Runebound Reverse Tower of The Dead Chapter 223: A DEMON!

"By the way... what level are you?" the Fist King asked.

"Level one, why?"

The Fist King frowned, he pressed Kael’s forearm with a thumb with enough force to make a man wince.

"Your muscles... how did you get them this developed while at level one?"

"Didn’t accept the level up bonuses yet... this is just from random stats I got from doing stuff on the first floor, and my basic build."

"You worked fields back in your world?"

"Construction."

"Decent muscles, good base... don’t accept the level up bonuses yet then."

"Why? Wouldn’t it make the climb down... easier?"

"Easy doesn’t an good. By accepting them I’ll have to increase the difficulty from four hours to two..."

Kael opened his mouth then closed it.

"Fine, I won’t."

"Hand over your gear. Leave only your clothes on..."

"All I have is the gauntlets..."

"Those then, leave them with ."

Kael hesitated.

"You think I can’t take them from you if I wanted to?"

All kael needed to do was rember the beating he got to imdiately pull out the gauntlets and give them to the Fist King.

"Wish you resisted a bit."

"I don’t like getting beaten up..."

"I don’t like beating you up, it pains my heart."

"I feel that’s a lie."

"Are you calling your master a liar now?"

"Oh, definitely not, master, you’re the heavens, how can the heavens lie," Kael’s words were full of snark, but he didn’t enjoy getting his face punched in either.

Ti went by, and hunger ca first.

It crept into Kael’s bones long before it reached his stomach. By the ti the sun dipped and the cave swallowed what little warmth remained, the gnawing inside him had beco sothing raw, sothing that made his thoughts sluggish and his temper sharp. He searched the cave twice, then a third ti more carefully, as if food might appear if he looked hard enough. There was nothing but stone, old tools, and a single large vat pushed against the wall.

When he lifted the lid, the sll hit him. Bland, dry, faintly earthy. Inside were small, dense balls of grain, stacked without care.

"That’s it?" Kael muttered, staring into the vat as if it had personally insulted him.

From deeper within the cave ca the voice of the old man, lazy and unconcerned. "Murim food. They’re stave off hunger and give you energy enough to survive."

Kael grabbed one, bit into it, and imdiately regretted it. It was dry enough to pull the moisture from his tongue, tasteless beyond belief, like chewing on compacted dust. He forced himself to swallow.

"That’s all I’ll have?" he asked, irritation creeping into his voice.

"Until you hunt your own food."

Kael frowned, glancing toward the cave entrance where darkness had begun to settle. "Then I’ll go now."

A pause followed, then a quiet chuckle. "You can. Just rember. The mont you leave the cave, your four hours begin."

Kael said nothing. He finished the grain ball slowly, jaw working in frustration. The idea of being rationed like this, of being told what he could and could not eat, pressed on sothing deeper than hunger. It made him feel caged.

Later, ti went by, and the Fist King decided it was ti to call it a night. He rested on top of a straw bed, and began sleeping. At first it was quiet, then ca the snores.

They resounded through the cave like the sound of a tiger’s growl.

’The fuck can anyone sleep in this,’ Kael cursed as he kept struggling to find a good sleeping position on the uncomfortable ’bed’. It wasn’t as bad as in the first floor, but it was definitely louder.

Once the snoring turned from erratic to sothing more rhythmic and repeating,

’Must be fully asleep now. To hell with this shit,’ Kael made his decision.

He moved carefully, each step deliberate. The cave exit was only a few strides away, the night air cool against his skin as he stepped outside. For a mont, he felt sothing like freedom. The sky stretched above him, dark and endless, stars scattered like distant embers.

He smirked to himself. Four hours. Right, now he’s out cold, Kael believed he can definitely escape the cave. Looking down at the long path ahead, if he makes a run for it, by morning, the big log of a man that’s the Fist King will only find dust left behind.

Kael began his descent, rapidly along the safe but longer route. This ti he can make it, this ti he can definitely get out of that man’s reach. He ran, until he made it almost halfway down the slope.

Then a voice cut through the night.

"You’re late."

Kael froze.

His head snapped back, heart hamring. The old man stood behind him, silhouetted against the faint starlight. For a brief second, Kael thought he had imagined it. There was no way he could have moved that quietly, that quickly.

He expected the usual beating. He braced himself for it, jaw tightening.

Instead, the old man simply grabbed him, hauled him upward with terrifying ease, and dragged him back toward the cave. He walked. This ti, and while being carried like a sac of potato Kael noticed sothing.

That a step the Fist King took, was easily a hundred of Kael’s own steps.

And he wasn’t even running.

He realized it then and there...

There was no escaping this nightmare.

"What are you... doing?"

The world flipped.

Kael felt his ankles bound, then the sudden rush of blood to his head as he was left hanging upside down over the cliff’s edge. The drop yawned beneath him, vast and rciless.

"What the hell are you doing?" Kael shouted, anger cutting through the fear.

"I told you, there are consequences for leaving the cave and not making it back with food in less than four hours. Consider this rcy, since it’s night you won’t be able to spar right"

Kael stared at him, stunned.

"You’re insane."

The old man shrugged. "Maybe."

Then he walked away.

Kael hung there through the night.

At first, it was anger that sustained him. Anger at the old man, at the situation, at the sheer absurdity of it all. But anger faded faster than he expected.

His core burned, muscles screaming under the strain. Blood rushed to his head, vision pulsing with pressure. Every minute stretched into sothing unbearable.

By the ti dawn crept over the horizon, Kael’s thoughts had dulled into sothing heavy and distant.

When the old man returned, he looked down at Kael with mild interest.

"You didn’t die. Good."

Kael wanted to respond, but all that ca out was a strained exhale.

The ropes loosened. He dropped, catching himself awkwardly on the cliff face before being hauled back up once more.

"I’m a prisoner," Kael muttered, voice hoarse. "That’s what this is."

The old man glanced at him. "If you think that, you’ll stay one."

Kael clenched his fists.

Sothing in him shifted then. Not acceptance. Not yet. But sothing harder. Sothing that refused to break under this.

"Go down," the old man said. "What are you doing here?"

Kael stared at him, fury simring beneath exhaustion.

Then he turned and began his descent for the first ti.

The cliff was not friendly like the slope. It was unforgiving. It looked deadly and dangerous. Yet, glancing back at the Fist King with puppy eyes didn’t make the man do much than scuff.

’Tsk cruel bastard’ Kael cursed inwardly.

"No cursing at your master," the Fist King said.

"I didn’t say anything."

"I can see it on your face..."

The first day, he barely made it a fraction of the way down before the four hours ran out.

The old man’s voice followed him again.

"You’re late."

He was dragged up, beaten ’Spared with’ without ceremony, then sent down again.

The second day was no better. Kael even managed to lose a footing and fall down, only for the Fist King to suddenly appear right behind him, grab him by the scruff of his clothes and plant him back onto the wall.

"Keep going."

The third was also no different.

Days blurred together into a cycle of descent, failure, and punishnt.

Kael hesitated several tis on accepting the level up and punch all the stats gained into strength and dexterity. But he decided otherwise. His Master, said that it’ll serve him better to train his body naturally before giving it any ’stats...’ So he sucked it up and kept going down.

Each ti, the old man appeared exactly when the four hours ended, as if ti itself bent to his will. Sotis he stood above. Sotis beside him. Once, impossibly, he stood on the cliff face itself, body horizontal, as though gravity held no authority over him.

"You’re late," he would say.

Every ti.

It took Kael days to understand sothing simple. The cliff was not ant to be conquered in a single attempt. It was ant to grind him down until there was nothing left but instinct.

On the tenth day, Kael noticed it.

His fingers did not slip as easily. His grip held longer, tighter. When he shifted his weight, his body responded with a precision it hadn’t before. His abdon, once soft from disuse, felt taut, like coiled rope beneath his skin.

He caught his reflection in a shallow pool at the base one morning. Bruised, battered, dirt clinging to his face. But beneath it, sothing had changed.

He looked stronger.

He looked... sharper.

And yet, there was sothing else.

The bruises never lasted.

He would take a beating one evening, body aching, ribs screaming in protest. But by morning, the pain had dulled into sothing manageable. The swelling faded quickly. The marks never lingered beyond a few hours.

More than that, there was a strange clarity that followed the pain. His body felt better the day after a beating than it had the day before.

Kael frowned at the thought.

He shoved it aside imdiately.

"I’m not enjoying this," he muttered under his breath as he climbed. "Not even a little."

He repeated it often after that.

By the end of the first week, he could reach the base of the cliff.

By the third week, hunger had forced his hand. He learned to hunt. Clumsy at first, failing more often than not, but necessity drove him forward. The first ti he caught sothing, a small creature that barely filled his hands, he ate it without hesitation.

But climbing back up was another matter entirely.

It took a full month before he could descend and return within the four-hour limit.

The day he did, he dragged himself over the edge, lungs burning, muscles trembling, barely able to stand.

The old man watched him in silence.

Then he nodded.

"Good. You finally have a body that can be used."

Kael dropped onto his back, staring up at the cave ceiling. Every inch of him ached, but there was sothing else beneath it. A quiet, reluctant pride he refused to acknowledge.

"So," he said between breaths, "I get to start the Iron Marrow technique?"

The old man snorted.

"No. You’ll die."

Kael blinked. "What?"

"It’s too soon." The old man turned away, rummaging through sothing out of sight. "Now it’s the second phase."

He returned holding four iron rings.

Kael pushed himself up slightly, eyes narrowing. "What’s that?"

The old man tossed them at him. Kael caught one instinctively, then nearly dropped it as the weight dragged his arm down.

"Each one is twenty kilos," the old man said.

Kael stared at him.

"You’re joking."

The old man didn’t smile.

"Two for your wrists. Two for your ankles."

Kael let out a slow breath, sothing between disbelief and dread.

"You have two hours," the old man continued. "Go down the cliff and get us food."

Kael looked at the rings. Then at the cliff.

Then back at the old man.

"...You really are a demon."

The old man’s eyes glinted faintly.

"Go."