They parted slowly, obediently, heavy stone grinding against stone in a low, respectful murmur. Raziel and Esau stepped inside without haste, their footsteps echoing through the vast halls.
They did not barge in.
They did not announce themselves.
They simply entered—quiet, absolute, and unstoppable—as the heart of the Orc domain prepared to face its inevitable judgment.
"Ah they must be back" Zarackhiel said. An expression on his face that screamed cockiness, pride.
Just as Raziel and Esau were about to step inside the castle, Raziel halted.
He turned.
Esau was walking a step behind him.
"Esau," Raziel said quietly.
His voice carried no urgency, yet it cut through the stillness with absolute clarity. "There are still Orcs here. The last line of defense. They're protecting the Orc Chief—waiting for an ambush."
Esau stopped.
"Eliminate them," Raziel continued, his gaze steady. "However you see fit."
"Yes, Raziel," Esau replied without hesitation.
And then he vanished.
Esau reappeared before them.
The guards.
The chief's warriors.
The final shield standing between their ruler and annihilation.
The Orc territory lay buried in snow, white and untouched, yet above it all a sun hung unnaturally bright, shining down like a blessing meant for crops, not slaughter.
There was nothing red.
Nothing broken.
THERE WAS NO BLOOD
And yet—
Esau did not care.
He stood there, posture calm, regal, ancient—like a being that had watched civilizations rise and fall and felt nothing for either. His wings were folded. His expression was unreadable. His presence alone pressed down on the land like a quiet verdict.
"Come out," he said.
The command was soft.
Fifty orcs emerged.
They rushed him as one—an overwhelming tide of muscle, steel, and killing intent. Weapons were raised, forged for war, meant to tear flesh and end lives. Their roars echoed across the snow-covered ground as they closed the distance.
One meter.
That was all they managed.
A cold chime rang out, vibrating through the very corners of the floor itself.
[Authority Over Blood] — Activated.
There was no blood in the world around him.
But there was blood within them.
Esau could have used it.
He chose not to.
Instead—
[Creator of Blood] — Activated.
Blood appeared.
Not spilled.
Not stolen.
Created.
At first, it formed as a thin circular ring in the air before him, hovering, pulsing softly like a living heartbeat. The circle thickened, deepening in colour, its dark crimson folds folding in on itself. It began to stretch, elongate, shaping limbs, a torso, a presence.
A figure emerged.
Pure blood.
No face.
No eyes.
No mouth.
Just a humanoid silhouette, standing upright, liquid yet solid, radiating a quiet, terrifying obedience. Drops slid from its form but never fell, as if gravity itself had been denied permission.
The orcs froze mid-charge.
Esau turned calmly toward his creation, regarding it not with awe, but with expectation.
At that moment, a translucent notification appeared before his eyes.
The world held its breath.
And something new was about to be born.
[System Notification]
[You have created an entity of pure blood and imagination]
[The entity is bound to your blood and imagination.]
[This entity cannot be erased or killed.]
[Immortality: Granted]
[Infinite Regeneration: Granted]
[Entity: First Blood]
[Name: Waiting…]
[Rank: Sovereign — infinitely scales to whatever rank you are]
[Type: Will of the Absolute One]
[Affinities: Blood, Imagination, Space, Time, Darkness, Death, Void]
[Power Level: Dependent on Esau's imagination]
The entity rose slowly from the snow.
Crimson dripped from its formless body, steaming faintly as it met the frozen ground. It knelt before Esau without hesitation, posture flawless, reverent, absolute. Though it had no face, Esau could feel its gaze fixed upon him.
"My liege," the entity spoke, its voice layered—echoing as if spoken by many throats at once. "Please… give me a name."
Esau did not hesitate.
"Your name is Zhaelor."
The world acknowledged it.
[Name Assigned: Zhaelor]
[This entity has been bound to you.]
[Its loyalty can never break.]
[Zhaelor's powers are yours.]
[Zhaelor's memories are yours.]
[Zhaelor's mouth, eyes, and ears are yours.]
Esau's eyes shifted toward the orcs still frozen in place, their weapons trembling in their hands, instinct screaming at them to run even as their bodies refused to listen.
"And your first task," Esau said calmly, voice devoid of emotion, "is this."
He raised his gaze slightly.
"Kill them all."
Zhaelor stood.
It turned.
The moment it did, reality lagged.
Only one second had passed since Zhaelor's creation.
And in that second, the orcs understood fear.
Zhaelor lifted a single hand.
No chant.
No buildup.
No visible power.
Then—
Blood began to move.
It poured from the orcs' eyes first, thick streams spilling like tears of crimson. Their mouths opened in silent screams as blood forced its way out through skin, pores, ears, splitting flesh from the inside. Arms ruptured. Legs collapsed. Veins burst beneath translucent skin as if something inside them had decided to leave.
Two milliseconds passed.
And then they were gone.
Not erased.
Not destroyed.
Simply… converted.
Where fifty orcs had stood, there were only pools of blood staining the snow, steaming softly beneath the sun. No sound had been made. No impact. No final cry.
Zhaelor turned back and knelt once more before Esau, blood dripping silently from its form.
"It is done."
Esau regarded the aftermath without reaction.
"You have done well, Zhaelor."
The entity bowed its head.
Its form collapsed inward, dissolving into nothing, retreating into waiting—into Esau's shadow, into his blood, into his will—ready to be summoned again.
The snow fell softly once more.
And the sun continued to shine.
The Orc territory stood silent, emptied in the most absolute way possible.
Raziel stepped into the hall.
The air was thick, suffocating, tainted with the scent of iron and decay. Heads lined the walls—prisoners, and Transcenders, those who had tried and perished upon this floor. Their empty eyes stared blankly into nothing, mouths frozen mid-scream. Below them, the Orcs—the proud race that had dared defy the impossible—were spread across the floor, their bodies stiff, frozen in a grotesque tableau of defiance turned to impotence.
Ahead of Raziel stood two figures, the strongest of their cohort: Zarachiel and Zamon. Like Raziel and Esau, they were warriors chosen by destiny, exceptional beyond reckoning, tasked with protecting the Orc King. Their presence should have inspired fear—but now, they could not even move. Not a twitch. Not a blink.
"Intruder! Zarachiel, do something!" The Orc chief shouted—but the words fell flat. Zarachiel could not flinch. His muscles betrayed him. Zamon, too, was trapped in motionlessness. No one moved. Not the bodies of warriors, not the air around them—time itself had bent to Raziel's will.
And yet—Raziel had used nothing overtly destructive. No [ABSOLUTE NULL], no [ABSOLUTE FROST VISION]. He did not strike with force, did not unleash aura or pressure.
Instead, he wielded time itself: infinite, absolute, and unchallenged. Everything—every molecule, every heartbeat—froze. Even Esau, standing nearby, halted mid-step, wings suspended in blackened shadow. The only being left moving, inexplicably, was the Goblin ambassador.
He shuffled backward, frozen yet defiant, voice trembling:
"Who… who are you?" he asked, eyes wide, steps uncertain. "What are you doing here? Did… did we win? Did we win?" His words cracked, as if the question itself strained against the frozen air.
Raziel ignored the tremor in the hall, ignored the question. He walked toward the ambassador, each step measured, deliberate, as if every movement reshaped the weight of reality itself.
"Did we win or did we not win?" the Goblin ambassador repeated, this time stern, his expression hardened by disbelief, readying for an answer.
Raziel's gaze was cold, yet it carried the weight of eternity. His voice cut through the frozen stillness like a blade through silk:
"I know the truth."
The ambassador's question went unanswered. Raziel's words were not gentle, not forgiving—they were the verdict of observation, judgment, and history itself.
"I know what you did. You killed the son of the previous Orc Chief—the current chief's brother." He walked slowly, almost wandering, but every step held the gravity of judgment. "And yet, even as he begged… as he pleaded, you struck him down. You knew the consequences, and you did it anyway."
The hall seemed to contract, the frozen air thickening, the scent of blood and iron growing heavier, clinging to their nostrils. Raziel's voice resonated unnaturally in the stillness, echoing not just across space but across perception.
"If you had simply returned the son, there would have been no problem. You know this. Even the Orcs—all muscle, all strength—they are still capable of reason. Return kindness with kindness. Bad will is repaid with bad will, but… tenfold. They would have proposed an alliance. You would still be free. They would have been your friends."
Raziel stopped. He looked toward the hanging head of the father, suspended on ropes for display, swaying slightly as if acknowledging its own condemnation. "But no… your greed overtook you. You blamed your own father for what happened. And look at him now. His head hangs on display. For what? For power? For pride? For your petty calculations?"
Every word dripped with weight, as if the hall itself absorbed his judgment. Shadows stretched unnaturally long, flickering across the frozen corpses and the faces of the Orcs. The air seemed to vibrate with accusation, the silence deafening, pressing into every corner of the hall.
In that moment, Raziel was not just a man. He was inevitability itself—time, judgment, and vengeance incarnate. And every being in that hall, frozen or otherwise, felt it deep in their bones.
The Goblin ambassador, though alive, understood something that transcended comprehension: the cost of failure here was not just death. It was absolute reckoning.
"How did you know" the Goblin ambassador ask, his eyes blazing with desperation and defiance. In a sudden, violent motion, he lunged forward, dagger raised. "I am not on the Goblins' side. I have always been on the Orcs' side. My loyalty—my actions—they were for the Orcs!"
Raziel did not flinch. He remained perfectly still, his gaze cold, almost lazy, yet it carried the weight of inevitability.
"And that was to your benefit, no?" he asked, voice measured, calm, every word cutting through the frozen air like steel.
"Yes!" the ambassador barked, laughter sharp and unhinged. "It was all for my benefit!"
And then he lunged.
Time had been frozen, absolute and infinite, but now—Raziel's words came like a final sentence.
"Then that settles it."
With those words, the frozen world snapped back into motion. Air resumed its flow. Snow scattered from footsteps. Orcs and goblins alike jerked back into life, muscle and bone moving as though awakening from a nightmare. And in the centre of it all, the ambassador's momentum carried him forward, only to be halted by the invisible, unyielding weight of judgment pressing against him.
Raziel did not move. He had no need. He was everywhere and nowhere, a presence that dictated the rules of reality itself.
Then, he called for Esau.
"You have the Infinite Primordial Authority over Absolute Blood," Raziel said, voice deep and resonant, "but you are not very creative with it."
Esau appeared instantly at his side, wings folding behind him, expression eager, anticipation glinting in his eyes.
"Please… teach me, Teacher," Esau said, a faint smirk tugging at his lips, playful yet tinged with the weight of the battlefield behind him.
Raziel's lips curved into the smallest of smiles. Calm, cold, infinitely patient.
"As you wish, my student."
The air between them pulsed, heavy with power, anticipation, and the unspoken truth that what was about to be taught would reshape the meaning of war itself.
Then Raziel activated his element: BLOOD.
[Affinity: BLOOD] — activated.
Not Primordial.Not Infinite.Not Great.Not Absolute.
This was BLOOD in its purest and yet impurest form.
It was nothing.It was everything.
It had no origin, no skill, no art—yet it contained all art, all skill, all origin. Condensed yet void. Empty yet infinite. Formless, yet perfectly formed. It existed everywhere and nowhere simultaneously. Its presence bent perception itself, pressing upon minds as if the concept of reality had been rewritten to acknowledge only its existence.
It had no colour. And yet, it bore all colours at once. Red and green, black and white, purple, and every shade that could ever exist—and those that could not. It was not a rainbow. It was beyond the spectrum. A singular colour containing every colour. A light that was darkness, a darkness that was light, a paradox made manifest.
The floor beneath it darkened, yet the blood remained. Shadows stretched and broke, yet none fell. Time quivered, bending subtly as though the flow of reality itself recognized that this Blood was beyond measurement.
Esau, standing beside Raziel, felt it pulse—not like a heartbeat, but like the rhythm of creation itself, a force impossible to resist, impossible to calculate, impossible to comprehend. The air itself seemed to choke, dense with the weight of power that existed beyond the limits of the world.
It was restrained, yet uncontainable. Simple, yet infinitely complex. Nothing in the VERSE could match it, and yet it existed everywhere, in every particle, in every drop, in every void. It could erase, it could create, it could consume. It was raw, ultimate potential made tangible—a weapon, a world, a god's thought made flesh.
And yet—despite all its terrifying magnitude—this Blood answered only to Raziel. No law, no force, no being could challenge it. To witness it was to understand how inconsequential all else truly was.
It was overpowering.
It was inescapable.
It was Raziel's will incarnate.
And worse—every moment it existed, it whispered the unspoken truth: its creator was the Origin of everything, and nothing could exist outside his will.
Esau froze. His wings trembled slightly behind him, not from fear—but from the incomprehensible weight of what he was witnessing. He had the authority over blood. He commanded it. Yet this… this was something that defied all understanding. It was beyond skill, beyond imagination, beyond logic.
Raziel's control over the Blood was absolute. And now, he shifted it.
The immense, incomprehensible mass of swirling, impossible color condensed. Smaller. Smaller. Smaller. Shrinking beyond perception. It twisted, compacted, and finally, divided. Four spheres emerged, glowing ominously, each pulsing with a light that was not light and a darkness that was not dark.
One sphere floated toward the Orc Chief.Another hovered over the Orc Ambassador.A third drifted to Zarachiel.And the last settled before Zamon.
Even Zamon—blessed by the Monarch of Blood, one of the Gods that ruled this world—gaped. His eyes widened in disbelief. What het saw was unthinkable, ungraspable: a paradox made tangible, a nothingness condensed again and again into existence, an absolute force made visible yet untouchable.
Time itself seemed to shudder. The air thickened, compressing like molten iron. Reality bent subtly, as if the world recognized that it could not contain this power. Even Esau, standing beside Raziel, felt the pressure in his bones. Knees buckled slightly, heart slowing, mind straining to comprehend the infinite condensed into spheres no larger than a fist.
Zarachiel and Zamon fell to their knees, not out of weakness but in instinctive submission. They could not resist. Their blood screamed for obedience, their senses betrayed them, their minds recoiled at the force pressing into every corner of their being.
The Orc Ambassador stammered, words failing him entirely, eyes wide and frozen.
The Orc Chief remained rooted, trembling, unable to even speak. Fear had drained him of thought, leaving only a raw, primal acknowledgment: he was utterly at the mercy of something far beyond comprehension.
Even the floor beneath them quaked, scattering slightly as if the land itself recognized the presence of a power that could rewrite the laws of existence.
And through it all, Raziel moved as though nothing had changed, calm, deliberate, unshakable—his aura, his presence, the very Blood he wielded bending the wills of all who opposed him.
The spheres pulsed. Slowly. Relentlessly. They waited.
The world, and every being within it, had no choice but to kneel.
Even Esau.
Even Zamon.
Even Zarachiel.
Even the Goblin Ambassador.
Even the Orc Chief.
All submission was instinctive, immediate, and inevitable.
This was not power.
This was dominion over reality itself, distilled into blood, condensed into spheres, and wielded by Raziel.
And everyone present, mortal and transcendent alike, knew—there was no escaping it.
Zarachiel wasted no time. He activated his skill.
[Absolute Swordsmanship]
A roar tore from his throat, raw and feral, as he lunged toward Raziel with deadly precision, every fibre of his being focused on annihilation. The sound of steel cutting the air seemed to echo unnaturally through the frozen hall, a declaration of defiance.
"No!" Zamon shouted, voice trembling with urgency. "We need a plan!"
But it was already too late.
Zarachiel's form froze for a heartbeat—then he was gone.
[ASSI] — activated.
The spheres of blood that hovered around Raziel's hand shifted. They moved with a speed that the world could barely comprehend—so slow it seemed deliberate, so light it was almost invisible, yet unimaginably potent. Light itself would have been sluggish compared to this motion, weak and inert in comparison.
The sphere approached Zarachiel—not conceptually, not abstractly, but physically. It pierced him with precision, a perfect strike that needed no swing, no arc, no force to carry it. Just inevitability.
Zarachiel's body pulsed once, violently, as if reality itself rejected him.
And then—he collapsed.
Utterly lifeless.
No blood poured from his wounds. No sound escaped his throat. Nothing. The sword in his hands fell uselessly to the ground. Not a mark, not a stain—just absence. The sphere, having fulfilled its purpose, vanished as silently as it had appeared.
The hall seemed to shiver. Shadows twisted unnaturally, stretching to touch the frozen corpses and the surviving orcs alike. A cold, oppressive silence settled over everything, heavier than any storm, heavier than any scream.
[You have killed Zarachiel.]
The third sphere turned toward Zamon.
But Zamon did not notice.
He was already consumed by his own power, activating his blood ability with a ferocity born of desperation. He lunged at Raziel, teeth bared, eyes wild, summoning everything he could muster—wolves, dragons, monstrous beasts, spectral animals, spears, swords, constructs of unimaginable blood-fueled power—all bent on taking Raziel's life.
For a moment, it seemed unstoppable.
Then the sphere pulsed.
Every creature, every weapon, every fragment of summoned blood froze midair. Time itself seemed to shudder, and the beasts, the constructs, the dragons—all of it—turned toward Zamon.
"H…what—how is this happening—" Zamon stammered, his voice trembling with disbelief, fear widening his eyes.
The summoned beasts fell upon him. Wolves snapped at his legs. Dragons lashed with claws and teeth. Spears plunged into his chest and arms. Swords carved into flesh. But this was no ordinary attack. These were his own creations, fed by his own blood, now turned against him.
He tried to undo it. Tried to command them to stop. Tried to flee. But he could not. Every summoning, every conjured form, obeyed the sphere, obeyed Raziel, obeyed a power beyond comprehension.
They tore him apart methodically, hungrily, as if relishing the feast given freely by their creator. Limbs were devoured, flesh shredded, head crushed and chewed like a toy. Blood sprayed across the snow and stone, yet it was meaningless—each drop belonged now to the sphere, to Raziel, to something that could never be undone.
"Gahhh!" he screamed, but it was already too late.
He was gone.
[You have killed Zamon.]
The summoned creatures vanished, dissolving into nothing. The sphere itself blinked out, leaving only silence.
The second sphere of blood shifted.
Its movement was imperceptible, yet deliberate, exuding an inevitability that pressed on every soul in the hall. It turned toward the Goblin Ambassador, who had been frozen in time—or so it seemed.
Even if the Ambassador had been completely unfrozen, completely free, he could never have touched Raziel. That was not the point. Time had not frozen him. Blood had.
The sphere pulsed once. A faint, almost imperceptible vibration, as if the world itself acknowledged the coming finality. And then, in an instant, the Ambassador's body unfroze—every joint, every muscle, every breath returning for just a single heartbeat.
That heartbeat was enough.
Before he could react, before thought could even register in his mind, the sphere struck. No waste. No hesitation. No resistance. The life within him shattered as utterly as glass under a hammer. His body fell limp, unmoving, unresisting, a puppet whose strings had been severed before he even realised they existed.
The snow beneath him remained untouched. The hall, though filled with corpses and carnage, seemed to exhale, acknowledging that the sentence had been carried out perfectly.
[You have killed the Goblin Ambassador.]
The fourth sphere shifted.
It moved with the same silent inevitability as the others, turning toward the Orc Chief.
The Orc Chief was unlike any other being in the hall. Broad-shouldered, towering, bald, skin green but paler than usual, and more muscular than the Goblin Commander ever was. His presence alone demanded attention, radiating the raw authority of his people. Yet even he could not withstand what was coming.
The sphere pulsed. Slowly. Then faster. The very air seemed to shiver under the pulse, a subtle vibration felt in bone and blood alike.
Then—without warning, without warning, without struggle—the Orc Chief exploded into divine darkness. His body was obliterated from the inside out, consumed by a power that bent life and death to its absolute will. Only one fragment remained: his heart, suspended lifelessly on a rope, still greenish but utterly void of life, never to beat again.
The sphere vanished, leaving silence behind. The hall seemed to inhale, as if the world itself recognized the finality of what had just occurred.
[You have killed the Orc Chief.]
Raziel's eyes scanned the hall, settling on Esau.
"You see now," he said, voice cold yet instructive, carrying the weight of absolute authority. "That is how you use Blood."
Esau stood frozen, wings trembling slightly. Fear, despair, and terror warred across his expression, and yet beneath it, something else stirred—a dawning comprehension of the infinite, uncontrollable power he now had the potential to wield.
A graceful chime echoed through the hall, resonating like a divine proclamation.
[You have cleared the first floor.]
[You have eliminated all remaining Orcs and foes.]
[Checking for survivors…]
[None.]
[Only you and Esau remain.]
The sound lingered, ethereal yet absolute, marking the completion of a battlefield emptied of defiance, resistance, and life. Silence followed—profound, suffocating, and complete—leaving only the two of them standing amid the remnants of devastation.
In an instant, the Blood, the castle, the shattered bodies—everything—collapsed into nothingness.
The grand hall, once echoing with screams and the clash of battle, vanished as if it had never existed. Stone, wood, blood, and snow alike were consumed by an invisible void, leaving behind only emptiness. Even the air seemed to recoil, trembling before the absence that now reigned.
The battlefield, the trophies of war, the marks of life and death—all reduced to pure void, as if Raziel's presence had rewritten reality itself. Not a trace remained, no scent of blood, no echo of a struggle—only the silence of absolute erasure.
Where once had stood chaos and carnage, now there was nothing.
Only Raziel and Esau remained, untouched, untainted, standing amidst the perfect, terrifying void left by their power.
[You have passed the floor]
[You have been awarded 1,000,000 Achievement Points]
[You are now #1 on the Leaderboard across all servers]
[Total Points: 1,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000]
[This reflects the accumulation of every feat, victory, and achievement you have accomplished so far]
[Stats]
[Strength: ∞]
[Speed: ∞]
[Endurance: ∞]
[Durability & Defence: ∞]
[Intelligence: ∞]
[Perception: ∞]
[Technique: ∞]
[Experience: ∞]
[Charisma: ∞]
[Strength, speed, intelligence, perception are infinite due to ABSOLUTE SINGULARITY STYLE INTELLIGENCE-ASSI]
[Defence and Durability are infinite due to: GREAT INFINITE AEGIS: SINGULARITY OF ABSOLUTE EXISTENCE AND LONGEVITY]
The notification hovered in the air like a decree from existence itself, solidifying the immeasurable power of its recipient. Every number, every stat, every title was a testament to a being who had transcended limitations, a presence that no law of reality could restrain.
[Rewards: You have been granted an item]
[Apple of Everlasting Life]
[Rank: God]
[Description: A single, radiant apple plucked from the legendary Tree of Everlasting Life. Its skin shimmers with an ethereal glow, a shifting spectrum of colours that seem to contain the essence of countless suns, moons, and stars. The fruit radiates vitality, immortality, and the raw potential of life itself. Holding it, one can feel the pulse of eternity, the heartbeat of existence, and the whisper of creation.]
[This item has been stored in your inventory.]
[Achievement Reward: A portion of your latent powers have been unlocked — 40%]
[Next Great Embodiment: [GREAT INFINITE-PRIMORDIAL-OMNI-DIVINITE STRATA]]
The apple hovered before Raziel, suspended in time as if aware of its significance. Its light was neither blinding nor gentle—it was absolute, a silent promise of immortality, growth, and power beyond comprehension. The air around it shimmered subtly, humming with energy that could shape worlds, elevate souls, or unmake reality itself.
[Ding!]
[You have cleared the floor.]
[Would you like to leave?]
Raziel and Esau ignored the prompt. In the blink of an eye, they reappeared in the Goblin territory. The battlefield of blood and war had vanished. Silence reigned. Nothing remained but a solitary throne at the far end, bathed in an otherworldly light.
"Go, now you may become the RULER of this floor" Raziel said, his voice calm, commanding, yet filled with quiet pride.
Esau nodded. Without hesitation, he strode forward and seated himself upon the throne. The instant he touched it, a notification shimmered before him:
[Would you like to become the ruler of this floor?]
"Yes," he replied.
Immediately, a blinding light enveloped him. His golden hair flared brighter than the sun itself, a radiance that stretched across multiverses. His eyes became colder than the void, colder than nothingness itself, piercing through reality. Six wings erupted from his back—and then six more, for a total of twelve, their feathers shimmering with cosmic energy. His height stretched to seven feet, his presence magnified to a scale that dwarfed gods themselves. His armour—forged from the hands of Creation itself—glimmered with the essence of stars, planets, and the void between, each plate a fragment of the cosmos.
Esau had transcended even the gods. Gods could claim a floor and command its domain, but Esau—now the ruler of Floor 1, the very beginning of the Tower—was an Omega, a being of unimaginable authority. He held more than seven concepts simultaneously, twelve wings to mark his dominion, and the power to rule universes, multiverses, and omniverses alike.
The former Orc and Goblin territories merged, condensed, and then expanded infinitely. Mountains, castles, and homes stretched beyond mortal comprehension. Soldiers emerged from pools of blood, yet these were no ordinary warriors—they bore faces, expressions, individuality, and loyalty. These were the eternal guardians of the floor, bound to the ruler's will.
The sky above fractured into worlds upon worlds, stars, universes, multiverses, gigaverses, and omniverses, all layered infinitely, yet somehow all contained in the palm of Esau's hand, reflecting his omnipotence. Reality itself bowed to him; the floor was no longer a mere battlefield—it had become an infinite kingdom, a condensed omniverse, the living manifestation of dominion itself.
In the hierarchy of the Tower, an Omega is a being that transcends even Gods. While gods may rule a floor, their power is typically limited to conventional dominion—one race, one territory, or a single universe contained within the floor.
Omegas, however, exist on an entirely different scale. They are beings capable of holding and manipulating multiple concepts simultaneously, often exceeding seven in number. They possess the authority, power, and understanding to govern entire universes, multiverses, and even omniverses—all contained within a single floor of the Tower.
Each floor is not merely a battleground or a domain; it is a self-contained reality, capable of housing vast cosmoses, layers of universes, and infinite dimensions. For an Omega, a floor is both a throne and a playground of creation—they can expand a single territory into infinite worlds, craft multiverses from their imagination, and manipulate omniversal-scale forces with a gesture.
In other words:
A floor of the Tower = an Imaginative Reality for infinite possibilities, capable of containing universes, multiverses, gigaverses, or even omniverses.
An Omega = the ruler of this Imaginative Reality, a being whose authority and power scale infinitely with the concepts and dominions they hold.
Omegas are more than rulers—they are creators, destroyers, and arbiters of existence itself. They do not merely govern; they shape reality according to their will, bending all contained worlds and forces to their absolute dominion.
Raziel watched with a soft, almost paternal smile. This was exactly what he had envisioned: Esau and Draven, the strongest rulers of existence, standing beside him, their power absolute. The once-small territories of Goblins and Orcs were now a single, infinite empire, a testament to their might, their vision, and their conquest of reality itself.
The Tower, from its foundation to its infinite heights, had a new ruler. And Esau, Omega of Floor 1, radiated a glory that surpassed gods, defied reality, and demanded awe from all creation.
[You have been granted an Authority.]
[Control]
[Rank: ??????]
[Type: Discretion / Manipulation / Conceptual / Authority]
[Description: Everything within your Domain can be controlled. Whatever you desire can be yours. You may act freely within your domain. As you conquer additional floors, your Domain will expand, encompassing greater realms and powers.]
Esau smiled, the weight of the throne beneath him now a symbol of absolute dominion.
[You have become the ruler of this floor.]
[Every God and Omega will now be aware of your existence.]
[No one may enter without your permission.]
[Even if you leave this floor, your Domain will travel with your shadow.]
[Well done, Omega of the Tower.]
[All servers of Floor one are under your domain and under your rule.]
Rising from the throne, Esau walked toward Raziel. Side by side, they turned their backs to the glowing notification.
[Would you like to leave?]
[YES / NO]
The choice lingered in the air, heavy with consequence, as the silent dominion of Floor 1—the Omega's floor—stretched infinitely before them, awaiting the next act of creation.
They both clicked yes.
In an instant, Raziel and Esau were transported.
The chaos and carnage of the Orc stronghold vanished, replaced by a safe zone bathed in soft, ambient light. Around them stretched a vast expanse filled with those who had cleared their own floors across the same server— transcenders, each carrying the weight of their victories and the scars of the WAR.
The contrast was stark. In most servers, the Orcs had emerged victorious, their might was unquestioned, their dominion absolute. Entire battlefields had been soaked in blood, yet here—on Raziel's server—the Goblins had triumphed. The memory of defeat for the Orcs lingered like a shadow, yet it was entirely irrelevant in this domain. Raziel's presence had ensured victory, rewriting the outcome of the war in his favor.
Every gaze seemed to linger on them, curiosity and awe rippling through the crowd. No one knew what happened in their server but they could feel it-their glory and dominion.
-End of chapter