We rushed straight to the twentieth floor, a breath like a river held tight in our chests. We found something that looked like an elevator, but the air felt like thorns; we didn’t dare touch it.

Floors seventeen, eighteen, and nineteen were empty as winter fields. Every monster had flocked upward like crows to grain, waiting on twenty.

By design, the Tower of Final Stars should have many more levels—each one a separate slice of space, like mirrors set in the sky. Time hadn’t eroded them; Sorek, a squatter wizard greedy for the Sorcerer Emperor’s power, had cracked a few like ice on a lake.

Now we stood before the gate of the twentieth floor, blades lifted like moonlight, spirit bright as a bonfire, killing intent sharp as frost. The final battle breathed on the other side like a storm.

“So… a round of Kunte cards before we fight?”

“Why are you slacking at the brink?” Raven didn’t flick my forehead anymore. She chose the wide-burst method: a shout like a gong.

I felt the mood twist like smoke. Shouldn’t everyone grin and say, bring it on?

Wasn’t it the rule that, no matter how urgent the crisis—even if some love-struck baron was searching for his lost wife and daughter—we’d still cheerfully play a hand?

“Look, our usual is push the door and stare down a tide of monsters. We saw downstairs that everything’s gathered here. Why step into a trap like moths to flame?”

I wasn’t about to shiver and mumble, “I have a bad feeling,” like a scared villager under a thunderhead.

Honestly, the Shadow Realm whispered first. Shadow-touched beasts sense like wolves at dusk. They’re packed behind that door, waiting for our footsteps.

“So… Kunte cards, then?”

“We can play something else. I just don’t want to dance to the monsters’ drum.”

Let them wait an hour with bowstrings tight. Let the boss pose until his shoulders ache. Let them taste the fear a Hero carries like night wind.

Before the fight, we wound them with dread—a blow made of silence. Maybe I was a genius.

“Okay. Seal the gate before we shuffle. If they rush us mid-hand, we’ll look like fools.”

“You’ve decided already?!”

Raven watched everyone move, then howled again like a lighthouse horn. See? I’m the real leader here; Stini’s just our lucky charm.

“Eh, I think Andor makes sense.” Stini halted her reinforcement chant and tilted her head, a sparrow thinking.

Gloria and Elina couldn’t cast applied magic, so they hauled gear like mountain ants. Catherine, our Imbuement mage, was all busy hands and sparks. Only Raven stood untouched by dust.

“Miss Raven, I know adventuring grinds like sand. It wearies and bores. But I trust we can bear the load together. Could we borrow a little of your strength?” My tone was calm water.

“Don’t frame me like the lazy member politely scolded by the captain! I’m not unwilling! You’re just too fast—no room to talk.”

“Talk? We’ve already agreed. Look up, friends. Seal this door before the enemy strikes. Long live humanity!”

“Oh! Long live! Long live—long live!” Voices rose like banners.

We were shameless and synced, and we teased Raven for sport like cats with yarn.

“How—how could you? Aren’t we companions?” Her face fell like rain.

I’d expected the girls’ council to target me, but when Raven had the weaker footing, they enjoyed tickling her, too.

“All right, don’t mind it. We need your strength. Come on, work with us, okay?” My smile was a bridge.

“I said I’m not slacking, not prickly, and I won’t be swayed by some staged captain-versus-me scene. I’m not a character in a novel!”

“Right, right. The metal fixtures? All yours. You’re essential, we can’t do this without you. I trust you.”

“I said… sigh. Fine, fine.”

Truth loves hands. Raven’s mouth grumbled, but her craft was steady. She burned down a few Constructs with alchemy, forged a forest of support struts, and did more than all of us combined.

“But… what if the door opens inward?”

I tossed that pebble at the end. Eyes hit me like arrows. We went back to work with grit in our teeth.

We reshaped the supports for tension and compression, two bones in one spine. Another hour of imbuement passed like a slow tide. Finally, done.

“Cheers!” I raised a cup like a sunrise. After a feat, celebration is a balm.

“Cheers!” Everyone lifted their cups like shields.

“Cheers… wait, why are we drinking?” Raven clinked with us, then blinked like a deer.

“Raven, if you can’t keep pace, the age will leave you behind.” Stini delivered the official line with a bell’s weight.

“All right, all right. Then… cheers?”

“Cheers!”

Good. Drink, then cards. We felt less like an adventuring band, less like youths struggling together, and more… strange, like actors waiting for the curtain.

“No matter. I’ll trigger my leadership skill: Red Knight Commander—‘Keep a shred of dignity; you know how this ends.’ I want the mind flayer card.” My grin was a blade.

“I’ll trigger mine: Valley Daisy—‘What ancient races forget outweighs what humans crave to know.’ I draw one more.” Stini’s fingers fluttered like petals.

This hand was a grave. I stared at the spread and felt gloom like fog.

Stini’s a natural airhead, but luck clings to her like swallows to eaves. She always draws whole synergies, absurd as spring thunder.

A dull thump came from beyond the door—the monsters were impatient, pounding like hammers. I felt joy at the thought like a hunter hearing hooves.

“Stini… hear that? Something’s ramming the gate?”

“Nope. Play. You’ve got one life crystal left. Play, lose, then repay the IOU.” Her eyes shone like lanterns.

“We weren’t gambling.”

“Are you a man? You did it; now own it.” Her tone was a drum.

“I just played a hand. Why stake assets worth a thousand gold?”

“Less talk. Play.” If she were an orc, I’d see a big tail wagging like a banner. Too bad.

“Stini, you sure we’re gambling?”

“Of course. Die like a man.” She smiled like a wolf.

Fine. Then I won’t be polite—

A bone arrow hissed in like a viper. I shot my hand out faster than lightning and caught it at my temple. The rot of its hex gnawed my palm like frostbite.

“Nothing happened. Play and lose already!”

“Your hand’s wrecked! Heal, now!”

Stini kicked the table up as a shield, wood clacking like a shield wall, then drew the Holy Sword Yingfeng and batted aside the next bone arrows with silver arcs.

“Don’t you dare run! I’m about to win!”

“Call it a draw, okay? A draw, a draw!” I danced words like smoke.

Cheaters get loud when loss looms; her face was everything-but-my-fault. I’d assign extra grunt work later like stones in a pack.

My right hand throbbed, muscles slipping like wet rope. I drove the rot out with Shadow magic, dusk swallowing the blight.

The other girls swallowed a whole squad of trash mobs in the first heartbeat—clean and quiet like a scythe. No casualties, no wounds. Princess Golia surged first and carved through the crowd like a comet.

“Wait, Your Highness, their leader wants to talk.” I waved her back with sharp gestures. Otherwise Catherine’s special arrows were wasted… no, I still believed words could build bridges.

“Despicable humans, have you forgotten the glory of gold?” The voice was cold iron.

The lich at their head was all pale bone in a threadbare robe, a scarecrow that somehow pressed like a storm.

I knew him. He’d once begged me to resurrect his dead wife; both this life and the last, I ignored him. So Sorek turned to my nemesis, Anna.

He was born of elven royalty. He traded youth, flesh, and beauty for knowledge and power, and he truly stitched his wife back bit by bit—body, soul, then spirit—like weaving moonlight. The Demon King is as cruel as he is generous.

“Why not challenge us openly?” Even a lich with no blood seemed to boil like a kettle.

“Why should we?” My words were a blade.

“…”

Sorek sank into thought like a stone in water.

So you attacked without a plan, Sorek? A leap off a cliff with no wings?

“…For honor?” His voice cracked like old wood.

“You were preparing an ambush. What honor? That’s shame dressed in gold.”

“…Mortals of flesh, why have you come?” His question drifted like smoke, trying to hide the fire.

I would have played longer, but the story needed a cut. Fine. Mid-boss, meet your end.

“To kill you.” Even a skull should read that like thunder.

“I am Sorek, master of the Tower of Final Stars, soon to be Sorcerer Emperor. Even fallen, I never sought to harm the world. I only wanted a quiet place to revive my late wife. And you dared walk into my domain—death comes to those who trespass!”

Soul-flame churned in his eyes like whirlpools. Our fearless captain leapt out, righteous words ringing like bells:

“Then why endanger the elves of the Forest Kingdom? Why stir earthquakes like sleeping giants? Why does the Black Abyss breathe upon us?”

“I once was silver-born, so naturally—”

He rattled on, a river of words, a valley of fog.

What use? It ends in steel. I dislike bosses who pose forever; time to teach him.

I crouched behind our improvised cover, pointed at the smooth spot on his brow like sighting a star, and flashed Catherine the hand-signs:

See the target.

She nodded. She drew an imbuement arrow, set it, pulled, the string humming like a wasp.

A flat shot—an arrow that tore through the Godspeed Realm like a hawk through cloud—pierced Sorek’s skull and felled a straight line of beasts behind him like wheat.

Sorek the Lich: seven lives remaining.