Chapter 305: Punching Bag
[Ring of Returning Tides]
Kael stared at the ring in his palm for a long moment.
It looked almost plain when compared to the other things he had dragged out of the Tower. No monstrous aura. No hungry rune carved into its surface. No crawling darkness or violent heat. Just a simple ring, smooth and cool, with a faint blue sheen that shifted under the hospital lights like water catching moonlight.
[Epic Accessory]
[Effect: Increases mana regeneration.]
That was all it needed to be valuable.
For someone else.
Kael closed his fingers around it, then opened them again. Mana regeneration sounded wonderful in theory. Mages would kill for something like this. Climbers with magic builds would treat it like an extra lung. Guilds would see it as an investment, an emergency tool, a way to make their spellcasters last longer in extended raids. For Kael, it was almost useless. He did not use mana. He used internal energy. His path had already been ruined, or blessed, depending on the day, by runes, Anchor, and the absurdity of his own body.
Keeping it would be sentimentality.
Sentimentality did not pay rent.
He still needed money. A lot of money. Hospital bills had not vanished just because his mother was finally being cured. Rent still existed. Food still existed. New clothes, a phone, identification updates, transport, and the basic cost of living in a world that taxed breathing if it could find a legal angle all still existed. Selling the remaining Elixir would solve everything immediately, but the thought made his hand tighten.
No.
That half vial was an extra life.
Maybe not just for him. Maybe for his mother if something went wrong. Maybe for someone else he had not met yet. Maybe for a disaster where money would be useless and only a miracle in a glass vial mattered. He could get another Elixir in the Tower, in theory, but that theory required luck, survival, and the Tower being generous enough not to laugh in his face.
He could not sell it.
The ring, though?
That could go.
Kael placed the Ring of Returning Tides back in his inventory and began walking.
The nearest branch of the Climber Association was not too far from the hospital. In the old world, before the Tower, it would have sounded absurd for a global organization to have branches scattered across major cities like banks or government offices. Now it was simply how the world worked. The Climber Association managed the official identities of climbers, handled ranks and standards, registered guild operations, processed gear sales, ran training programs, issued emergency requests, and controlled most of the legitimate market surrounding Tower items.
If someone wanted to sell an Epic mana-regeneration ring without getting robbed, scammed, or murdered by the first private collector who heard about it, they went through proper channels.
Proper channels meant paperwork.
Kael hated that part already.
The branch building stood several streets away, modern and ugly in the way rich institutions became when they wanted to look both secure and welcoming. Glass front. Reinforced doors. Tower-metal detector frames at the entrance. Association emblem above the lobby, a stylized tower wrapped by a circular chain. People moved in and out wearing all kinds of gear. Some wore sleek guild uniforms. Some wore armor. Some wore normal clothes but carried weapons that made the guards at the door look very polite. A few had that arrogant glow of people who had survived enough floors to believe everyone else should notice.
Kael entered without stopping.
The scanner at the entrance gave a soft chime.
He ignored it.
Inside, the lobby opened into a large room filled with counters, testing booths, waiting seats, display boards, and staff who looked both overworked and practiced at not reacting to weird things. A receptionist looked up at him, glanced at his size, then at his lack of guild markings.
"Purpose of visit?"
"I want to sell an item through the auction house," Kael said.
"Registered climber ID?"
Kael blinked once. "Don’t have one."
The receptionist’s expression shifted by a degree. Not shock, but interest. "Unregistered climber?"
"Recently returned."
"Floor?"
"Tenth," Kael said.
Her fingers paused over the terminal.
Then she resumed typing. "You’ll need to take the standard climber evaluation before we issue identification. Physical output test and mana aptitude test. Once registered, you can submit items for auction appraisal."
"Fine."
She handed him a temporary tag. "Testing hall to the left. Give this to the monitor."
Kael took it and followed the signs.
The testing hall was larger than he expected, with multiple stations spread across the room. Reinforced floor. Impact machines. Mana stones locked inside thick glass housings. A few smaller combat assessment rings. Several climbers were already there, some waiting, some swinging weapons, some trying to look calm while clearly hoping for a higher grade than their bodies deserved. The air smelled faintly of sweat, metal, and overused disinfectant.
A bored monitor stood near the physical station holding a chart and a tablet.
He looked like a man who had watched too many people punch bags badly.
Kael approached and handed over the tag.
The monitor scanned it, glanced at the information, then pointed toward a massive punching bag mounted to a reinforced frame. "Physical output first. Two attempts. We record the highest."
Kael looked at the bag.
It was not an ordinary punching bag. The thing was thick, heavily cushioned, and plated behind the leather with some kind of shock-absorbing material. A digital display hung above it, currently showing a ranking board. At the top, one number stood like a challenge.
8,688 KG.
Kael’s eyes moved upward slightly.
Above the display was another label.
1-33F.
He pointed at it. "What does that mean?"
The monitor barely looked up from his chart. "That’s the record for climbers from the first to the thirty-third floor. Since you get more stats as you climb, higher-floor climbers obviously generate more power. Different brackets keep the tests meaningful. Don’t worry about it. That record isn’t meant to be broken."
"Whose is it?"
"Vylan’s."