Three moons past, the world changed — not with fire or war, but with silence.

From the heart of every continent, impossible structures erupted: towers so vast and tall their summits pierced the very heavens. They were not built. They arrived. Each one a realm unto itself — boundless within, shaped by forces unknown. Forests bloomed on ceilings, oceans hung in midair, and whole civilizations blinked into being beneath alien stars.

No blade, spell, or scholar could unravel the Towers’ origin. No army could breach their obsidian gates. But then came the sigils.

Crystalline and cold, they appeared in pockets, under pillows, at pyres and on battlefields. To kings and beggars alike. Etched with a single phrase:
“You have been chosen. The Tower awaits.”

Those who touched them vanished — and awoke at the base of the Tower.

There, on Floor 0 — the Floor of Beginnings — they were offered a choice. Not all paths are alike, and not all who enter survive. The Tower tests. It remembers. It evolves.

Now, the sigil hums in your palm, in tune with your heartbeat. The threshold before you shimmers like still water under starlight.

Behind you: the life you knew.
Ahead: a hundred worlds stacked like myth atop myth.
The Tower is watching.

Step forward, Chosen. Your legend begins 