Goblins (2)–fake leader....

  ----

  Since entering the Tower, I've been thinking over what to do?

  What should be my goal?

  Should I quietly become strong and start the destruction when time comes?

  Or should I just stir up the Tower?

  The answer was simple.

  ------

  The two rebels—Joe and Greg—began to lead the way, stealing glances back at me every few steps.

  Greg walked with a slight limp, probably from the earlier kick, and Joe had wiped away her fake injuries but kept her wariness evident in every motion.

  I followed them, keeping a light distance.

  We retraced our path through the goblin-infested woods and back to the city gates.

  Once inside, the mood of the town quickly shifted.

  Gone was the bustling marketplace and the cheerful chatter of new players trading loot and information.

  We moved deeper into the city’s underbelly—into the parts people tried to pretend didn’t exist.

  The stone paths turned to cracked bricks.

  The smell of waste, stale beer, and unwashed bodies lingered thick in the air.

  The buildings grew closer together, hunched over like conspirators, casting long shadows in the narrow alleys.

  Windows were boarded shut or broken, and crude graffiti marked the walls—faded warnings and rebellious slogans smeared in charcoal and blood.

  The alley we entered was damp and reeked of decay.

  Trash bags were piled in corners, and rats scurried between them.

  A half-burned barrel gave off faint warmth, surrounded by a group of hollow-eyed players huddling for heat, their ragged clothes barely shielding them.

  Every player we passed looked like a nobody—thin, poorly armed, and quiet.

  But I noticed their eyes.

  Quick glances.

  Subtle nods.

  Careful hands hovering near their weapons.

  ‘A decent information network,’ I thought, impressed.

  This was more organized than I had anticipated.

  Eventually, we stopped in front of a rundown, two-story building.

  Mold climbed the stone walls like veins.

  The windows were blacked out with cloth, and a crooked wooden sign above the doorway read “Storage 13,” though the number was scratched over with a crude 'X.'

  Two guards lounged outside, pretending to look disinterested.

  But they immediately straightened when they saw Joe and Greg.

  One of them stepped aside and opened the door without a word.

  We entered.

  Inside, the building was worse than outside.

  The first floor was dimly lit with cracked lanterns.

  Dust floated in the stale air. Rotting wooden crates lined the walls, and the floor creaked with every step.

  The scent of mildew and damp wood hit hard.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  We climbed up a narrow staircase to the second floor.

  The hall was narrow, only two people wide.

  The walls were scarred with knife marks and fist dents, as if it had seen more than a few brawls.

  Joe stepped ahead and knocked on a warped, dark-red door.

  “Boss, it’s me. Joe,” she called out.

  A pause.

  Then a voice, rough and oily like old engine grease, replied from inside.

  “Come in.”

  We entered.

  The room was poorly lit by a single hanging lantern, swinging slightly, casting flickering shadows over the cracked walls and floor.

  Piles of old scrolls, broken furniture, and rusted weapons cluttered the room’s corners.

  Sitting on a crooked chair in the middle of the room was a man.

  And calling him a “man” was being generous.

  He was rail-thin—skin hanging off bones, veins visible along his neck.

  His cheeks were sunken, lips dry and cracked.

  Two yellowed front teeth jutted out like a rat’s, and his wiry hair stuck to his scalp in oily patches.

  His robe was tattered, dyed in a dull maroon that had long since lost its color and dignity.

  His eyes were the worst.

  Small, darting, and yellowish. Untrustworthy.

  A face that screamed side character villain, the type who betrays others the moment it benefits him.

  'He looks really untrustworthy!'

  But one shouldn't judge a book by its cover right?

  Not the mastermind of a rebellion—more like someone who survived by hiding behind stronger players and stabbing backs in the dark.

  “Who’s he?” he asked, pointing a long, bony finger at me.

  “Oh! He wants to join the Rebels, boss,” Joe replied with practiced cheer.

  “Wants to, huh? Is that so?” His crooked smile widened. “Please, come forward, friend.”

  He stood slowly, placing his hands behind his back like a host welcoming a guest.

  The fake kindness in his voice made my skin itch.

  ‘Let’s see what you’re hiding,’ I thought and took a step forward.

  Then—

  “Got you!”

  Without hesitation, the rat-faced man pulled his hand forward and unleashed a fireball, aimed directly at my face.

  ‘So he’s a mage!’

  The fireball came fast—roaring red-orange flame that hissed through the air.

  I didn’t even try to dodge.

  Either way, I take back my words.

  He is clearly untrustworthy.

  It struck me dead on.

  Flames exploded around my head and upper torso.

  Joe flinched. Greg blinked.

  The room filled with smoke and the acrid scent of burned fabric.

  “Heh, foolish newbie—”

  The man began his arrogant laugh, but his voice cut off.

  Thud!

  Something shot past him—fast and sharp.

  A dagger impaled itself deep into the wooden wall just inches from his neck.

  The wood cracked around the blade, the vibrations echoing ominously.

  He turned his head slowly.

  And then back at me.

  His smug expression vanished.

  His eyes went wide.

  My face—burned moments ago—was already healing.

  Flesh reknit itself.

  The heat marks faded.

  The scorched parts of my armor cracked and flaked off like dead skin, revealing healthy, whole skin underneath.

  Then came the second shock.

  “What… What!? You really haven’t climbed more than two floors?”

  His voice trembled.

  ‘His powers must’ve been suppressed…’

  I thought to myself.

  The Tower had a rule: the higher floor you've reached, the more your power is restricted when you descend to lower levels.

  It was to keep things fair.

  The first attack usually bypassed the suppression to some extent.

  That fireball had likely been his full power.

  “If you do this again, you die!”

  My voice echoed through the dim room, cold and calm, yet laced with unmistakable threat.

  The air shifted.

  The so-called leader stiffened.

  I could sense it — the change in his posture, the subtle twitch in his brow, the growing unease.

  He wasn't expecting that reaction.

  Perhaps Joe and Greg had already whispered about me through some hidden message or backchannel.

  They must’ve thought I was an easy target.

  Just another reckless fool trying to join the rebellion.

  A little beating to scare me off, maybe.

  But things didn’t go the way they planned.

  “You! Who are you?” he demanded, his voice half-broken, bewilderment painted across his face.

  I didn’t bother answering his question.

  “Neither does it matter nor do you need to know,” I replied, my tone indifferent.

  I walked over to a worn wooden chair pushed to the side of the room.

  It creaked under my weight as I sat down, but I didn’t mind. What mattered wasn’t comfort.

  “What matters is I can help you in destroying the Empire.”

  I said it plainly.

  No dramatic flair, no exaggerated confidence — just the truth.

  The man, still standing, looked down at me with a mocking smirk.

  His two protruding teeth made the grin look more funny than intimidating.

  “Do you even know how powerful the Empire is? And you think you can defeat them?” he scoffed.

  I leaned back slightly.

  The chair groaned again.

  I rested one arm on the side and met his gaze directly.

  “I’ve only climbed up to the second floor,” I said, lifting two fingers, “and yet I’m already stronger than you three combined. Isn’t that proof enough?”

  My words hung in the air.

  Greg and Joe remained silent, still standing, unsure whether to speak or step back.

  Their earlier bravado had dissolved.

  The leader clenched his fist slightly, frustration evident. “Arg! How can we trust you?”

  I shrugged.

  “You’re all still alive even after attacking me — twice. Isn’t that trust enough?”

  A moment passed.

  Then, with a grunt of acceptance, he pulled a chair of his own and sat across from me, his eyes narrowing with renewed interest.

  “Ha! Fine. Tell me — how would you help us?”

  I gave a slight smirk, but instead of answering, I leaned forward.

  “No. First, I’d like to meet your leader. Your true leader.”

  I put extra weight on the word ‘true,’ letting it sink in.

  "I'm the true leader of rebels!"

  He said.

  "Hey, no matter how I look at it, you're clearly a minor one time villain character in any novel!"

  I said.

  "What? What's that?"

  He said, with confused face.

  "Anyways, I need to meet your real leader, not fake one."

  I said.

  He frowned. “But why?”

  “Because I need to understand everything. The full picture. Not scraps and pieces from side characters,” I said, gesturing subtly toward him.

  His frown deepened. “No. I can’t let you meet the leader. You’re still not trustworthy.”

  I sighed. “Then how about a mana oath?”

  His reaction was instant — brows raised, eyes widened slightly.

  “Mana oath?” he echoed, surprised. After all, hearing a supposed newbie propose such a binding contract was rare.

  “Yes. Let’s do it,” I nodded.

  Mana oaths were sacred and enforced by the Tower system itself.

  Breaking one would lead to severe penalties, sometimes even death.

  It wasn’t something to be taken lightly.

  After a moment’s thought, he pulled out a wrinkled piece of paper from a drawer nearby.

  He scribbled down the terms hastily, but I caught every word — nothing harmful, just a pledge to support the rebellion and never betray them.

  I placed my hand over it without hesitation.

  The parchment glowed faintly before dissolving into a shimmer of blue particles.

  [Mana Oath has been formed!]

  The system message floated briefly before vanishing.

  He exhaled deeply, still wary, but no longer able to question my sincerity.

  “So, when can I meet your leader?” I asked, folding my arms.

  He leaned back in his chair. “Our headquarters is on the sixth floor. The branches are on the second, third, and fourth floors.”

  I nodded thoughtfully. “So I should focus on climbing for now.”

  “Yes,” he confirmed. “When you reach the third floor, I’ll take you to the branch personally.”

  “Sure,” I agreed.

  There was a pause, then he added, “By the way, your floor quest is tomorrow, right?”

  “Yes. What about it?”

  “Do you want help forming a team? The quest this time is to hunt down a number of goblins. Could get tricky alone.”

  “No need,” I said confidently. “I’ll be fine on my own.”

  He nodded slowly, perhaps still trying to grasp my level of strength.

  Then I remembered something. “One more thing. I need information — about a goblin.”

  “A goblin?” he looked confused.

  “Yes,” I clarified. “But not just any goblin. One with intelligence. It can also use spells and is a bit strange.”

  He furrowed his brows, thinking. “A goblin with spells? Umm.. you mean a goblin shaman.”

  “Something like that but more intelligent.”

  “Alright. I’ll try to find something for you.”

  “Good. I should go now.”

  I stood from the chair.

  The room felt lighter now.

  "Bye Joe! Bye Greg!"

  I waved my hands as I move through the gate.

  But they didn't replied back.

  'Such rude people!'

  Anyways, now let's climb the Tower.