The gate between floors felt like stepping through cold oil.

  One moment Adonis was still breathing the rotting damp of Phantom Valley, black water dripping from his cloak, the charred stink of chimera ghoul clinging to his skin. The next, the world snapped sideways and Floor 5 pressed itself against him—thick with coal smoke, rust, and the low constant murmur of too many people surviving in too little space.

  Hollow Quarter welcomed him like it always did: narrow alleys choked with refuse, flickering mana-lamps that never quite reached the corners, the distant clang of hammers on metal that never stopped. He kept his head low, hood pulled forward until the crimson of his hair disappeared in shadow. The Phantom's Bloom sat quiet in his inventory now, its blue glow sealed away, but he could still feel the faint pulse of it, like something alive that didn't want to be carried.

  The abandoned house waited at the end of a blind alley. Once it might have been proud—two stories of dark brick, narrow windows like watchful eyes. Now ivy had strangled the fa?ade and most of the roof had caved in years ago. A single lantern burned behind the cracked front window, throwing yellow light that looked almost mocking.

  Adonis paused just outside the door. His fingers brushed the hilt of the replacement sword he'd bartered for on the way back: plain iron, single fuller, edge still factory-sharp but already showing faint nicks from testing. It wasn't much, but it was better than throwing broken steel at monsters.

  He pushed the door open with the toe of his boot.

  Inside smelled of expensive cigar smoke layered over mildew and old blood.

  Baron David Vossgard Eustass sat in the only chair worth sitting in—a high-backed thing upholstered in threadbare crimson velvet. The yellow-striped suit he wore was a deliberate insult to the gloom: bold black-and-gold lines stretched tight across a powerful chest and thick shoulders. Over the suit hung a long military greatcoat, dark bottle-green, the kind that had once meant rank and violence in wars most people on Floor 5 had only heard rumors about. The epaulets were bare now, but the coat still carried itself like it remembered medals.

  The Baron was in his mid-forties. Hair the color of wet slate swept back from a high, clever forehead. Beard trimmed sharp. Pale gray eyes that smiled even when the mouth didn't. He looked up from the thin black cigar between his fingers and regarded Adonis the way a man regards livestock he's already priced.

  At his right shoulder stood the butler.

  Tall. Thin to the point of severity. Black suit pressed to perfection. White gloves immaculate. Face carved from something colder than stone. Adonis had never heard him arrive, never heard him breathe. He simply existed in the Baron's orbit like a drawn blade waiting to be used.

  "You're late," the Baron said. The voice was smooth, educated, accustomed to being obeyed.

  "Valley's bigger than the map shows," Adonis answered. No apology. No excuse. Just fact.

  A soft chuckle rolled out of the Baron's throat. "Yet here you are. And presumably with my flower."

  Adonis didn't answer with words. He opened his inventory interface. The Phantom's Bloom appeared in his right hand—midnight-black petals veined with electric blue, glowing softly in the dim room like a captured piece of storm sky.

  He extended his arm.

  The butler moved.

  One heartbeat the man was beside the Baron. The next he stood directly in front of Adonis, gloved fingers closing around the stem with the precision of surgical steel. No request. No hesitation. He took the flower and stepped back to his original position as though the intervening space had never existed.

  The Baron leaned forward, inspecting the bloom with genuine pleasure. "Exquisite. Not a torn vein, not a single bruised petal. You really are quite competent, boy."

  Adonis waited.

  The silence grew heavy.

  Finally the Baron sighed—a sound more theatrical than tired—and made a small gesture with two fingers. A transaction window materialized between them.

  [Transaction Initiated]

  [500 Tower Points transferred to Adonis]

  Adonis stared at the number.

  "Five hundred?" His voice came out low, controlled.

  The Baron raised one eyebrow in mild surprise, as though the reaction was both expected and faintly amusing. "Is that not satisfactory?"

  "I was told one thousand."

  "You were told nothing of the sort." The Baron's tone remained gentle, almost paternal. "You assumed. A common mistake among the unaffiliated."

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  Adonis felt the muscles along his jaw lock. "The contract was clear. Retrieve the Phantom's Bloom from Floor 10. Return it here. Payment: one thousand Tower Points."

  "And you accepted that contract without once mentioning a rather critical detail." The Baron tapped ash from his cigar onto the floorboards. "You have no guild. No sponsor. No affiliation whatsoever."

  "You knew that when you offered the job."

  "Of course I did." Another slow smile. "Which is precisely why I'm being generous. Taking and completing guild-restricted contracts without proper affiliation is illegal on Floors 3 and above. The penalty varies—fines, forced labor, indenture… or, depending on the mood of the magistrate, a short walk to the gallows."

  He spread his hands in a gesture of magnanimity. "I could have you detained right now. I could have my associate here open your throat and leave you in the canal for the rats. Instead I'm transferring five hundred Tower Points and allowing you to leave this room with your pulse still beating. Gratitude would be appropriate."

  Heat climbed Adonis's neck like fire in dry grass.

  "Gratitude," he repeated. The word tasted like metal.

  The Baron's smile widened. "Yes. Gratitude. Or…" He tilted his head. "What exactly do you plan to do if I decide five hundred is too much generosity? If I decide to give you nothing at all?"

  Adonis felt the anger crest, sharp and blinding.

  He took one step forward.

  Steel kissed the side of his neck.

  He froze.

  The butler hadn't visibly moved. Yet the edge of a slender black dagger now rested feather-light against Adonis's carotid artery. The metal was cold. Steady. The kind of steady that spoke of thousands of hours spent practicing exactly this motion.

  "Know your place," the butler said. Voice low. Flat. Utterly devoid of malice or mercy. Simply a statement of fact.

  Adonis didn't swallow. Didn't breathe. The blade felt like it could split time itself if he so much as twitched.

  The Baron rose slowly. The military coat settled around him with a soft rustle. He walked past Adonis—close enough that the scent of cigar smoke and expensive cologne brushed against him—and paused at the doorway.

  He didn't turn around.

  "If our paths cross again," he said calmly, "I will execute you on the spot. No discussion. No second chance. Just a body in the gutter and perhaps a small finder's fee for whoever bothers to drag it away."

  The door opened.

  The Baron stepped through.

  The butler withdrew the dagger in perfect silence, sheathed it without flourish, and followed his master. The door closed with a soft, final click.

  The room emptied of everything except the smell of smoke and the weight of what had just happened.

  Adonis remained standing for several long seconds.

  Then his knees buckled.

  He dropped to the floorboards, back sliding down the wall until he sat with his forearms resting on his bent knees. His hands shook—not from fear, but from the sheer, molten humiliation of being reduced to nothing in the space of a few sentences.

  Weak.

  Pathetic.

  The words looped in his skull like a litany.

  He had walked alone into Phantom Valley. He had stood over a mountain of corpses and plucked a flower that bloomed only in death. He had killed a chimera ghoul with broken steel and raw fire. And still—still—a man in a ridiculous yellow suit and his shadow had made him feel like nothing more than a stray dog that could be kicked or fed at whim.

  Five hundred Tower Points.

  Half the promised amount.

  Half the respect.

  He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes until white sparks danced in the darkness.

  "I'm done," he whispered to the empty house. "I'm done being nothing."

  He opened his status window.

  [Tower Points: 1,747]

  [Current EXP: 1,240 / 1,850]

  Not enough to matter. Not enough to make anyone hesitate before pressing steel to his throat.

  He needed power.

  He needed protection.

  He needed a guild.

  Adonis pushed himself upright. The anger hadn't cooled—it had hardened into something sharp and cold and useful.

  He left the abandoned house without closing the door behind him.

  The guild district sat at the eastern edge of Floor 5, built straight into the face of a sheer basalt cliff that divided the residential slums from the industrial zones. Massive iron gates stood open day and night. Above them, dozens of banners snapped in the artificial wind—each one a different sigil, a different promise of strength, wealth, or simple survival.

  Adonis didn't stop to study them. He already knew which one he wanted.

  Iron Fang wasn't the most prestigious guild on the floor. It wasn't the richest. It didn't have the deepest connections to the upper floors. But it accepted unaffiliated climbers who could prove they weren't completely useless, and it didn't ask probing questions about pasts no one wanted to remember. That was enough.

  The recruitment hall smelled of old leather, hot steel, and the faint copper tang of blood long since cleaned away. A handful of people loitered inside—some sharpening blades, some comparing scars, all of them carrying the quiet alertness of people who expected violence at any moment.

  At the far end sat a wide desk of scarred oak. Behind it was a woman in her late thirties. Short-cropped gray hair. A thin white scar splitting her left eyebrow. She wore the guild's colors—dark charcoal tunic, wolf-head pin at the collar—without flourish.

  She looked up as Adonis approached.

  "Name."

  "Adonis."

  "Guild of origin?"

  "None."

  Her gaze flicked to his crimson hair, then to his eyes. She didn't comment on either.

  "Combat record?"

  He opened his status window and slid the recent log toward her.

  [Chimera Ghoul – Floor 10 – Solo Kill]

  She studied it for several seconds. One corner of her mouth twitched.

  "Phantom Valley?"

  "Yes."

  "Alone?"

  "Yes."

  She pushed the window back. "Either you're exceptionally good or exceptionally stupid. Since you're still breathing, I'll assume the former."

  Her fingers moved across her own interface.

  [Guild Invitation: Iron Fang]

  [Rank upon acceptance: Recruit]

  Adonis stared at the prompt.

  This was surrender, in a way. Joining meant rules. Ranks. Orders. People who could command him, judge him, punish him. It also meant a tag beside his name that said he belonged to someone. That someone might look twice before cutting his throat.

  He thought of the dagger against his neck.

  He thought of the Baron's slow, amused smile.

  He tapped Accept.

  The window flashed green.

  [Welcome to Iron Fang]

  [Guild Tag applied]

  [Rank: Recruit]

  A small wolf-head icon appeared beside his name in the system—fangs crossed, simple but unmistakable.

  The woman leaned back in her chair. "You start at the bottom. You stay at the bottom until someone higher up decides you've earned otherwise. First assignment tomorrow, dawn. Supply escort to Floor 6. Meet at the east gate. Don't be late. Don't die. And don't make us look bad."

  Adonis nodded once.

  She jerked her chin toward a side exit. "Barracks are that way if you want them. Most recruits sleep there. Cheaper. Safer. Your choice."

  "I'll find somewhere else tonight," he said.

  "Suit yourself. Just be at the gate at first light."

  He turned to leave.

  "Kid," she called.

  He paused.

  "Whatever grudge you're carrying," she said quietly, "keep it off guild time. We don't care about your enemies. We care about whether you can hold a line when it matters."

  Adonis didn't reply.

  He walked out into the night.

  He didn't go to the barracks.

  Instead he made his way deeper into Hollow Quarter until he reached the Crooked Lantern—an inn that had once been respectable and was now merely surviving. The sign above the door showed a lantern bent at a drunken angle, light spilling crookedly onto the street. The common room smelled of stale ale, fried dough, and wet wool. A few patrons glanced up as he entered, then looked away again. No one stared at crimson hair here; everyone had something strange about them.

  He paid 40 Tower Points for a small room on the third floor—narrow bed, cracked washbasin, single window overlooking an alley. It was filthy. It was private. It was enough.

  Adonis dropped his pack beside the bed and sat heavily on the thin mattress. The springs groaned.

  He stared at his hands for a long time.

  Tomorrow he would climb again.

  Tomorrow he would fight again.

  Tomorrow he would grow stronger—strong enough that no one could press steel to his throat and tell him to know his place.

  He lay back, boots still on, cloak still damp with swamp water.

  [Current EXP: 1,240 / 1,850]

  [Tower Points: 1,707]

  Somewhere above him, on floors he couldn't yet reach, Baron David Vossgard Eustass was probably sipping something expensive and smiling that same slow smile.

  Adonis closed his eyes.

  One day, he thought.

  One day that smile would bleed.

  And when it did, he would be the one holding the blade.