The knight… lowered his head.
The tower behind him… breathed.
Then… it opened.
The squad passed. They did not run. They did not look back.
As if entering a sacred waiting hall, not a gate of death.
...
But the next surprise followed.
From the opposite side, the burnt remains of bodies rolled in, as if ash itself had vomited them.
They crawled beneath the earth, their limbs soundless, only a phantom glow shining from their cracks.
They were the Illusory Ash Squad, masters of transformation.
Known for the greatest deception.
They do not enter battles… they convince death they've already lost.
The knight did not move.
He believed them dead.
But beneath the soil, they crept silently…
Their bodies reclaiming form, moment by moment.
On the first floor of the tower,
They all rose as if resurrected from willing ash.
...
Then…
The last to arrive stepped forward.
The old man with the square turban, from the Whispering Shadow squad.
He said nothing.
But his eyes… saw what cannot be spoken.
He looked at the knight and said:
—"Those who emerged… did not emerge from their bodies. But from meaning."
Then he entered.
As if the tower itself… had been waiting for him.
For a moment, an unearthly silence prevailed.
Even the green clouds above the peak seemed to hold their breath.
Then… the earth quaked.
A metallic creak rose from the tower's base, as if the ancient joints of the earth were moving for the first time in centuries.
It was not a sound of welcome, but a warning.
The knight did not turn, but his shadow stretched, and behind him, the phantoms—neither alive nor dead—began to move again.
Their swords were no longer mere swords. But extensions of old screams… of souls who died trying to pass.
The repulsion began.
The "Last Echo" squad charged, chanting forgotten hymns…
And vanished as if swallowed by the abyss.
The "Brotherhood of Immortality," wearers of the seven rings, tried to cast a group spell.
But the spells melted on their tongues… and turned against them.
The mercenaries, those who came from distant continents seeking gold, began to realize the truth.
This was no war.
Nor treasure.
But a scale.
So they fled.
Some threw down their weapons and ran in the opposite direction, screaming without looking back.
Others melted into the shadows… convincing themselves that those who don't look… might not be harmed.
In the heart of the chaos, a single voice rose, belonging to no one:
"The gate will open… but not by your swords."
The voice had no body, as if the tower itself was speaking.
And the flames at the base were extinguished.
And all waited.
Because something… was on the way.
Something not among the squads.
Nor among the living.
But from those who were never meant to return.