The instant their memories snapped back into place, Star, Siegfried, Friedrich, Klara, Seth, and Erik broke into a full sprint toward the tower’s heart.

The labyrinth warped around them as they ran. Walls twisted, corridors stretched and folded in on themselves, and reflections blurred until direction itself became uncertain. Somewhere within the tower, the adventurers who had entered before them were still missing—and every second they lingered felt stolen. They had no time to waste.

Their footsteps rang sharply against the cold, polished stone as they climbed a spiraling staircase that seemed to coil endlessly upward. The tower groaned in response, its former silence replaced by a low, resonant hum—subtle, invasive, like whispers brushing the edges of thought. This was no mere echo of stone and wind.

The tower was aware of them.

Mirrored walls flanked the stairwell, reflecting their movements in fractured repetitions. With every step, space itself felt strained, as though the tower were tugging at them, urging them back into its grasp. Their reflections flickered, lagged, or moved out of sync. At times, those reflections did not move at all.

Friedrich slammed his fist into a mirrored wall, teeth clenched in frustration. His reflection shattered into a web of cracks—then smoothed itself out again, pristine and mocking.

“Damn it,” he growled. “We wasted too much time. Where is the damn exit?!”

“Focus,” Star snapped, pushing past him without slowing. Her grip tightened around her sword as the weight of command pressed heavily against her chest. “The missing adventurers come first.”

Klara’s breath came fast as she scanned the shifting space around them. “This place isn’t just a trap,” she said quietly. “It’s aware. Watching us.”

“I feel it too,” Siegfried replied, his gaze fixed on the reflections that rippled beside them. “We’re not alone in here.”

Erik’s ears twitched sharply. A low growl rumbled in his throat. “Movement ahead,” he said. “Footsteps.”

Seth nocked an arrow, his usual lightness gone, eyes narrowed with sharp focus. “More than one,” he added. “We’ve got company.”

They pushed harder, urgency syncing their movements into a single rhythm. The stairwell twisted like a mirage, always leading forward yet never offering certainty—until at last, massive double doors emerged from the distortion ahead.

Star didn’t hesitate.

She drove them open.

The doors groaned apart to reveal the tower’s core.

A vast circular chamber stretched before them, its walls rising impossibly high. Polished mirrors lined every surface, reflecting countless versions of the group—each frozen, unmoving, locked in eerie stillness. There were no windows. No visible exits. Only infinity folded back upon itself.

At the chamber’s center pulsed a faint violet light, slow and rhythmic, like a heartbeat.

Ancient chains descended from the unseen ceiling, thick links disappearing into shadow above. They swayed almost imperceptibly, as though the room itself were breathing.

Star felt it immediately—a pressure against her chest, subtle yet insistent, tightening with every step forward.

“This place…” Klara murmured, fingers curling around her catalyst. “There’s containment magic here. Heavy. Layered.”

Siegfried followed the chains upward, his jaw tightening. “Something’s being held,” he said quietly. “Or restrained.”

They drew closer.

Only then did the violet glow resolve into form.

A massive crystal stood at the chamber’s center—jagged, towering, semi-transparent. Faint spiderweb cracks veined its surface, and the chains wrapped tightly around it, biting deep into its core, anchoring it in place.

Inside, something stirred.

A blurred silhouette floated within the crystal, curled inward with knees drawn to chest, arms wrapped tightly around himself—like a child asleep in a womb. Long strands of golden hair drifted weightlessly, suspended as if underwater.

For a long moment, no one spoke.

Then Friedrich squinted, stepping closer. His brow furrowed as recognition crept across his face.

“Wait…” he muttered. “…that guy…”

His eyes widened.

“Hold on—wasn’t that the kid from before?” Friedrich exclaimed, his voice echoing through the chamber. “The blond one in the meadow? Picking flowers? Humming like nothing was wrong?”

The crystal pulsed.

The mirrors lining the walls shifted.

Star’s reflection blinked—and for a heartbeat, the image behind her was wrong.

A face appeared in the glass that did not match the still figure within the crystal. The same golden hair. The same features.

But the eyes were open.

And smiling.

A voice echoed through the chamber—calm, amused, disembodied, as though it came from everywhere at once.

“Oh,” the boy said lightly. “So you’ve already met him?”

The crystal vibrated with each word.

“Did you notice anything strange about him?” the voice continued. “Something that felt… off?”

Cracks began to creep along the crystal’s surface, branching outward like veins.

The group tensed.

“What are you saying?” Siegfried asked, his hand tightening on his sword.

The smile in the mirrors widened.

“That he didn’t belong,” the voice replied. “That he felt misplaced. Like a piece set in the wrong world.”

The crystal shuddered—once, then again.

A sharp crack split the chamber.

“That’s because he isn’t just anyone,” the voice went on, smooth and deliberate. “He is the Blonde Hero.”

The name landed like a thunderclap.

“Alioth Castor.”

Star’s breath caught. Her chest tightened as disbelief washed through her.

Friedrich staggered back, shaking his head. A strained laugh escaped him. “No. No way.” He stared at the crystal. “That kid? The one humming and picking flowers? You’re telling me that’s Alioth Castor?”

Another fracture split the crystal from top to bottom.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

The boy laughed.

The sound echoed unnaturally, layered over itself, vibrating through the mirrors.

“Oh, I assure you,” he said. “I’m not.”

The crystal shattered—not violently, but as though time itself had slowed. Shards peeled away and dissolved into violet light before ever touching the floor.

The chains did not break.

They loosened.

Metal groaned as the links fell slack, retracting slightly—as though released by an unseen will.

The figure within unfolded, feet touching the ground with effortless grace.

He stepped forward, calm and unhurried.

“That cheerful boy you met,” he said, his voice now resonating directly through the chamber, “the one who hums and picks flowers—that is the real Alioth Castor.”

A pause.

“Or rather… who he was before the Great War.”

He lifted his head. Golden hair caught the dim light—but his eyes were no longer gentle. They were cold, sharp, carrying something far older than his youthful face.

“Back then,” he continued, “he carried the weight of the world. His fears. His doubts. His pain.” His lips curved into a thin, knowing smirk. “All of it buried beneath duty.”

The chains slackened completely.

Not broken.
Not destroyed.

Released.

The mirrors adjusted, angling inward as though aligning themselves to his presence. The chamber no longer felt like a prison.

It felt like a throne room reclaiming its rightful occupant.

The tower had not lost control.

It had returned it.