The seventeenth floor welcomed Veyne not with illusions or carnage—but silence. A stillness so complete it screamed. No sound of breathing, no creaking stone, no distant moans of monsters beyond veils. Just a long, descending staircase lit by orbs of light held in skeletal hands jutting from the walls.
At its end stood a massive gate of obsidian. Inscribed across its surface were thousands of names—etched deep in Tower script, spiraling endlessly inward.
As he approached, a voice—not heard, but felt—brushed his mind:
"Only the remembered may enter. Prove yourself among the forgotten."
The gate opened without resistance. Beyond it: the Archivum of Hollow Kings.
A vast library stretched endlessly in all directions. Stacked with books bound in skin, shelves of rusted metal and bone. Ghosts flickered between the aisles—tattered kings, broken warlords, and slain gods. Each bore empty eyes and wore crowns made of regret.
Revelation Dominion activated.
[Floor Type: Lore Ascendancy Trial – Archive Memory Gauntlet]
[Objective: Navigate the Archivum, uncover the forgotten king's name, and confront his legacy.]
Veyne stepped carefully. As his foot touched the ivory floor, memories surged from the books around him.
A screaming war.
A city drowned in silver fire.
A child walking alone through a battlefield of teeth.
He resisted. Barely.
[Passive Trait: Heartbound suppresses memory interference.]
But the Archivum pushed harder.
Books opened of their own accord. Pages flipped violently. Ghosts reached for him with trembling hands, whispering stories in dead languages. Each one wanted to be remembered.
He passed a throne of chains and bone, on which sat the first Hollow King.
Its skull cracked open, revealing a fountain of ink dripping onto parchment.
"Name me," it said. "Speak me. Or be unmade."
Revelation Instinct flared to life.
The ink surged toward him, forming monstrous shapes: wolves made of betrayal, serpents of lost oaths, blades of forgotten sorrow.
Veyne fought through them, each strike earning him fragments of text—a verse, a title, a plea.
He who reigned over the silver-blooded.
He who betrayed heaven to rule in silence.
He who devoured names to remain eternal.
The echoes sharpened. They took on the form of Veyne himself—alternate selves who had once bowed to the Tower.
"You are one of us," they hissed. "You will sit on the throne next."
"I am no king," Veyne growled.
He activated Thorns of Self.
Memory constructs surged—manifestations of every betrayal he'd suffered, every lie told to him, every friend he'd lost. They formed spears of shimmering anguish, wrapping around him like armor.
He hurled them.
The ink beasts shattered.
The throne cracked.
And from its remains rose a fragment of a name: Asvalen.
The entire Archivum trembled.
The ghosts began to chant it. Over and over. "Asvalen. Asvalen. Asvalen."
A second throne appeared.
Empty.
The books flew open again, this time forming a storm. They spun around Veyne like a hurricane of history, shredding the space around him.
In the center, a book appeared—blank, bound in mirror-glass.
His own story.
Written in real time.
He read the words forming:
Veyne, Devourer of Silence. Bearer of Thorns. Refuser of Crowns. He who named the Unnameable.
The Archivum went still.
The voice returned:
"Then let your memory remain."
The second throne cracked.
A third appeared.
He understood then. Every floor did not simply test him. It tempted him—with power, with forgetting, with rulership.
The Tower did not want climbers. It wanted kings. Silent ones.
He walked past the third throne.
The books closed.
One remained open. As he passed it, he read the final line:
He never wore the crown. But the kings still bowed.
[Trial Complete – Lore Ascendancy Neutralized]
[New Title: Nameless King]
[New Passive: Memory Throne – All memory-based constructs gain increased cohesion and resist dispelling.]
As he exited through the gate at the other end of the library, a final whisper followed him:
"If you make it to the top, do not forget us. We were you once."
The staircase to Floor 18 was different—lit by words, not light. Each step bore a line from his own life.
He read them all.
None of them were lies.