After understanding how the Tower of Truth truly functioned, Max's gaze swept across the vast chamber. He looked at the gathering of humans, demons, elves, and other foreign races—each one bearing the same fire in their eyes, the same hunger that burned deep within their auras.
'So this is how it is,' he thought, his expression calm but eyes cold.
They had been fighting here for who knows how long—killing each other for strength, for life essence, for the right to ascend. Every race, every warrior, was trapped in the same cycle: defeat others to grow stronger. Win to survive. Kill to thrive.
'This world is a messed-up place,' Max sighed inwardly.
But despite that, he wasn't against it.
Not really.
If killing one's enemies meant progress—meant power—then so be it. It was a brutal truth, but he had long accepted that the path of strength was paved with blood. And more importantly, he didn't believe it always had to end in death.
Not every battle needed to be fatal.
