A Necromancer's Guide to Clearing a Game Like Tower

Kieran closed the door behind him, then approached the desk. He was the kind who moved with his entire center of gravity, all S-rank Challenger muscle and trained economy. He leaned in, eyes sharpening, the grin dying as quickly as it had arrived. He looked at the artifact, at the glass, at the edges where gold met the world.

"So," Kieran said, softer, "what’s the crisis?"

O’Shea gestured at the box. "Pick it up."

Kieran hesitated only a second, then reached in and lifted the circlet. The gold flexed under his grip, but didn’t yield. He rolled it over in his hands, thumb passing over the white stone, then held it up so the light shot across the room, refracted into pale geometric ghosts on the far wall.

He looked at O’Shea, then at Niamh. His face had gone still, almost reptilian. "You’re kidding. How did you— Did Singapore finally decide to play nice?"

Niamh tilted her head, letting the light from the circlet catch the curve of her cheekbone. "Singapore’s not returning our calls. This wasn’t theirs."

Kieran stared at the circlet another second, then set it gently, almost reverently, back in the box. His hands stayed on the edge, as if holding a bird he didn’t want to fly away. "You found another?" His voice was low, a little hoarse.

O’Shea nodded. "Floor 1. Challenger walked in with it this morning. Unregistered. Didn’t even know what it did." The smallest smile now, predatory. "Luck of the Irish, for once."

Kieran exhaled, short and sharp. The training-room swagger was gone; now it was pure A-rank operator, running variables on the inside. "You want me to break 45 with this," he said, and it wasn’t a question.

O’Shea stood. The light of the circlet cast weird shadows across the desk. "Take your pick of ten. Anyone in the country. We’ll have the artifact on-site before departure."

Kieran nodded. The assessment was already happening—who he could trust, who’d be a liability, how the field would change with a Purify radius this strong.

He stood, rolling his shoulders once to settle the tension. "I’ll want to see the field reports. And the chem readouts on the Miasma from last run. I need to know exactly what it did to the Americans."

Niamh flicked her tablet and forwarded him a file packet before he’d finished speaking. "Everything you need. And a full supply budget, per O’Shea."

Kieran grinned again, but it was a different grin—tight, predatory, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes. "Now you’re talking."

He looked at the artifact one more time, then at O’Shea. "Anything else?"

"Yeah," O’Shea said, deadpan. "Come back alive. They’re expensive."

Kieran saluted, two fingers, military-ironic, and left the room without another word.

The door clicked shut behind him. The room seemed a little dimmer without Kieran’s energy rattling the fixtures. The afterimage of the artifact pulsed in the center of the blotter.

O’Shea glanced at Niamh. "That was the right call?"

She didn’t answer. But she didn’t shake her head, either.

Outside, the Tower glimmered through the haze, its shadow spilling across the city. In here, the new plan was already in motion.

Kieran made it as far as the elevator before the realization struck, then pivoted back into the office suite with none of the brash energy from a minute ago. He didn’t knock, just re-entered, hands planted on his hips, breathing a little harder than before.

O’Shea barely raised an eyebrow. "Forgot something?"

Kieran shook his head. "Just—need this clear. Singapore’s not even pretending to play ball now? No chance it’s a replica?"

O’Shea leaned forward, fingers steepled. "No. Singapore’s last three requests went unanswered. When they finally lent us the old model, it came with a two hundred percent premium and armed security. This—" he flicked his gaze at the circlet "—came from a first-time Challenger. Stat signature is unique, provenance is unbroken. If anything, it’s stronger than the Singapore item."

Kieran whistled, low and long. His eyes locked on the artifact, drinking in the implications. He ran a hand through his hair, then straightened, every trace of the training-room joker gone.

"You... found one? Here?" His voice was soft, like he’d just found the Holy Grail in a chip shop.

O’Shea allowed himself a moment. "We did. This morning. He didn’t even realize what he had. Legendary class, too."

Kieran looked at Niamh, then back at O’Shea. He didn’t say what he was thinking, but it echoed in the silence: we’re not supposed to get this lucky. Not here, not ever.

He sat, more deliberate now, hands laced on the edge of the table. "I want to know who pulled it. And I want his full clear logs."

Niamh was already scrolling through the file, eyes narrow. "You’ll have it. The boy’s a Necromancer—Legendary, by the scan. Floor 1 cleared in sixty-two minutes. No team casualties. MVP bonus was off the charts. Name’s Ganner."

Kieran let out another exhale. "His luck must be astronomical. Or he’s—"

"Doesn’t matter," O’Shea cut in, his tone snapping the air. "What matters is we have this, and we have you. Your job is to get that team to 45 alive and see if the artifact breaks the Miasma. If it does, we own the next decade. If not—" a fractional shrug, already moving on to contingency "—we lose nothing but the bodies."

Kieran nodded, face set. "All right. I’ll hand-pick the best. We go in when you say go."

O’Shea rose from the chair. He slid the artifact across the desk to Niamh with a gentle motion, as if passing an infant.

Niamh set the circlet in the box, re-engaging the biometric locks. She glanced at Kieran. "We’ll deliver it personally before departure. For now, it’s under triple-secure in the vault. You’re cleared for full access until the run."

Kieran stood, took one last long look at the artifact, then at the two of them. "If this works," he said, "you realize the world will rewrite the map overnight."

O’Shea smiled, a cold thing, more ambition than warmth. "History’s written by survivors. Make sure you’re one of them."

The three stood there, the afternoon lengthening and the circlet’s glow pulsing brighter under the overheads, its reflected light painting gold lines across their faces. Shadows stretched behind them, long and sharp, as if the artifact itself wanted to carve a record of this moment into the bones of the city.

They didn’t talk after that. There was nothing more to say.

Outside, the Tower waited.