Chapter 320 - A Vow in Silence

Leonie stood reviewing the schematics this ‘human’ civilization inside The Tower had shared with them. After aiding them in some hunts and other tasks, they had been entrusted with a method—a structured path for advancing both physical strength and Pillar capability, each developing along distinct lines.

Parts of it resembled the frameworks the Super AI, CASI, had suggested, yet this was undeniably a superior version. The flaws in stability that had capped proficiency were absent here. Instead, this system seemed to open a stable foundation, one that could truly be built upon.

If her interpretation was correct, achieving both states was the bare minimum, the requirement to be acknowledged as the lowest caste among the Ajnals’ warriors. Which begged the question—how powerful were those at the summit? And more than that, just how far could humans evolve within The Tower?

A knock sounded on her door, though she had already tracked his presence.

“Come in, Otto,” she said evenly.

The man entered and bowed. “We have located two more, from Leonhard’s group.”

“I assume you explained the rules. Their response?”

“They’ve agreed to cooperate.”

Leonie inclined her head, not at all surprised.

The ceiling for this stage’s participation was not 49, as the one before. The waiting room marker extended to 93, linking them with Leonhard’s team. She had yet to decide if that was good or bad. Would the challenge scale with numbers, or remain unchanged?

Either way, most would not survive. This stage demanded a discipline and talent sharper than any before it. A single idle day, a poorly chosen path, a delay in reaching one of the required states—any misstep would place one beneath the marker.

And Leonie knew, with absolute certainty, that she was the most capable person here. The burden of this stage rested on her decisions, her strength, her command. For humanity, for Earth—she could not fail.

That was why… she was the best person for this task.

A faint smile touched her lips as the thought stirred something long buried. How is he doing? Was he still inside? Had he reached this point, stood where she stood now?

Her gaze drifted past the door, settling on the distant hills along the horizon.

Where are you, brother?

Lukas stood still before the carved stone, its face etched with lines he knew too well.

The likeness of Arjun stared back at him in silence, caught forever in the unyielding texture of rock. Around the base, flowers had been laid—bright colours against the grey surface. The arrangement was modest, yet it carried a dignity that needed no embellishment. Perhaps it was not the flowers themselves that lent solemnity to the place, but the people who had gathered here, their presence heavier than words.

At his right was Chiara. She wore the black mantle of the Azcoyatl, its fabric trailing nearly to the ground. Her hands were clasped before her, head slightly bowed, her expression unreadable but steeped in restraint.

Beside her stood Wang, his frame draped in a dark cape that covered the glint of his armour. His helmet rested against his side, and his eyes—sharp and unflinching in battle—now stared downward, softened with the weight of loss.

On Lukas’s left was Ayu. She wore her panther-hide garb, layered beneath a long fur coat whose edges brushed the grass. Her head was lifted, but her gaze remained locked on the carved stone.

Next to her towered Imani. His tall frame was bowed ever so slightly forward, arms resting against his sides, his eyes fixed on the engraving he himself had carved. His hands had shaped the stone, line by line, until Arjun’s likeness took form. Beneath it, he had carved the words:

“In memory of Arjun Rathore. A brave warrior who gave his life for the world and his family. A man whose strength was matched only by his devotion. A friend who fought with honour, and whose sacrifice will guide those who remain.”

Silence blanketed the gathering, broken only by the faint wind that stirred the grass. Each face, each bowed head, spoke louder than any proclamation could.

Across from Lukas and the others, the rest of the Climbers stood in a line. Mei, Maurice, Camila, Ishaam… fourteen in total. The survivors.

Ishaam, in particular, seemed more shaken than the others. His expression carried not only sorrow but something deeper, a weight that pressed behind his eyes—more than grief, though he kept it buried beneath composure.

Seconds passed before Ayu’s gaze flickered to the side. Chiara’s followed. One by one, the others turned too.

A soft thud on the grass announced him. Alonso.

He came forward in his hide armour, a fur coat draped over broad shoulders, swords resting at his hips. His beard was unkempt, his long hair brushing past his jaw and stirring in the breeze. His eyes were heavy.

He looked first to Ayu, then to Lukas, and gave a single nod before walking to the stone.

He knelt, setting his hand to the grass where the flowers lay.

“I forgot flowers,” he murmured, voice low. “But maybe you’d have preferred this.”

From his pack, a curved blade floated to his hand. A Warden’s limb, severed clean. He rested it at the foot of the grave.

The others watched in silence, some exchanging quiet glances as they recognised the blade. Alonso stayed a few seconds longer, eyes locked on the carved stone, before speaking again.

“We… will make it.”

He rose, and Imani shifted slightly to make space beside him and Ayu. Alonso nodded his thanks and stepped into place.

Ayu’s eyes followed him—questions, grief, and something else flickering in her look—but she said nothing. Not now.

Lukas drew a long breath, steadying himself, and stepped forward.

“Arjun Rathore.”

His gaze swept across those assembled.

“He was a man who chose to fight, not for himself, but for what he believed should endure—his family, his people, his world. In The Tower, we are taught to fight because survival demands it. But Arjun… he fought because love demanded it.”

The words seemed to catch for an instant, and Lukas drew in another breath before continuing.

“We stand here to remember. To remember the man who gave his life so we could go on. Who gave his life for a purpose greater than himself.”

His voice sharpened, carrying further.

“But more than remembrance, this is a vow. A vow that we will not let his death—or the death of any who came before or after—fade into silence. We will carry his dream, his fight, his very soul, on our shoulders. As long as we draw breath, Arjun does not die. None of them do. They march with us.”

He looked across the gathered faces, voice rising.

“We climb for them. For those who gave everything! For those whose blood feeds the ground beneath our feet! Every loss, every scar, every friend buried here becomes our strength, our edge, our fire. Their sacrifice will not be wasted.”

He raised his hand, fist tight.

“To the top of the Tower—we will take them with us! Their will, their hope, their courage, lives in us now! Dead or alive… we climb together!”

His eyes burned, voice breaking into a roar.

“And hear me well—WE WILL WIN! For them, for us, for all that remains—we will win!”

Silence followed for a beat, heavy and absolute. And then, as if pulled by something greater than themselves, the Climbers echoed back, voices trembling but fierce:

“We will win!”

Alonso walked forward through the heart of the Ajnal capital, guided by a Sun Bearer. Behind him came Lukas, Ayu, Chiara, Imani, and Wang.

Unlike the others, this was Alonso’s first time here.

The streets, lined with obsidian stone and carved reliefs of ancient hunts, led them steadily toward the towering pyramid at the city’s centre. To him, it was both foreign and familiar—foreign because he had never set foot here, familiar because of the weight of eyes on him, the whispers following each step.

“General,” voices murmured as they passed, heads bowing low. The word repeated itself like a tide, respectful and hushed. He caught flashes of awe in the eyes of warriors, curiosity in children, quiet relief in the older folk.

He had not grown used to it. To be addressed as one of the two Generals of the Ajnal felt strange, almost ironic. Only months ago, he had reached them as an outcast in a far away village. Now his name was carved into the mouths of strangers, spoken with reverence he had never sought.

And yet, the city itself bore signs of strain. Migration had swollen its numbers beyond comfort; the streets pressed with more faces than the stones seemed built to hold. The pressure of the Xok’al invasion was no longer a distant tale. It was here, felt in the air, heavy on the capital’s chest.

They ascended the broad steps of the central pyramid. Inside, the corridors stretched in smooth precision, opening into grand halls of polished obsidian streaked with veins of gold. Torchlight clung to the walls, fractured and scattered into shifting patterns.

The silence was deep, broken only by the measured rhythm of boots against stone.

Every Ajnal they passed stopped, saluted, or inclined their heads. Some spoke the word “General.” Others only watched, the weight of recognition in their stares enough to say more than words could.

At last they were led into a chamber marked with images of gold and inlaid jade. The air inside felt cooler, heavy, as though expectation itself had settled into the walls. They were shown to seats, and silence followed.

Minutes passed. Then the far doors opened.

A figure entered, robes of black and jade flowing, the staff of the sun-serpent tapping softly against the stone floor. The air seemed to shift with his presence. His eyes, sharp and knowing, sought Alonso at once.

Alonso knew without being told: the Grand Priest. A figure whose station matched his own. He rose only enough to perform the formal Ajnal salute—measured, respectful, but not bowed.

Imani and Wang, as Sun Bearers, stood immediately and bowed deeper, their respect unambiguous.

The Priest’s gaze lingered. Then his voice cut the silence.

“I heard your campaign in the North has been very successful, General. The Wardens fear you, and your men utter your title with pride—Dawnless Blade, the Wardens’ Bane.”

Alonso smiled politely, measured. “I do what I must to keep the land safe, Grand Priest.”

“And safe you do keep them,” the Priest said, his voice measured, eyes like still water. “The people whisper your name in the markets. The children carve it into the sand. To the Wardens, you are dread. To the Ajnal, you are shield and sword both.”

He stepped further into the chamber, staff ringing softly against the obsidian floor.

“But do not mistake their voices for permanence,” he went on, gaze never leaving Alonso’s. “Fame is a candle in the wind. Today it burns bright. Tomorrow, ashes. What endures is not the word, but the weight behind it. Tell me, General—do you carry that weight willingly?”

Alonso leaned back slightly, his smile fading. “Willing or not, it’s mine to carry.”

The Priest inclined his head, a faint curve of approval in his expression. “Spoken like one who has already paid the cost. Yet beware. A blade that cuts too long may turn against the hand that wields it. And your blade, Dawnless, has cut deeper than most.”

Lukas’ eyes flicked toward Alonso at that, but he gave nothing away.

The Priest turned his staff, its serpent engraving catching the dim light. “Still, the land prospers under your shadow. The mountains breathe easier. The rivers flow unchoked. The Empress herself has heard the echo of your deeds.”

At those words, the room stirred. Imani’s shoulders straightened. Wang bowed his head. Ayu crossed her arms, unreadable.

The doors behind the Priest opened with a low rumble. A line of guards entered first, armour gleaming, their steps in perfect rhythm. Behind them, framed in the glow of jade light, she appeared.

The Empress.

Her mantle was woven with obsidian threads that shimmered like starlight when she moved, the crown upon her brow wrought in the likeness of a coiled serpent. Her presence alone seemed to command the chamber, pressing down like the weight of mountains yet drawing all eyes as though to light.

The Priest lowered his staff and bowed deeply.

“Rise, all. The Empress walks among us.”