Became a Tower Climber
A chime rang out.
"Whoa... the kid's gone too, huh..."
He barely knew the guy's face. They weren't close at all, so Ha-seong had zero intention of going to the funeral. Should I go anyway? If it were for managing his image with people around him, sure. But him? Nah.
"Uwaaaaaah! Aaaah!"
He rolled around on the bed like a madman. The neighbor would be home in a few hours, killing his window for this shit, so he had to get it out now. Anyway, this happened once a day—he might as well do it when it hit.
Young-chul... that rich bastard with the personal bunker, right?
There were two Young-chuls, but if he rated a full funeral hall, it had to be the loaded one. The guy was infamous for his quirks. Your average rich early-20s college freshman? They'd buy a car, deck out in luxury brands, and strut around screaming Look at me, I'm hot shit! Not this dude. He treated his own safety like it was forbidden fruit.
His rich-kid perks? Personal trainer, private bunker, stocked survival food and meds, even full health checkups every two months. Ha-seong had peeked at his library books once—nothing on classes, papers, or novels. Just Nuclear War Survival Guide and Basic Emergency Medicine. And the fucker read them with a face that said Touch this and die.
Ha-seong paused, then flicked open the news window.
The only way that car-phobic pedestrian would die? One thing.
"Yup. Survived again, huh?"
Life's all about luck, man.
He brushed off the funeral invite text and dove into the news feed.
Ding!Ding!Ding!Ding!
Cracking the window, he saw notifications blasting from phones of folks walking nearby. National disaster alert? Friend's obituary like his? Or... the news and communities exploding like gasoline on fire?
Probably all of the above. That young woman collapsed in hysterics over there? Definitely an obituary.
"Mooom! Uuugh...!!"
Sounded like her mom bit it. Made his chest tighten for no reason.
Screeech—
He tried closing the window—hated seeing more—but the rusty hinges jammed with a grind, refusing to budge.
"Fuck, what's wrong with this shit?"
Yanked a few more times. Clunk! Clunk! No dice. Whatever. Airflow's nice.
"Haa..."
Wonder how the world's holding up. Leaning blankly on the window, his eyes caught the spire piercing the sky like it gave zero fucks about perspective. Three years back, it shattered everyone's common sense—that mysterious, majestic monolith.
Chaos at first. Scientists, corps, weird mystery cults—everyone swarmed it, hyped to crack its secrets. Superpowers like the US, China, Europe bickered over ownership.
That lasted a week after it popped up. Now? Everyone just prays the damn things vanish.
Or more precisely... those spires.
Origin Tower has been born.
Humanity will be cursed upon deadline exceedance.
Deadline: 364 days, 23 hours, 59 minutes, 59 seconds
Cycle Tower has been born.
Humanity will be cursed upon deadline exceedance.
Deadline: 364 days, 23 hours, 59 minutes, 59 seconds
Doom Tower has been born.
Humanity will be cursed upon deadline exceedance.
Deadline: 364 days, 23 hours, 59 minutes, 59 seconds
Game-like text overlaying everyone's vision. That day, the world changed.
The curse on humanity. Governments scrambled to probe the spires in terror but found jack shit. Or rather, they figured it out from the mouths of the people they swore to protect.
You are a Climber.
The chosen. Roughly 300,000 of them, all ages, sexes, nationalities, religions—but one thing in common: they saw that extra line. From that day, they became climbers, as the towers named them.
Climbers could enter the spires—immune to all physics, untouchable. Some demo'd it live: poof, gone like logging out of a game.
From what they knew so far: three towers total. Origin, Cycle, Doom. Each with unique flavors. Climbers had to clear Floor 1 of all three to extend that fucking timer by a year.
Clear Origin and Cycle Floor 1? Timer keeps ticking without Doom. Fail even one? Curse drops as promised. Restart at one year.
Luckily, the curse hits once per set of towers, not per tower... but still.
Is that lucky? 100 million. A hundred million! More than WW1 and WW2 combined, snapped away like Thanos flicking his fingers. Random as hell—who dies is a lottery.
Heard some countries lost their president to the curse, plunging into chaos.
Fuck... in apocalypse games, you just bunker down till it's safe. Here? Live your life, pray on cue. Get unlucky?
"Huh?" And you're gone, heart attack, no last words.
Fair question. 300k ain't small, but to 8 billion? It's peanuts. And actual entrants? Under 10%. Not mandatory.
Governments threw incentives, self-reporting laws, facilities, even threats—nothing worked. At first, they pushed hard... lasted two weeks.
Then climbers learned the truth and shut up.
Towers have difficulties: Easy, Normal, Hard, Survival. Only Survival climbers can clear 'em.
And Year 1 Easy death rate? 52%. Lower now with info, but still brutal for the easiest.
Survival? Of ~3,200 registrants, ~1,800 entered. Zero survivors. 0% survival rate.
Hope flickered post-curse: another 300k chosen.
Next year, miracle—Cycle and Origin Survival Floor 1 cleared. Humanity cheered, hailed the heroes.
But... three years, no Doom clear. Cue today's 100 million slaughter.
Doom Tower. That's the bitch. Zero intel on Survival Floor 1—all entrants dead. Three years of failed clears, people dropping like flies.
Deadline: 364 days, 23 hours, 24 minutes, 39 seconds
He pocketed his phone. Massive chaos from 100 million dead. Doomsayers terrorizing as "we're all doomed anyway." Extremist pols screaming to hunt climbers, force Survival picks.
World's a shitshow.
"Climbers!! They're the chosen, right? Got the right to enter—show some humanity, pick Doom Survival! Last gov taught Easy for safety, pampered 'em. That's why this mess! Lack of discipline. From now on, mandatory climber registry for all citizens, ship 'em to boot camp...!"
"Yes. The nation's seriously considering it."
Beep!
"Ugh, whatever..."
Irritated, he killed the news. Doom Survival? You volunteering for 0% survival?
Even chosen ones swear they'd stick to Easy/Normal. Normal nets magic stones—alien riches for a lush year. Do whatever.
"Haaa..."
Sighs nonstop. Survived again, though. Eyes heavy from sleepless night. Time to crash.
*****
"Ugh..."
Woke up. Pitch black—dawn? Back to sleep... Body screaming exhaustion, but why awake? Tossed groggily, grumbling.
You... are a... Climber.
"Ah... uh...?"
Familiar blue text that chilled him to the bone just seeing it. Dream...? REM sleep or some shit? Brain foggy.
In that hazy stupor:
Please select your difficulty.
- Easy
- Normal
- Hard
- Survival
Selected difficulty cannot be changed.
"Ah... aaa... ah!"
Like ice water dumped in winter—brain snapped alert. Headache spiked, then a desperate voice echoed in his skull.
—Climbers. Humanity needs your courage. Please choose Survival with noble sacrifice.
Not some victim's kin—the US President's speech.
Hell no! Abso-fucking-lutely Easy!
Finger slid to Easy. But... half-asleep daze? His arm betrayed him...
Survival difficulty selected.
"Wait? No, fuck, not that you crazy shit!!"
World slowed like a deathbed montage. He saw it clear:
Skull-splitting pain. World flashing blue. Dizzying nausea, brain hammered like a sledge to the skull.
Cursing his Survival pick that night... he blacked out.
*****
Crappy studio apartment. New alert blares before the passed-out man's eyes.
One difference: not blue, but gleaming gold—wealth and fortune craved since antiquity.
Horns blare, fireworks pop, cheers roar, flowers and confetti scatter through the room.
Frivolous words and tone—unthinkable from the tower's dry, curse-proclaiming drone.
Unlocking all difficulty privileges.
With that, silence returned to the tiny room.