The Great Ascent
The collective breath held by hundreds of people was released in a shuddering wave. They had done it. They had paid the blood price without selling their souls
But as the relief washed over them, Ryley stared at the now-dormant black pedestals. They were a permanent fixture now. The Kingdom of Rust was not just recognized; it was incorporated. They were part of the Spire's ecosystem, a farm that would be periodically harvested. The Architect had not tried to break them with a monster. It had done something worse. It had given them a bill. And the payment was due again, next month.
The feast had been a celebration of life. The tribute was a chilling reminder: they were all living on borrowed time, in a kingdom that now had a direct line to their jailer. The warmth of community still remained, but it was now underscored by a cold, contractual dread. They were not just building a shelter. They were negotiating with a god.
The Tribute was a chilling revelation. It wasn't a punishment for Ryley's group. It was a new rule for everyone. The Architect's voice had echoed in every mind within the Sanctum's bounds, and the three black pedestals now stood in the plaza as a communal altar to a cruel god.
For three days, a frantic, unified panic gripped the Kingdom of Rust. The shared struggle that had built the walls and the clinics now faced its first true test of scale. A hundred units of biomass? That meant every single scrap of Corrupted flesh from every hunt, from every foraging party, from every kill at the walls, had to be gathered, processed, and hauled to the plaza. The stockpiles meant for the community were emptied onto Pedestal Alpha. The feast was a distant memory, replaced by the grim smell of mass butchery.
The ten functional components? That meant every party that had braved the Spire—the shattered remnants of other groups, the lone survivors, the pairs and trios—had to pool their meager trophies. A gear from a second-floor guardian here, a crystalline lens from a third-floor horror there. It was a paltry collection, barely meeting the demand, and it cleaned out the reserves of every climber. The price of safety was progress itself.
And the third demand—the voluntary consciousness—had nearly shattered them. The debate was ugly, laced with fear and a terrible pragmatism. Suggestions of drawing lots, of offering the sick or the broken, hung in the air like a toxic mist. It was Ryley, standing again on the fountain, who voiced the loophole that saved their collective soul, and the entire population mobilized to capture a live Corrupted. The Weeper's final, digitized scream as it was offered up was a sound none would forget. They had paid the blood price, together.
The respawn point glowed blue by the gate. A single, precious resurrection per month for the entire Sanctum. It was not a gift. It was a leash. A monthly reminder that their survival was conditional, their kingdom a franchise of the Spire.
And that leash pulled taut on the fourth morning. Not for Ryley's group alone, but for everyone.
It was Kaelen, the Forsaken, who made it plain. He stood before the gathered survivors, several hundred strong now, his scarred face grim. "The Tribute is a timer," he rasped, his voice carrying in the tense silence. "You think you bought a month of peace? You bought a month to get stronger. The next demand will be worse. More biomass. More components. Maybe two consciousnesses. The only currency that matters in here is power. And power," he pointed a gaunt finger at the Spire, "is in there. You don't climb to escape anymore. You climb to pay the rent. You climb so this place," he gestured to the walls, the clinic, the people, "doesn't get repossessed."
The message was undeniable. The Sanctum was not an alternative to the Spire; it was dependent on it. They were farmers, and the Spire was the only fertile, deadly field they had.
A mass exodus began. Not a desperate stampede like the first day, but a grim, organized mobilization. Every party that could still stand re-formed. Weapons were checked, patched armor was tightened, the few remaining potions were distributed to those on the brink of a breakthrough. The hunters became climbers again. The builders sheathed their tools and picked up their swords. Maya's apprentices took over the clinic. Jax's second-in-command assumed control of the Wall-Wardens.
The Kingdom of Rust was not being abandoned. It was becoming a home front. Those too wounded, too broken, or with non-combat classes vital to maintenance—the gardeners, the water-bearers, the few crafters—would stay. They would hold the walls, tend the cistern, and wait. Their survival depended on the climbers' success.
Ryley's group gathered at their usual crimson archway, but they were no longer an anomaly. All around the base of the Spire, identical archways shimmered. Dozens of them. Parties of three, four, five, and six stepped up to the darkness. A grizzled man with a spectral shield, leading two others. The pair of silent, synchronized warriors. A woman with fire in her hands, rallying her three companions. The air crackled not with panic, but with a desperate, collective resolve.
They were not climbing for glory. They were climbing as suppliers, as taxpayers, as desperate citizens trying to keep the lights on in their only refuge.
Ryley looked at his four companions. Jax, crackling with impatient energy. Liana, a statue of focused intent. Maya, her healer's resolve hardened into steel. Liam, clutching his staff, no longer looking lost, but like a scholar entering a deadly archive.