The Celestial Tower's middle floors were where dreams started to crack.
The gifted rose.
The reckless fell.
The brilliant improvised.
The lucky ran out of luck.
Floor 42—a high-altitude, open platform terrain—was brutal in its simplicity. Floating stone islands drifted in lazy, unpredictable orbits. Some spun quickly, some moved like drifting whales, others jolted suddenly with no warning. The open air meant that one mistake, one misstep, one slip would send a fighter tumbling into a recovery sigil far below.
Julian Breadstone hovered above the vast sky-chamber, his jacket now patterned with swirling clouds.
"WELCOME BACK, TOWER FANS! As our more extraordinary fighters tear reality, spin time, pet lions, explode things, and occasionally turn into llamas—"
Jimmy chimed in, "That last one was Magic Kid's fault."
Julian grinned wider.
"—it is time we return to what I like to call the backbone of any tournament: fighters who survive not by destiny, nor blessing, nor cosmic affinity—but by WORK."
The camera runes shifted to a lone figure jumping between two distant stone platforms.
He moved with none of the flash of Swift or the overpowering force of Jake.
He didn't burst with chi.
He didn't leave spark trails.
He didn't levitate.
He simply jumped.
A firm leap.
A roll.
A breath.
A second jump.
A third.
His body moved with practiced efficiency.
Measured steps.
Precise momentum.
Controlled landings.
His name hovered above him:
Ronan Hale – Human Martial Artist, Rank Unknown
Tall.
Broad-shouldered.
Weathered skin.
A nose broken at least four times.
Hands wrapped in cloth that might once have been white.
Eyes that saw everything—angles, distances, dangers.
He wore simple travel leathers reinforced with patches.
No armor glowed.
No weapon pulsed.
Just a sturdy bo staff strapped across his back, its wood dark and smooth from decades of use.
Julian clapped excitedly.
"RONAN HALE! A man whose talent isn't cosmic power or magical lineage—it's YEARS AND YEARS of practice! And coffee! SO MUCH COFFEE!"
Jimmy whispered, "He warmed up this morning by doing pushups on one arm while balancing a brick on his forehead."
Julian shook him. "And WHY didn't we broadcast that?!"
"He asked us not to."
"UNACCEPTABLE!"
Ronan crouched low as the platform beneath him jerked sideways.
His stance widened, weight shifting automatically, absorbing the motion like a tree rooted deep in shifting soil.
Two fighters sprinted past him—a windrunner and a chi-blade novice—trying to outrun the shifting terrain.
They misjudged a gap.
Both jumped too early.
Too high.
Too straight.
Gravity tilted.
They plummeted.
Ronan was already moving.
He sprinted to the edge, slid, and hooked his staff through a jutting rock ring. He extended one arm just long enough to catch the windrunner by the wrist.
The chi-blade novice was too far.
Ronan shifted his weight, swung the windrunner upward onto the ledge—
then flung his staff like a spear.
The staff struck the novice's falling sleeve, altering the young fighter's arc just enough for him to hit a safety sigil instead of tumbling sideways into open void.
Ronan exhaled, retrieved his staff with a clipped whistle, and moved on.
Julian raised both hands.
"HE DOESN'T SAVE PEOPLE WITH LIGHT OR MAGIC OR SPECIAL POWERS! HE SAVES THEM WITH TIMING, MUSCLE MEMORY, AND THAT WONDERFUL 'UNCLE WHO TEACHES YOU SELF-DEFENSE' ENERGY!"
Jimmy nodded warmly. "I like this guy."
Floor 42's next hazard revealed itself as the platforms drifted into a spiral formation.
A vortex formed at the center—
a wind funnel strong enough to pull weaker fighters inward.
A man with a massive shield tried to brace himself.
A telekinesis student fought the current with a dome of psychic force.
A beastfolk fighter dug claws into stone.
Ronan planted his feet, analyzed the pull, and began shifting his center of gravity with each tug.
Tiny steps.
Micro-corrections.
Every muscle participating.
Not resisting—
redirecting.
Then he moved.
One leap.
One roll.
A pivot.
A low crouch.
Another leap.
He used the wind funnel to accelerate, not drag.
He passed several stronger, flashier fighters who were pinned down fighting the environment.
Julian shouted gleefully:
"HE'S USING THE TOWER'S HOSTILITY AS A FITNESS COACH! YES, RONAN, USE THE WIND, OWN THE WIND, MARRY THE WIND—METAPHORICALLY!"
Jimmy leaned in. "Is he… humming?"
Indeed he was.
A quiet tune.
Steady.
Calming.
Matching the rhythm of his motions.
He leapt through the last gust, rolling as he hit the next platform—
And sighed.
"Alright. Next one."
No celebration.
No roar.
Just a man treating a life-or-death challenge like another morning training session.
A group of three fighters confronted him next—
not hostilely, but in panic.
A winged girl limped toward him.
"Mister—sir—whoever—can you help? Our teammate—he fell—he's stuck on a low platform—"
Ronan nodded.
"Show me."
They led him to a jagged set of stones where another fighter dangled from a cracked ledge, one arm trembling, boots scraping uselessly.
Ronan lay flat, anchored his legs under a protruding slab, and extended his staff downward.
"Hook your arm."
The trapped fighter scrambled, fingers slipping.
Ronan didn't flinch.
"Focus. Hook your arm."
The fighter obeyed, teeth grit as he latched onto the staff's midpoint.
Ronan pulled.
Slow.
Controlled.
No rush.
No wasted strength.
The fighter emerged, panting and shaking.
Ronan stood, patted his shoulder once, and turned back toward the climb.
"Keep moving. And stick together."
The rescued fighter called after him, voice full.
"Thank you! I—how did you know what to—?"
Ronan shrugged.
"Lots of people fall. Someone has to learn how to pull them back up."
He continued onward.
Jimmy whispered, "I REALLY like this guy."
Julian nodded with sparkly eyes.
"He is the human equivalent of a sturdy, reliable lunchbox."
Jimmy shot him a look.
"That is the weirdest compliment I've ever heard."
Halfway across Floor 42, the platforms shrank into thin beams—narrow as planks, slippery as polished glass.
One wrong tilt: fall.
One wobble: fall.
One moment of fear: fall.
Fighters hesitated.
Ronan didn't.
His foot landed with absolute trust in his own balance.
He crossed beam after beam without hesitation, treating them like lines drawn on a training mat.
One fighter watching from behind whispered:
"He… he's not even using chi."
Another replied:
"No… he's just good."
Julian pointed excitedly.
"YES! YES! LET US CELEBRATE MORTAL COMPETENCE!"
Jimmy nearly spit out his drink.
"Julian—what is wrong with you?"
"EVERYTHING AND I EMBRACE IT."
At the end of the narrow-beam gauntlet, Ronan reached a levitating stone ring—the exit to Floor 43.
He paused for the first time.
Not because he doubted himself.
But because he heard something.
A faint sound.
A soft gasp.
A fighter clinging beneath one of the beams—
a small figure whose legs dangled freely over empty space.
Ronan knelt and scanned the area.
There.
A boy no older than seventeen, trembling violently, fingers whitening as he held onto a slick beam.
"Don't… don't leave…"
Ronan slid down slowly—testing weight distribution, finding holds in the stone, lowering himself until he was within reach.
"You can climb," he said quietly.
The young fighter shook his head, tears hot in his eyes.
"I—I can't—I'll fall—"
Ronan held out one hand.
"You're shaking. That's good. Means you're not frozen."
The boy looked at him in confusion.
Ronan's voice softened.
"Fear means you're alive. You don't beat it. You move with it."
The boy swallowed.
Ronan extended his wrist further.
"Take a breath."
The boy inhaled, chest unsteady.
"Again."
Another breath.
Deeper.
Fuller.
Ronan nodded.
"Now climb."
The boy slowly reached—fingers brushing Ronan's wrist—
Ronan gripped him firmly, pulling him upward with perfect balance.
When they reached stable ground, the boy sobbed in relief.
Ronan squeezed his shoulder gently.
"Don't let go of the climb."
Then, without waiting for thanks, he turned and stepped onto the levitating stone ring.
Julian's voice was uncharacteristically calm.
"Some fighters dazzle with light. Some with fear. Some with destiny.
But Ronan Hale?"
Jimmy finished the sentence:
"He shines because he shows up."
The tower recognized him.
Accepted him.
Opened the next gate.
And Ronan climbed.
By discipline.
By heart.
By habit.
He would not reach the final ten.
He knew that.
Everyone knew that.
But he would earn the top 500
with sweat
and breath
and simple, unflashy will.
One step at a time.