Tower of Gods

7

Game 7: The Bamboo Tree Strikes Back

The bamboo staff, which was now a hideous living monster, rattled in the fountain. Its roots were thick and glossy as jade, and they were twisting outwards with the sinuousness of snakes on wet rock. With every root that was pulled up, a greasy smear of green was left on the marble floor, making the concourse unsafe. The panicked, sweaty, bloody smell mingled with the fresh sap smell that filled the air.

The leaves were dropping in flurries, and with impossible agility they were twisting and spinning through the air. There was no breeze, but they seemed to be guided missiles, the edges of them being as sharp as steel scalpels. One who was touched by one was instantly bound, vines twining with deadly precision. Legs were stolen, lungs were stolen. The leaves were constricted in a methodical, calculated way, as though the tree itself were of an evil mind. Players fell and wailed and skidded in sneakers over wet marble, tumbled over roots, and splashed into shallow pools of fountain water.

The concourse was a hellish babble and chaos of senses: the sound of water hitting rock, the breaking of roots, rustling, the whipping of leaves, shouts of terror, the metallic flavor of blood mixed with the earthy smell of bamboo, and the sticky heat of sweat under fluorescent lights that flickered irregularly.

Amid this storm, Han Tae-yang (한태양) moved like a shadow through chaos. He moved slowly, almost ceremonially, out of the mad world. He avoided a snapping root, ducked under a whirling leaf that would have cut off a lesser player, and kicked off a slippery marble tile so that he would not have fallen into the fountain. All his moves were a calculation: toes in the wet ground, calves straining to avoid a fall, fingertips on the leaves to sense their direction—all calculated to keep him on his feet and in touch with the fatal rhythms of the tree.

The crowd of players scrambled around him like ants under attack. Some tripped over roots, fell against walls, or collided with others in their desperation to survive. Panic flashed in their eyes; some vomited from fear and adrenaline. One player’s screams were cut short as a vine wrapped around his neck, lifting him just off the ground before dropping him onto the marble with a wet, thudding crunch. The sound echoed through the concourse, mixing with the chaotic cacophony of shouts, splashes, and the strange groans of the animated bamboo.

Han Tae-yang’s gaze swept over the scene, noting patterns and strategies instinctively. Lifelong players like him understood the mechanics instantly. The chaos was part of the game’s cruel rhythm, and he was tuned to it. Observing the fleeing players, he saw Kim Lee-soo hesitating near the fountain, unsure whether to run or stay.

Kang Jin-hoop’s voice sliced through the commotion, cold and deliberate. “Giving up already?”

Kim Lee-soo’s breath caught. His body trembled, not just from fear, but from the realization that he had underestimated the danger. “I… I don’t want to die here,” he admitted, voice trembling.

Tae-yang’s dark eyes, shadowed by his hood, fixed on him. Calm, almost bored, he leaned slightly on the fountain’s edge, feeling the wet chill of marble through his fingers. His every sense was active: the faint vibration of roots moving beneath the surface, the subtle shifts in air pressure as leaves spun through space, the sounds of wet leather and fabric scraping marble, the wet splash of fountain water against shoes, and the slight warmth of panic radiating from nearby players.

Then his voice cut through the noise, calm but deadly:

“Really? That’s a shame. Because the real reward of this event… only comes if you eat all the fruits.”

Kim Lee-soo froze. His eyes flickered to the golden fruits high in the bamboo canopy, their gentle glow a stark contrast to the chaos below. The fruits were impossibly perfect, glowing faintly like they were painted with liquid gold. Each fruit pulsed with magical energy he could feel in his chest, a subtle hum that resonated through his bones.

“Are you serious?” he asked, disbelief and fear mingling in his voice. “If you’re joking, then you'll be running for your life too right?”

Tae-yang’s smirk widened, slow and deliberate. “… If I were joking, my lover would die if I lied. Both my knees would be equal.”

The words carried weight. Kim Lee-soo’s brain short-circuited. He remembered the man had no lover, no attachments, nothing to lose. The casual assertion of truth, combined with his utterly serene posture in the middle of the pandemonium, made Kim Lee-soo feel like a fool frozen in the eye of a storm.

Around them, the bamboo tree’s attack pattern changed. Roots, previously slapping and lashing in random directions, began moving in synchronized waves, coiling together like a serpent ready to strike at the perfect moment. Leaves spun into dense, cutting tornadoes, creating zones of danger that no player could safely pass.

Water from the fountain roiled unnaturally, swirling as if some unseen current had taken over. Wet marble shimmered under flickering fluorescent lights, casting long, liquid reflections of frantic players and deadly roots. The faint, sticky smell of sap mixed with fear and blood, creating a pungent perfume of chaos.

Players screamed, twisted, and shoved each other in desperation. Some vomited, some fell, and some fought over footing. A few tried to leap toward the golden fruits, only to be knocked back by whirling leaves or tangling roots. One man’s sneakers slipped on wet marble; he tumbled and landed with a sharp crack against a fountain ledge, blood and water mixing on the floor.

And through it all, Han Tae-yang remained calm. Feet planted firmly, shoulders relaxed, eyes scanning, fingers twitching slightly to anticipate attacks. He was reading not just the tree, but the surrounding players—their fear, hesitation, panic, and greed. He knew the ones who would survive, the ones who would die, and which leaves and roots would strike next.

Then, the faint shimmer in the air above the bamboo tree caught his attention. A strange pressure pressed against his chest, subtle but undeniable. The roots paused, as if waiting. The leaves hung midair, suspended like blades in a slow-motion scene. Even the fountain water seemed to hold its breath, the ripples flattening as the concourse felt the approach of something beyond normal game mechanics, a true anomaly, something that had never existed before in either the game or reality.

Tae-yang’s grin remained slight, almost imperceptible, but his dark eyes sharpened. Calm, lethal, and calculating, he whispered under his breath, not for anyone but himself:

“… Now it really begins.”