A Necromancer's Guide to Clearing a Game Like Tower

The lobby was busy when he walked through the front doors. Challengers lined up at the appraisal counters while guild recruiters stood near the help desk with tablets and business cards. James walked past them and found Seán’s counter at the far end.

Seán looked up from his screen when James approached. "Back again."

James set his ring on the counter. "Corpses. Spider parts."

Seán pulled the ring toward him and ran his scanner over it. The display lit up with inventory data while his eyes flicked across the screen as he tallied, then he typed something. "Spider parts are moving well this week. Premium rate."

Another scan. The device beeped. "Mithril ore?"

"Keeping it."

Seán shrugged and made a note, then finished the tally and looked at James. "2,850 Tower Credits for the corpses. Transfer?"

"Yeah."

Seán processed the transfer, then glanced at a sticky note on his monitor. "Oh—there’s a message for you. Director’s secretary. Says you should go up to the 40th floor." He looked back at his screen. "Something about a contract."

James’s stomach tightened. "When?"

"Didn’t say. Just said to send you up when you came in."

James nodded and walked away from the counter. His balance now sat at 7,115 TC, and his mind was already doing the conversion — eighty-five thousand three hundred eighty dollars, which was more money than his mother would make in three years — but the message about the contract made his hands sweat.

He walked to the elevator and pressed the button for the 40th floor.

The elevator climbed while James watched the floor numbers tick upward. His reflection stared back at him from the polished metal doors — eighteen years old in a second-hand jacket with a storage ring worth more than everything he owned.

He thought about the circlet and the contract he’d signed two weeks ago — a hundred thousand dollars every two weeks for as long as the TRB used it. The first payment had hit his account on schedule, and he’d moved most of it into a separate account his mother didn’t know about yet.

If O’Shea changed the terms now—

The elevator dinged. The doors opened.

Niamh Doyle stood at the reception desk. She smiled when she saw him, though that smile made him more nervous, not less. "James. Thank you for coming. Please, follow me."

She walked down the hallway without waiting for a response. James followed as they passed three closed doors, then stopped at the fourth. Niamh opened it and gestured for him to enter.

Glass table, two chairs, floor-to-ceiling windows showing Dublin Tower rising black against the grey sky.

Niamh sat and folded her hands on the table. "First, let me thank you on behalf of the Bureau and Ireland. Your circlet has been transformative."

James sat and kept his face neutral. "Okay."

She pulled a tablet from the side of the table and turned it on. "We’ve been using it extensively over the past two weeks. Very successfully."

She turned the screen toward him.

A chart showed floor progression: 46, 47, 48, 49, 50, 51, 52, 53, 54, 55, 56, 57, 58, 59, 60, 61, 62, 63, 64, 65, 66, 67, 68, 69.

All marked CLEARED.

James stared at the numbers. Twenty-four floors in two weeks.

"And we’ve been licensing the circlet." She swiped to another page. "Other European guilds. France, Germany, Spain. Irish guilds as well." She paused. "We charged rental fees."

She slid a document across the table. Gross revenue, two weeks.

€12,000,000

James stared at the number. His brain stuttered and tried to process it, then failed. Twelve million euros in fourteen days.

Niamh kept talking while he was still looking at the page. "Your current contract pays you $100,000 USD every two weeks. That was fair when we thought this was purely for Irish attempts." Her tone softened. "But the international demand has exceeded all projections. We’ve made more in fourteen days than we projected for a year."

James looked up from the number.

"Director O’Shea and I discussed this. We want to amend your contract."

His throat felt tight. "To what?"

"Fifty percent of all gross revenue from circlet usage."

Silence.

Fifty percent of twelve million euros was six million euros. After taxes roughly four and a half million. James’s vision blurred at the edges. He blinked hard. His heart hammered against his ribs while his hands wanted to shake, but he kept them flat on the table.

More money than his father made in his entire life. More than his mother would make in fifty years.

"Why?" His voice came out steadier than he expected.

Niamh met his eyes. "Goodwill. You could have sold that circlet to the highest bidder and become a target overnight. You trusted us with it. The Bureau doesn’t forget that."

She slid the amended contract across the table. "If you’re comfortable with the terms."

James read every line and every clause and every word. His father’s stolen inheritance had taught him that much.

Revenue split was clear. Fifty percent of gross, paid bi-weekly. Anonymity clause still intact. Termination conditions unchanged, and either party could end the contract with thirty days’ notice. Ownership reverted to James immediately.

He signed at the bottom.

James Ganner

Niamh counter-signed and tapped her tablet. "Transfer initiated. Should hit your account in three, two—"

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

James pulled it out and looked at the screen. 𝑓𝑟𝑒𝘦𝓌𝑒𝑏𝑛𝑜𝘷𝑒𝘭.𝒸𝘰𝑚

BANK NOTIFICATION: +€4,500,000.00

He stared at it. The number didn’t move. Four million, five hundred thousand euros sitting in his account right now.

His hands stayed flat on the table. His face stayed neutral, but his pulse was hammering so hard he could feel it in his throat.

Niamh’s voice cut through. "That’s all for today, James. We’ll be in touch for the next payment cycle."

James stood. His legs felt unsteady, but he kept his balance. He shook her hand and took his copy of the contract, then walked to the door.

"Oh, James?"

He turned.

"Congratulations. You’ve earned it."

The elevator descended. James leaned against the back wall with his phone in his hand. The number was still there. €4,500,000.

He thought about his mother working seventy-hour weeks for two thousand euros a month. He thought about the water-stained ceiling in Ballymun and the landlord who wouldn’t fix it. He thought about his father’s funeral and the wooden box and his uncles counting money at the wake.

The elevator dinged. The doors opened to the lobby.

James stepped out into the noise and walked through the crowd. Challengers everywhere, some laughing, some arguing, some staring at tablets with guild contracts. He pushed through them and headed for the exit.

He was halfway across the lobby when he heard it.

"—isn’t that the prostitute’s son?"

James stopped.

He turned and scanned the lobby. Two men stood near the help desk, both in their twenties, both wearing expensive suits. One of them was looking directly at him.

The young man smiled. Sharp. Predatory. He said something to his companion, then started walking toward James.

James’s hands curled into fists at his sides. The lobby noise faded to background static until all he could hear was his own breathing.

The young man stopped three meters away, close enough that James could smell expensive cologne.

"Hello."

James said nothing.

The young man’s smile widened. "Stop looking like you’ve seen a ghost."

James’s jaw tightened. His pulse hammered in his ears. Four and a half million euros in his account, and someone from his past standing right in front of him in the TRB lobby.

The young man stepped closer.

"Cat got your tongue?"