Floor 5 opened like a wound healing wrong.

  The tunnels widened gradually, the oppressive walls of the Pore Tunnels giving way to something that almost resembled architecture—vaulted ceilings of fused bone, floors worn smooth by the passage of countless feet, and most remarkably, light. Real light, or something close to it: bioluminescent organs the size of cars hung from the ceiling at regular intervals, bathing everything in a warm amber glow that felt almost like sunlight.

  And there were people.

  Elias stopped at the tunnel's exit, Mira beside him, both of them staring at what lay ahead. The space before them was enormous—a natural cavern in the Tower's flesh, easily the size of a football stadium, filled with the unmistakable signs of habitation. Tents and lean-tos clustered in organized groups. Cooking fires burned in designated pits, their smoke drawn upward by some unseen ventilation. Climbers moved between structures with purpose, trading, talking, living.

  "What is this?" Mira breathed.

  "Rest Station," Elias said, reading the System notification that had appeared at the edge of his vision. "Floor 5. Designated safe zone."

  WELCOME TO REST STATION ALPHA

  FLOOR 5 — NEUTRAL TERRITORY

  VIOLENCE PROHIBITED (SYSTEM ENFORCED)

  SERVICES AVAILABLE: Trading, Transfusion, Circuit Installation

  NOTE: Rest Station status expires upon exit. Tower rules resume immediately.

  "Safe zone," Mira repeated, skepticism heavy in her voice. "Nothing in the Tower is safe."

  "The System enforces it, apparently." Elias didn't fully believe it either, but the evidence before him was compelling. Climbers who would have killed each other on any other floor walked past one another without tension. Weapons remained sheathed. Voices were raised in conversation, not conflict.

  It felt wrong. It felt like a trap.

  But it also felt like hope.

  "Daddy, look!" Lira had drifted ahead, her form brighter here than it had been in the tunnels, responding to the ambient light. She pointed at a group of children—living children, flesh and blood—playing some kind of game near one of the larger tents. "There are kids here!"

  "I see them."

  "Can I go say hi?"

  The question hit him harder than it should have. Such a normal request—a child wanting to play with other children—made extraordinary by the circumstances. Lira couldn't play, not really. She couldn't touch or be touched, couldn't participate in games that required physical presence. But the longing in her voice was achingly familiar.

  "Maybe later," he said. "We need to find out how this place works first."

  They descended into the Rest Station, drawing looks from the established inhabitants. Elias was used to being assessed—his military bearing, his weapons, his obvious capability—but the looks directed at Lira were different. Some Climbers stared with open curiosity. Others looked away quickly, pain flickering across their faces. A few made signs he didn't recognize, gestures that might have been religious or superstitious or simply habitual.

  Foundlings were rare. He was beginning to understand just how rare.

  The station was organized into districts of a sort—clusters of tents and structures grouped by function. They passed through what appeared to be a residential area, then a section dedicated to weapon repair and maintenance, then an open market where Climbers haggled over supplies and equipment. The economy was blood-based, as everything in the Tower was, but here the transactions were formalized: rates posted on boards, measurements standardized, disputes mediated by figures in neutral gray clothing.

  Civilization. Crude and desperate, but civilization nonetheless.

  "We should find someone who can explain things," Elias said. "Someone who's been here long enough to know the rules."

  "The trading post." Mira nodded toward a larger structure near the station's center—a permanent building, or as permanent as anything in the Tower could be, constructed from harvested bone and cured hide. "Traders always know more than they let on."

  They made their way through the crowds, Elias keeping Lira close, Mira moving with the careful gait of someone still nursing serious injuries. The chest tube was gone—the fluid had drained, and her body was healing with the System-enhanced speed that all Climbers benefited from—but her ribs were still tender, her shoulder still stiff.

  The trading post was busy. Climbers of all descriptions moved in and out, carrying supplies, conducting business, exchanging information in low voices. The interior was larger than expected, filled with shelves and bins and display cases containing everything from weapons to food to items Elias couldn't identify.

  Behind the main counter sat a man who had to be the owner.

  He was old—genuinely old, with white hair and weathered skin and eyes that had seen too much for too long. He sat in a wheelchair of ingenious design, its wheels crafted from Tower-bone, its frame reinforced with metal salvaged from god-knew-where. Both his legs ended just above the knee, the stumps wrapped in clean bandages.

  "Fresh meat," the old man said, his voice a gravelly rasp. "Floor 5 or below?"

  "Four," Elias replied. "Just came through the Pore Tunnels."

  "And you've still got both your legs. Congratulations." The old man's smile was missing several teeth. "Name's Tom. Everyone calls me Old Tom, on account of me being old. I run this place. Buy, sell, trade, and—most importantly—talk. Information's the most valuable currency in the Tower, and I've got more of it than anyone."

  "Tom." Elias studied the man with new interest. "As in 'Old Tom's Wisdom'? The messages carved into the walls?"

  "Guilty as charged. Started leaving those tips when I could still walk. Figured if I couldn't make it to the top, at least I could help others get further." He gestured at his missing legs. "Floor 23 took these. Creature called a Marrow Drake. Got out alive, but not intact. Been running this place ever since."

  "You climbed to Floor 23?"

  "Higher than most. Lower than some. The Tower's got a hundred floors, give or take—nobody's ever confirmed the exact number—and the ones who make it to the top don't usually come back down to chat." Old Tom leaned back in his wheelchair, assessing them with sharp eyes. "Now, you've got questions. I can see them stacking up behind your teeth. But first, let's establish the basics. What do you have to trade?"

  "Blood," Elias said. "And skills. I'm a surgeon."

  Old Tom's eyebrows rose. "A real surgeon? Not just someone who knows which end of a knife is sharp?"

  "Combat medic training, then surgical residency, then trauma fellowship. Fifteen years of experience before the Bleed."

  "Well, well." The old man's smile widened. "You just became the most valuable person in this station, friend. Medical expertise is rarer than Foundlings around here." His eyes flicked to Lira, then back to Elias. "Speaking of which—that's quite a companion you've got there."

  Lira had drifted closer to the counter, examining the wares with ghostly curiosity. She looked up at the mention of her, uncertainty flickering across her translucent features.

  "My daughter," Elias said simply.

  "Foundling. Class Three, if I'm reading the manifestation right. Stable enough to maintain coherent form, strong enough to interact with the environment in limited ways, but still tethered to you for energy." Old Tom's assessment was clinical, almost casual. "How long since the Bleed took her?"

  "She died before the Bleed."

  "Ah." Something shifted in the old man's expression—understanding, perhaps, or sympathy. "That's rare. Usually Foundlings are made from fresh deaths, souls caught in the transition between worlds. For the Tower to reach back and claim someone already gone..." He shook his head. "That takes something special. Either from the Tower, or from you."

  Elias didn't respond. He wasn't sure he wanted to know what it meant.

  "But you're not here for philosophy," Old Tom continued, his tone shifting back to business. "You're here because you need to understand what you're dealing with. The System, the blood economy, how to keep your ghost-girl from fading away. Am I right?"

  "Yes."

  "Then pull up a seat—or a box, or whatever you can find—and I'll give you the education the Tower doesn't provide." He produced a bottle of something amber from beneath the counter, poured himself a measure, and settled in. "First lesson: forget everything you think you know about how the world works. The Tower has its own rules, and they don't give a damn about physics or logic or fairness."

  Mira found a crate to sit on, relief evident in her posture as she took the weight off her healing ribs. Elias remained standing, positioned where he could watch both the old man and the trading post's entrance. Lira settled beside him, her attention fixed on Old Tom with the intensity of a student determined not to miss anything.

  "The System," Old Tom began, "is the Tower's operating system. Think of it like the rules of a video game—arbitrary, absolute, and impossible to change. It tracks everything: your vitality, your blood reserves, your capabilities. It assigns values to actions and enforces consequences. And most importantly, it provides the only mechanism by which anyone gets what they want from this place."

  "Transfusion," Elias said. "I saw it mentioned in the welcome notification."

  "Smart man. Transfusion is the Tower's central transaction. You give it blood; it gives you something in return. The exchange rate varies based on what you're asking for, but the basic principle is always the same: blood in, benefit out." Old Tom took a sip from his glass. "For most Climbers, that means stat improvements. Dump enough blood into the System, and your vitality cap increases. Your reflexes sharpen. Your body becomes more than human."

  "And for Foundlings?"

  "Ah. You understand the real question." Old Tom's eyes found Lira again. "Foundlings are different. They're not Climbers—they're not even alive, not in any way that matters. They're echoes, imprints, souls held together by the Tower's energy and their bond to a living Climber. And like all things in the Tower, they degrade."

  Soul Integrity: 97.2%

  The number floated at the edge of Elias's vision, a constant reminder of what he was fighting against.

  "Soul Integrity is the measure of a Foundling's coherence," Old Tom continued. "It starts at 100%—or near enough—and drops over time. Faster in hostile environments, slower in safe zones, but always dropping. When it hits zero, the Foundling dissipates. Gone forever, no recovery, no second chances."

  "How do I stop it?"

  "You can't stop it. But you can slow it down, and you can reverse the damage." Old Tom leaned forward, his expression serious. "Transfusion works for Foundlings too, but the exchange rate is brutal. The Tower wants blood—lots of it—and it wants it regularly. Miss a transfusion, and the degradation accelerates. Fall behind, and you'll never catch up."

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  "How much blood? What's the exchange rate?"

  "Depends on the Foundling's class and current integrity. For a Class Three like your daughter, with integrity in the high nineties..." Old Tom calculated silently. "Three liters will buy you about one and a half percent. Maybe two, if the Tower's feeling generous."

  Three liters. Almost half of what Elias had harvested since entering the Tower. And that would only recover a fraction of what Lira had already lost.

  "The math doesn't work," he said quietly. "If I have to spend that much blood just to maintain her integrity—"

  "Then you'll have nothing left for yourself. For circuits. For advancement." Old Tom nodded. "Now you understand why most Climbers with Foundlings don't make it past Floor 10. They can't gather blood fast enough to keep their ghosts stable and improve themselves. Eventually, they fall behind, get killed by something they could have beaten if they'd been stronger, and their Foundling dissipates when the bond breaks."

  "There has to be another way."

  "There is. But you won't like it." Old Tom's voice dropped lower. "Human blood is worth more. A lot more. Climbers who harvest other Climbers can maintain a Foundling and still advance, because the yield from a human is five, sometimes six times what you'd get from monsters." He held up a hand before Elias could respond. "I'm not suggesting anything. Just explaining the economics. The Tower rewards cruelty. That's not my rule; it's just reality."

  Elias thought about Marcus. About the blood he'd harvested from a dead man's body. About the moral compromises he'd already made, and the ones still waiting ahead.

  "What about circuits?" Mira spoke for the first time since they'd sat down, her voice sharp with interest. "You mentioned them earlier."

  "Circuits are the Tower's gift to Climbers who survive long enough to matter." Old Tom set down his glass and pulled back his sleeve, revealing a pattern on his forearm—lines of faded red traced beneath the skin, forming a shape that might have been a rune or might have been a diagram. "When you transfuse enough blood, the Tower offers you a choice: you can improve your base stats, or you can install a circuit."

  "What do they do?"

  "Depends on the circuit. Some enhance physical capabilities—strength, speed, endurance. Others give you abilities that shouldn't be possible: seeing in perfect darkness, sensing heartbeats through walls, metabolizing poison instead of being killed by it." He traced the pattern on his arm. "This one's called Blood-Sight. Entry-level circuit, usually the first one Climbers unlock. Lets you see blood through solid objects. Living creatures light up like beacons—very useful for detecting ambushes or finding wounded prey."

  "How much does it cost?"

  "Two liters, plus you need to have completed at least one transfusion first. The Tower wants to make sure you're committed before it starts changing you." Old Tom's expression darkened. "But there's a price beyond blood. Circuits aren't just abilities—they're modifications. The Tower is rewriting your biology, installing its own systems into your body. The more circuits you install, the less human you become."

  "Physically?"

  "In every way that matters. High-level Climbers—the ones on Floor 50 and above—they don't look human anymore. They don't think human. The Tower gets into their heads, their souls, their sense of self. Some of them forget they ever were human. Some of them don't care." He met Elias's eyes. "That's the real cost of climbing. Not blood, not pain, not even death. It's becoming something else. Something the Tower made."

  Silence hung over them. Elias processed the information, fitting it into his understanding of what he was facing. The mathematics were brutal—blood for survival, blood for advancement, blood for Lira—and the only way to accumulate enough was to become something capable of taking it.

  "I need to do a transfusion," he said finally. "For Lira. Now, before we go any further."

  "Smart choice. The Altar's in the center of the station—can't miss it, big red thing that pulses like a heart. I'd recommend doing the Foundling transfusion first, then deciding if you want to unlock a circuit with whatever's left." Old Tom paused. "You've got, what, three liters? Maybe a little more?"

  "Three point one."

  "Then you've got exactly enough to stabilize your daughter and unlock Blood-Sight with barely anything to spare. Not enough for stat improvements, but that can wait." He leaned back. "Go. Take care of your girl. Then come back, and we'll talk about what comes next."

  The Altar dominated the station's center.

  It rose from the floor like an organic growth—a pillar of red-black tissue easily fifteen feet tall, pulsing with visible veins, thrumming with a heartbeat that was felt more than heard. Around it, Climbers waited in loose lines, approaching one by one to conduct their transactions with the Tower's heart.

  Elias approached with Lira beside him, Mira trailing behind. The other Climbers gave them space—whether out of respect for the Foundling or simply because of the intensity in Elias's expression.

  The Altar's surface rippled as he neared, responding to his presence. A notification appeared in his vision:

  TRANSFUSION ALTAR — READY

  AVAILABLE BLOOD: 3.1 L

  AVAILABLE OPTIONS:

  — FOUNDLING STABILIZATION (RECOMMENDED)

  — STAT ENHANCEMENT

  — CIRCUIT INSTALLATION

  — RESERVE DEPOSIT

  "I want Foundling stabilization," he said aloud. "Everything I have, if that's what it takes."

  FOUNDLING STABILIZATION

  CURRENT INTEGRITY: 97.2%

  COST: 3.0 L (FIXED)

  PROJECTED INTEGRITY: 98.7%

  CONFIRM?

  Three liters. Almost everything. But it would push Lira's integrity back above 98%—buy him time, buy her stability, buy them both a chance to keep going.

  "Confirm."

  The Altar pulsed.

  Elias felt something pull at him—not painfully, but insistently, a suction at the core of his being where the harvested blood was stored. The number in his vision dropped rapidly: 3.1, 2.5, 2.0, 1.5, 1.0, 0.5, 0.1.

  TRANSFUSION COMPLETE

  BLOOD REMAINING: 0.1 L

  FOUNDLING INTEGRITY UPDATED: 98.7%

  Lira gasped.

  It wasn't a sound she should have been able to make—ghosts didn't need to breathe—but she made it anyway, a sharp intake of non-existent air as something changed within her. Her form brightened, the edges that had been flickering and uncertain suddenly solidifying, her colors deepening from washed-out translucence to something closer to opacity.

  "Daddy." Her voice was stronger, clearer, more present than it had been since he'd entered the Tower. "I feel... different. Better. Like I was falling apart, and now I'm not."

  "That's the transfusion." He reached for her instinctively, and for just a moment—so brief he might have imagined it—he thought he felt something against his fingertips. Not solid, not warm, but there. "The Tower stabilized your soul. Gave you more time."

  "How much time?"

  He didn't have an answer. The System didn't provide projections, only current status. But she was at 98.7% now, higher than she'd been since before the Pore Tunnels, and that was enough for now.

  "Enough," he said. "We have enough."

  CIRCUIT INSTALLATION AVAILABLE

  MINIMUM BLOOD REQUIREMENT MET: 0.1 L

  AVAILABLE CIRCUITS: BLOOD-SIGHT (BASIC)

  INSTALL NOW? (BLOOD COST: 0.0 L — FIRST CIRCUIT FREE)

  First circuit free. The Tower's hook, its way of ensuring that Climbers got a taste of power before demanding payment for more.

  Elias hesitated. Old Tom's warnings echoed in his mind—the less human you become—but he thought about the Pore Tunnels, about the Crawlers he'd barely avoided, about all the threats waiting on the floors above. He thought about protecting Lira. About keeping Mira alive. About surviving long enough to reach the top.

  "Install it," he said.

  The Altar pulsed again.

  This time, the sensation was different. Not a pulling but a pushing—something entering him, threading through his blood vessels, tracing pathways along his nerves. It didn't hurt, exactly, but it felt wrong, alien, like his body was being rewritten from the inside out.

  The process took seconds that felt like hours.

  When it ended, Elias opened his eyes—and saw the world transformed.

  Everything looked the same at first glance. The station, the Altar, the Climbers waiting their turn. But overlaid on that familiar reality was something new: a web of red light, pulsing and flowing, tracing the circulatory systems of every living creature in sight. He could see their hearts beating, see the blood moving through their veins, see the warmth of their life painted in crimson across his vision.

  CIRCUIT INSTALLED: BLOOD-SIGHT (BASIC)

  CAPABILITY: Visual detection of blood flow in living organisms

  RANGE: 50 meters (line of sight) / 15 meters (through obstacles)

  NOTE: Intensity of visual signal corresponds to blood volume. Large concentrations appear brighter.

  He turned to look at Mira. Through the Blood-Sight, she was a beacon—a human-shaped constellation of red light, her heart pumping, her wounds still healing, every artery and vein visible beneath her skin.

  He looked at Lira.

  Nothing. She had no blood, no heartbeat, no circulation. To the Blood-Sight, she didn't exist at all.

  "Daddy? Your eyes are different."

  He blinked, and the overlay faded—not gone, but dormant, waiting to be called upon. "Side effect of the circuit. I can see... I can see blood now. Inside people."

  "That sounds creepy."

  "It's useful." He turned to Mira, who was watching him with an unreadable expression. "I can see your heart. Your blood vessels. Every part of your circulatory system."

  "Wonderful," she said flatly. "Anything else you can see that I should know about?"

  "Just blood. But it means I can spot living creatures through walls, detect ambushes, find wounded people who need help." He paused. "Or wounded people who can be harvested."

  The words hung in the air between them, ugly and honest.

  "That's what the Tower does," Mira said quietly. "Takes your gifts and makes them into weapons."

  They made their way back to Old Tom's trading post, Elias processing his new sense, learning to toggle it on and off with a thought. The station looked different through Blood-Sight—a seething mass of red light, dozens of Climbers moving and bleeding and living. It was beautiful and terrible in equal measure.

  Old Tom was waiting for them, a knowing look on his weathered face.

  "You took the circuit," he observed. "Blood-Sight. Good choice for a first installation. Useful without being transformative." He peered at Elias's eyes, nodding at whatever he saw. "The color change is subtle—most people won't notice unless they know what to look for. Later circuits are more obvious."

  "What should I know that you haven't told me yet?"

  "Direct. I appreciate that." Old Tom refilled his glass, settling back in his wheelchair. "You asked about the economics of Foundlings. About how to keep your girl stable while still advancing. What I didn't tell you is that there are people in the Tower who've found shortcuts."

  "What kind of shortcuts?"

  "Siphoners." The word came out like a curse. "Climbers who've figured out how to drain blood directly from living victims without killing them. They build networks—capture other Climbers, keep them alive as livestock, harvest them repeatedly over days or weeks. The yield is lower per session than a lethal harvest, but it's sustainable. Renewable."

  Elias felt sick. "That's—"

  "Monstrous. Yes. But effective." Old Tom's expression was grim. "There's a Siphoner collective that operates between Floors 10 and 15. They call themselves the Vineyard. Started with maybe a dozen Climbers; now they've got over a hundred, plus twice that many in captives. They're strong, they're organized, and they've got no intention of actually reaching the top. They've built their own little empire right here in the Tower's guts."

  "Why are you telling me this?"

  "Because you've got something they want." Old Tom's eyes flicked to Lira. "Foundlings are valuable. Rare. And there are rumors—unconfirmed, but persistent—that a Siphoner who drains a Foundling's bonded Climber can claim the Foundling for themselves."

  Lira pressed closer to Elias, her form flickering with fear.

  "They'll come for you," Old Tom continued. "Maybe not immediately—you're still on Floor 5, still small-time—but eventually. If you keep climbing with a Foundling at your side, you'll attract attention. And attention in the Tower is never good."

  "What do you suggest?"

  "Move fast. Get strong. Don't stay on any floor long enough to be tracked." The old man drained his glass. "And for god's sake, don't trust anyone who offers to help for free. Everything in the Tower has a price. If someone's not asking for payment, they're planning to collect in other ways."

  Elias absorbed the warning, filing it alongside everything else he'd learned. The picture was becoming clearer—the Tower as ecosystem, as economy, as crucible designed to forge something from the raw material of human desperation.

  "Thank you," he said. "For the information. For all of it."

  "Don't thank me. Pay me." Old Tom's smile was back, sharp and mercantile. "You said you're a surgeon. There's a Climber in the residential quarter with a bone infection that's going to kill her in days. Save her, and we'll call it even."

  "Done."

  They left the trading post, Elias's mind churning with plans and calculations. Mira walked beside him, her silence finally breaking.

  "You're really going to keep doing this," she said. "Climbing. Collecting. Fighting. All of it, for a ghost."

  "She's not a ghost. She's my daughter."

  "She's dead, Elias. Whatever that thing is, whatever the Tower made from your daughter's soul, it's not—"

  "Don't." His voice was quiet, but something in it made Mira stop. "You can think what you want. You can believe what you want. But don't say it out loud. Not where she can hear."

  Mira looked at him for a long moment. Then she looked at Lira, who was watching them both with those too-blue eyes, understanding more than a child should.

  "Fine," Mira said finally. "Keep your delusions. Maybe they'll be enough." She straightened, wincing as her ribs protested. "I'm coming with you. Up the Tower. However far you're planning to go."

  "Why?"

  "Because you're the first Climber I've met who saved someone without asking for anything in return." She met his eyes. "Because you have skills I need and principles I don't understand. And because..." She hesitated. "Because I'm looking for someone too. Someone the Tower took. And I have a feeling that wherever you're going, I need to follow."

  Elias considered her—this wounded woman with secrets in her eyes, who'd watched him reveal his ghost-daughter and hadn't run, hadn't attacked, hadn't tried to exploit the vulnerability. She was dangerous, he was certain of that. Capable and cunning and carrying damage that hadn't been fully revealed.

  But she was also an ally. And in the Tower, allies were rarer than mercy.

  "Alright," he said. "We climb together. But understand something: Lira comes first. Always. If it comes down to a choice between you and her—"

  "You'll choose her. I know." Mira's smile was thin, humorless. "I'd do the same, if I still had someone worth choosing."

  They walked back toward the residential quarter, the surgeon and the stranger and the ghost. Around them, the Rest Station hummed with life—temporary, precarious, borrowed life, all of it existing at the Tower's sufferance.

  "Daddy," Lira said softly. "What Old Tom said about the Tower. About becoming something else. Do you think that will happen to you?"

  "I don't know, sweetheart."

  "Are you scared?"

  He thought about the Blood-Sight pulsing behind his eyes, about the circuits waiting to be installed, about the path ahead that demanded blood and sacrifice and the slow erosion of everything human.

  "Yes," he admitted. "I am."

  "Me too." She flickered beside him, more stable now but still fragile, still temporary, still balanced on the edge of dissolution. "But I'm glad we're scared together."

  Old Tom's voice echoed in his memory, the old man's final words as they'd left his trading post:

  The deeper you go, the more the Tower takes.

  He believed it. He feared it. And he climbed anyway, because the alternative was losing Lira forever, and that was a price he wasn't willing to pay.

  Not yet.

  Not ever.