Not effortlessly.
Never effortlessly.
Every achievement in his life had been carved out through discipline.
At Seishin Advanced Academy, talent alone was never enough. Everyone was gifted. Everyone worked hard. Standing out required something more — consistency, composure, the ability to carry responsibility without cracking under it.
Takumi had built himself into that person.
He wasn’t the smartest in every subject. He wasn’t the most naturally charismatic. But he was reliable. Tireless. Methodical. While others relied on brilliance, he relied on structure. While others burned bright, he endured.
That was how he climbed.
Committee work. Event coordination. Academic performance. Mediating disputes between students who would rather compete than cooperate. He accepted tasks others avoided and finished them without complaint.
By the end of his second year, the presidency of the student council wasn’t a surprise.
It was inevitable.
And then there was Yui.
Vice president. Heir to a powerful family. Intelligent, composed, admired by almost everyone. For a full year he had approached her the same way he approached leadership — steadily, respectfully, without theatrics. No grand gestures. No public confessions.
Just consistency.
He showed up.
He supported her work.
He stayed after meetings.
And eventually, one evening beneath the fading light of the academy courtyard, he confessed plainly.
She had smiled — soft, almost shy despite her status — and accepted.
For a brief stretch of time, Takumi had allowed himself to believe the path ahead was clear.
Graduate with distinction. Expand his network. Build influence. Protect the people who relied on him.
Then the sky fractured.
And the Tower replaced the world.
Now he sat in a cafeteria that was not truly a cafeteria, beneath a sky that was not truly a sky.
The title of president meant nothing here.
Or so it had seemed at first.
For the first weeks after the abduction, the mood among Seishin students had deteriorated quietly. Discipline without direction turned into silent anxiety. Pride without progress turned into fear.
And Yui — strong as she was — had begun to dim.
That was when Takumi understood something crucial.
Leadership did not disappear just because the setting changed.
It adapted.
If the Tower demanded structure, then he would build structure.
If people needed direction, he would provide it.
And so, on Day 72, Takumi Yoshida sat calmly in the Tower’s cafeteria — not as a former president clinging to past relevance…
…but as the founder of one of the first guilds on the ground floor.
Seishin’s Watch.
And this time, the climb would be deliberate.
Now he sat at one of the long metallic tables of the Tower’s cafeteria, fingers loosely wrapped around a cup of tea that had long since cooled.
The artificial sky above filtered warm light through transparent panels, casting a late-morning glow across hundreds of students. The noise was steady — conversations overlapping, cutlery clinking, the occasional burst of laughter. It was not joyful, not entirely.
But it was alive.
That alone marked the difference.
In the early days, this same space had been suffocating. Too quiet. Too heavy. Students staring at trays they barely touched. Whispered conversations about home. About whether this was permanent. About whether climbing was even possible.
Now the atmosphere had shifted.
Groups discussed dungeon rotations. Mana builds. Equipment upgrades. Guild recruitment. People compared clear times. Argued strategies. Made plans.
Movement had replaced stagnation.
Takumi allowed himself a small, almost imperceptible nod.
Pushing Seishin students into structured Tower progression had been the right decision. If they had remained passive, depression would have settled in like rot.
Especially for Yui.
He glanced subtly across the table.
She was speaking quietly to Mei, posture elegant as always, long black hair catching the light. There was color in her expression again. Focus. Purpose.
That was enough.
Around him sat the four who formed his core.
Yui.
Mei.
Shun.
And Misaki.
They had been among the first to formalize the guild structure. The name had spread quickly — disciplined, reliable, efficient. His prior reputation as student council president had smoothed the initial trust barrier. More importantly, his former council colleagues had agreed to maintain cohesion inside the Tower.
That continuity had stabilized everyone else.
Membership requests had not stopped since.
Takumi’s objective was clear: unite Seishin’s students under one banner. Provide structure. Improve morale. Support even the weaker climbers so none would collapse under pressure.
An elite academy meant nothing if half its students broke before the fifth floor.
His gaze shifted across the cafeteria.
The Americans occupied a broad section near the central displays — confident, loud, already negotiating cross-guild dungeon runs. They were larger in number. Wealth and pre-existing networks had translated quickly into influence here.
Arrogant at times.
But pragmatic.
The French clusters were smaller and tighter. Conversations were lower, contained within familiar circles. Strong bonds, but closed. They moved like established communities protecting their own.
Trust between colleges remained thin.
It would take time.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
The Japanese presence was visibly smaller than the American groups — a fact Takumi had noticed from the first week. But they did not fragment. Their instinct was organization.
Hierarchy, discipline, cohesion.
Seishin’s culture had prepared them for this environment more than anyone realized.
He finished his tea and placed the cup down with quiet precision.
The movement alone was enough.
His team mirrored him.
Chairs slid back almost in unison.
Trays were stacked neatly. Conversations around them dipped briefly as nearby students registered their departure.
Takumi rose, adjusting his blazer automatically.
“Time,” he said simply.
No speech.
No dramatics.
They moved together toward the cafeteria exit, boots echoing softly against polished flooring. The hum of voices faded behind them as the central elevator pillar came into view beyond the wide glass corridor.
The heart of the Tower.
Students were already gathering there — checking wrist interfaces, forming parties, tightening armor straps.
Takumi did not look back.
Seishin’s Watch had been born from structure.
Now it would grow through ascent.
They stepped out of the cafeteria.
And headed toward the elevator.
The flow of students thickened as they approached the central elevator pillar.
That was when Takumi noticed it.
A small modular stand had been installed near the entrance — sleek, metallic, clearly new. A transparent panel hovered above it, looping a short promotional video. Beneath it sat an open crate filled with compact black devices.
Drones.
He slowed.
A title flickered above the display.
Intel Drones
The video projection activated automatically as they stepped closer.
A small hovering unit lifted off from a player’s shoulder in the recording, mapping corridors with faint blue gridlines. The environment rendered in real time on a shared interface. Multiple drones connected, merging their data into a collaborative map.
On-screen text scrolled:
- Real-time environmental mapping
- Peer-to-peer data synchronization
- Combat recording
- Proximity threat alerts
The demonstration shifted to a dungeon scenario. A warning flash appeared before a hidden monster lunged from behind a stone pillar. The drone pinged. The player reacted in time.
Offered to you for free by the Black Dragon Guild.
Takumi’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“Black Dragon?” he murmured.
He had made it a point to track emerging guilds since Seishin’s Watch was founded. American, French, mixed groups — even small independent clusters.
He had seen no formal registration under that name.
Beside him, Shun adjusted his glasses, interest already burning in his eyes.
“One of our secondary teams tested one yesterday,” Shun said. “They said it was extremely useful. The mapping sync alone is impressive.”
His voice lowered slightly, excitement barely contained.
“I’d like to study the tech. The synchronization protocol looked efficient.”
Takumi considered the stand again.
Free technology of this level meant one of two things: overwhelming resources… or strategic positioning.
Still, refusing useful tools out of suspicion alone would be foolish.
“We test it,” Takumi decided calmly. “Controlled use. No reliance.”
Shun nodded immediately.
Mei picked up one of the compact drones and examined it curiously. It was light — matte black casing, a single blue optic lens at its center.
If Black Dragon sought visibility, Seishin’s Watch would observe in return.
They passed through the security threshold and entered the elevator.
The interior was vast — far larger than its exterior suggested. Circular walls lined with cushioned seating. Reinforced storage racks for loot and equipment. Overhead lighting soft and evenly distributed.
It felt less like a lift and more like a transport vessel.
A digital display hovered in the center:
Next Shuttle Departure: 04:12
Interval: Every 15 minutes
Travel Time Per Level: ~5 minutes
Takumi had memorized the logistics weeks ago.
Five minutes per level.
Level 7 meant roughly thirty-five minutes of travel.
Passengers would be ejected before reaching floors they had not personally unlocked. The system enforced progression strictly. No shortcuts. No power leveling.
The doors sealed with a low hum.
The shuttle ascended smoothly.
His team took seats along the curved wall. Equipment was secured. The drone they had picked activated quietly, hovering once before settling into standby mode near Shun's shoulder.
Through the transparent vertical panels, they could see doors opening briefly at each cleared floor.
Level 1.
A small group exited — beginners.
Level 2.
A trio carrying fresh loot.
Level 3.
More traffic.
Each stop lasted a minute before the ascent resumed.
Takumi watched in silence.
Today was important.
To unlock Level 8, Level 7 required completion of two elite dungeons.
Regular dungeons were no longer sufficient.
Elite dungeons were a different category entirely.
Harder layouts. Denser traps. Coordinated monster types. Environmental hazards layered with intent. Maximum five participants per run — no overstacking numbers to compensate for weakness.
Dungeons spawned randomly across each level. Once cleared, they vanished. A new one of similar classification would eventually appear elsewhere.
Intel could be gathered — through scouting spells, quests, reconnaissance teams — but never perfectly. No one entered completely blind anymore… but no one entered fully informed either.
The reward reflected the risk.
Dungeon loot consistently surpassed surface drops.
Better materials. Rare skill scrolls. High-tier crafting components.
High risk. High return.
Takumi exhaled slowly.
This would be their second elite clear on Level 7.
The final requirement.
The elevator hummed steadily upward.
Level 4.
Level 5.
Level 6.
Some teams disembarked. Others remained seated in silence, tension coiling quietly.
Then—
Level 7.
The shuttle slowed.
The doors opened.
A new artificial sky stretched beyond — wider, brighter, harsher than the levels below.
Takumi stood.
“Let’s move.”
Level 7 welcomed them with the stench of rot.
The artificial sky above was permanently overcast, a sickly green-gray canopy where no true sunlight pierced through. Moisture hung in the air like a living thing. The ground was a patchwork of mud, shallow water, and rotting vegetation.
Swamp.
Endless swamp.
Twisted trees rose from black water, their branches like skeletal fingers. Croaking echoed in the distance. Something large shifted beneath the surface of a nearby bog, sending ripples outward.
Mei stared at the landscape with visible disgust.
Shun adjusted the small Intel Drone hovering near his shoulder, its blue lens scanning and quietly mapping the terrain. A faint gridline flickered on his wrist interface.
“Environmental humidity at ninety-three percent,” he commented. “Ground stability inconsistent.”
“Translation?” Mei shot back.
“You’re going to get dirty again.”
She sighed dramatically.
“I hate this floor.”
Takumi allowed himself a faint smile. Even complaints were better than silence.
They began moving along one of the slightly raised muddy paths — narrow strips of firmer ground that snaked between pools of stagnant water.
The swamp was deceptive.
Mei stared at the mud coating her boots.
“I cannot wait for Level 8,” she declared. “Please let it be somewhere dry. Or sunny. Or literally anything else.”
“Desert would be worse,” Shun replied thoughtfully.
“Don’t manifest that.”
They resumed walking.
The swamp seemed endless.
Occasionally they spotted distant silhouettes — crooked huts partially submerged in water, faint green lights flickering inside. Witches. Best avoided unless targeted.
Farther out, something massive shifted beneath deeper water. A troll perhaps. Or worse.
The path narrowed.
Thirty minutes passed in steady, cautious movement. Smaller creatures emerged — swamp beasts with elongated limbs, amphibious predators looking for prey.
The drone’s map steadily expanded.
Despite the hostile terrain, their movements were fluid. Level 7 was unpleasant — but it was no longer intimidating.
They were close.
Finally, the terrain changed.
The mud gave way to firmer, darker soil. The trees thinned.
Ahead, partially swallowed by creeping vines and leaning stone markers, stood a structure that did not belong to the swamp.
A crypt entrance.
Ancient stone steps descended into darkness. Moss-covered pillars flanked a heavy arched doorway carved with faded runes.
Cold air drifted outward from within.
Takumi stopped at the base of the steps.
No ambient swamp noise reached this place.
Even the insects avoided it.
The intel drone hovered forward slightly, scanning the entrance. The mapping grid halted at the threshold — beyond it, no data.
“Dungeon confirmed,” Shun said quietly.
Mei crossed her arms, mud forgotten for the moment.
“Please tell me this is the last one.”
Takumi looked down into the dark.
“Yes.”
The final elite dungeon required for Level 8.