Floor 10 wasn’t a battleground. It was a trap.

A place built to kill not through force—but through failure.

They called it The Falling Grounds.

A shattered arena suspended in an endless void. Massive stone platforms floated in midair, each one slowly rotating, cracking, or collapsing, as if mocking the players who dared to stand on them.

Above the void, a single directive echoed through the wind:

Reach the exit platform before the countdown ends.

No respawns. No resets. Fall, and you fall forever.

Over two dozen players stood scattered across the first few stable platforms, already tense.

When the buzzer sounded, the madness began.

Gerbert acted instantly.

He knelt, conjuring a brace of mechanical grappling latches, each one locking with a metallic clank onto nearby platforms. His targeting display flickered as he mapped the angles.

“Anchor points established,” he muttered. “Rann, move now!”

Rann didn’t need telling.

She sprinted forward and phased through a spiraling chunk of stone, reappearing midair on a rotating platform—already panting. The stamina drain in a place like this was brutal.

“Platform’s unstable!” she shouted.

And it was.

The moment she landed, it buckled and tilted violently.

She launched herself off just as the slab disintegrated beneath her.

Ace, meanwhile, stepped lightly from edge to edge, boots tapping petals into existence.

“Bridge, darlings!” he called, whipping a coil of vines across a five-meter gap. They latched onto a column like ivy spears, hardening into a crude swaying walkway.

“I love your chaos, but maybe less tilt next time?” he added to no one in particular.

Below, a scream rang out as a player misjudged a leap and vanished into the black below.

No explosion. No system warning.

Just silence.

One down.

Then monsters spawned—crawlers with stone-carved limbs and snapping maws. They materialized mid-jump, slamming into platforms or directly into players.

A boy with glowing arms screamed as a crawler latched onto his back and dragged him over the edge.

Another player landed on a false platform—it looked solid, but shattered the moment weight hit it.

More screams. More bodies. The player count was dropping fast.

Gerbert leapt to another platform, firing his blaster at an approaching beast. It shrieked, crumpling—but its dying flail smashed into the edge, breaking off part of the rock.

“Ten seconds to shift!” he called out. “Stay mobile!”

Rann phased again—this time through a flailing monster. Her arm shimmered as she passed through its chest, snagging the internal core and ripping it out on the other side.

She landed hard, breathing heavy. “Stamina at thirty.”

Then—

A blur.

A shockwave.

A slab above shattered as something hit it from below, launching debris into the air.

A figure leapt from the rising stone and landed hard on their platform, cracking the surface with a thunderous BOOM.

Taan.

Dark hair whipped behind her. Her fists were wrapped tight. Her expression was unreadable.

She didn’t speak.

She charged.

“Wait—!” Gerbert raised his hand, conjuring a kinetic shield just in time to block a spinning kick that rippled across the barrier.

“Hostile!” Rann shouted, pulling a blade and moving to flank.

Ace raised both arms—vines bursting from his coat like whips. “Careful, darlings. This one’s got heat.”

Taan ducked low and punched upward, smashing through the base of Gerbert’s shield. The recoil knocked him back, feet skidding against the stone.

Rann phased forward, jabbing for Taan’s exposed side—but the girl caught her wrist, twisted, and tossed her over her shoulder.

Rann vanished in mid-air, reappearing on a higher ledge, clutching her arm. “She’s fast.”

Ace flicked his wrist, sending petal-shurikens spiraling toward Taan’s flank.

She dodged two—let a third graze her—then grabbed a fourth mid-spin and hurled it back, point-first.

Ace caught it, blinking. “Rude.”

Gerbert fired three blaster shots—Taan dodged one, blocked another, and rolled under the third, slamming her palm into the rock, using the momentum to launch toward Rann.

Rann phased downward, emerging under the ledge, boots locking to the underside with a mag-strip just in time.

They clashed again—Taan punching, Rann phasing, Ace weaving in support with pollen and roots, Gerbert coordinating shields and attacks.

No one went all out.

But no one held back either.

Finally, Taan landed hard on one of the outer platforms, breathing rough. Her arms trembled. Scratches lined her forearms. Her foot was bleeding.

Still—she grinned.

“You’re not bad,” she said, chest rising and falling.

Gerbert stepped forward cautiously, still holding his conjured shield.

“You were testing us,” he said.

Taan didn’t deny it.

“Wanted to see for myself,” she replied.

A loud gong echoed through the air.

COUNTDOWN ENDED. GAME COMPLETE.

Platforms began locking into place, sealing off as the final four players stood in silence.

The screen flashed above them, listing survivors:

SURVIVORS: 4
– GERBERT
– RANN
– ACE
– TAAN

Twenty-three players gone.

Some had fallen.
Some had fought each other.
Some had simply frozen—and died because of it.

Taan looked over at the three.

No apology.

But she extended her hand.

Gerbert looked at it—then took it.

Ace brushed imaginary dust from his shoulder. “Well. That was stressful.”

Rann rolled her wrist, sore. “I still don’t trust her.”

“You don’t have to,” Taan said.

Her grin faded into something steadier.

“But I’m not leaving.”

And so there were four.

Not friends.

Not yet.

But survivors—with bruises, tension, and now, a little trust forged in freefall.