Chapter 1
The environment surrounding and within the tower is as much a part of Izuku's existence as the curse that binds him to it. The stark contrast between the oppressive outside and the layered, carefully preserved rooms within makes the tower feel like a timeless, haunted space. Every element, both natural and magical, contributes to the haunting isolation that defines Izuku’s life.
The Exterior:
Outside, the tower rises dramatically from the jagged, volcanic landscape. Its weathered stone walls, blackened by the constant heat of the molten lake below, stand tall against the ashen sky, seeming to stretch upward as if reaching for something beyond the oppressive horizon. The tower is ancient—centuries-old, perhaps—its stones carved with arcane symbols, many faded or eroded over time but still pulsing with the faint traces of the powerful magic that once empowered the structure.
The lake of molten lava that surrounds the tower is a terrifying sight. It roils and churns with liquid fire, waves of molten rock cresting and splashing in violent bursts of heat. The air above the lake shimmers with the oppressive heat, distorting the landscape into a blur of fiery orange and deep, molten red. Jagged rocks float in the lake, some of them barely large enough for a single person to stand on. Others form a twisted, chaotic bridge between the land and the tower, a dangerous obstacle course for any who dare attempt to cross it. The ground around the lake is cracked and blackened, a barren wasteland marked by the endless hiss and roar of the molten depths.
Above, the sky is a constant, hazy orange, as if the sun has been swallowed by the infernal heat below. There is no clear night, no stars. The landscape is illuminated by the fiery glow of the lava, casting long, flickering shadows across the stone walls of the tower. The occasional crack of thunder echoes, but it is not the rumble of storms. It’s the sound of the lava’s fury, a constant reminder of the destructive power that surrounds Izuku.
Despite this, the ivy that clings stubbornly to the tower’s stonework seems out of place, a touch of life in a desolate, brutal world. The vines curl and twist along the walls, their leaves an unshakable green that defies the fires of the lake, as if they were protected by an unseen force. These vines, resilient and ancient, are the only tangible sign of nature’s survival in this fiery wasteland.
The Interior:
Inside the tower, the contrast between the outside world and the interior is stark. The tower’s rooms are a mix of opulence and disorder, an eclectic collection of magical relics and scholarly pursuits interwoven with the chaos of an isolated existence. Despite the sense of abandonment, there is an air of power in the very architecture—the walls are thick, the floors solid, and the rooms spacious, designed to withstand the centuries.
The lower levels are more functional in nature, with vast, towering bookshelves lining the walls, filled with dusty tomes and scrolls. The smell of aged parchment and ink lingers heavily in the air, a scent that has become almost comforting to Izuku. These shelves spill over with books in haphazard piles, some resting on tables and desks, others scattered along the floor, as though the mage who once inhabited the tower had left in a hurry, with no time to organize. Magic-infused light globes hover near the ceiling, their soft, golden glow casting gentle illumination throughout the rooms, though shadows still persist in the corners, untouched by the light.
The most intriguing part of the tower’s interior is its seamless blend of magic and practicality. Each room adapts to Izuku’s needs in ways that both surprise and unsettle him. The books themselves evolve to match his growing intellect, shifting from simple stories and history to complex magical theories and battle strategies as Izuku matures. The training rooms, each one more meticulously designed than the last, are equipped with enchanted dummies and runes that respond to his commands, shaping themselves into training partners that help him hone both his combat and magical abilities.
The grandest of these rooms is the highest chamber, where Izuku often finds solace in solitude. This is the place where he sits by the large window overlooking the molten lake, contemplating his situation. The chamber is sparsely furnished—an elegant desk, a tall, plush armchair, and a few scattered scrolls of magical experiments—but the true attraction lies in the view. The window is enormous, stretching nearly from floor to ceiling, offering an uninterrupted, panoramic view of the hellish landscape outside.
The glass is thick and reinforced with magic, an impenetrable barrier against the dangers outside. Yet, through it, the ever-present heat distorts the view, the molten lake shimmering with an ethereal glow. The sound of the hissing lava is muted by the thick walls, but the heat still seeps through, making the air heavy and oppressive. At times, the light of the lava reflects off the glass, bathing the room in an orange-red glow, lending it a dreamlike, almost surreal quality.
This room is not only a place of contemplation but also a space where Izuku feels the crushing weight of his curse most acutely. It is here that he contemplates his future, his loneliness, and the ever-present sense of being trapped in this fortress. The windows offer him no escape, only a reminder of what lies beyond and what he can never touch.
The Bathrooms:
An unexpected luxury in the midst of such desolation are the bathrooms, particularly the one on the top floor. This room is an oasis of warmth and comfort, a space that contrasts sharply with the harshness of the environment outside. The bath is large and deep, carved from white stone with runes that allow water to flow continuously, heated by a magical source deep within the tower. The room itself is adorned with delicate mosaics of flowing water, lush forests, and serene landscapes—images that seem to be from a world entirely separate from the one Izuku lives in. The air is fragrant with the oils and perfumes that fill the bath each morning, a subtle luxury that makes the otherwise oppressive solitude slightly more bearable.
Though the luxury of these spaces is undeniable, they feel like an island of comfort amidst a sea of isolation and fear. Everything inside the tower, from the worn furniture to the walls lined with dust, speaks of a place that once housed a vibrant, magical being now long gone. And while the rooms provide what Izuku needs—sustenance, education, and training—they also serve as a constant reminder of the curse that keeps him locked away, forever young, forever waiting for a rescue that may never come.
As he stands now at the window, his eyes fixed on the world outside, the oppressive heat from the lava seeping through the stone and warming his skin, Izuku feels the weight of everything pressing down on him. The tower may be his prison, but it is also his world—a world where even the smallest crack of light from the outside seems impossibly distant.
Bakugo’s boots struck the cracked earth with each determined step, his heavy stride echoing in the silent desolation. His heart beat a steady rhythm of resolve, though his every instinct screamed for him to turn back. The air was thick with the stench of sulfur, burning his nostrils as the oppressive heat of the molten lake shimmered before him, as if the very ground were alive with fire. Each breath felt like swallowing the flames themselves, scorching and suffocating.
His tribe, the last remnants of a once-great people, were fading. Disease ravaged their lands, their homes, their very souls. Bakugo had fought countless battles, his sword stained with the blood of invaders, yet the sickness that plagued his people was something his weapons could not conquer. Desperation had led him here, to this cursed place, in search of the one thing that might save them—a mage. It was said that somewhere in this accursed land, a sorcerer of great power lived within a tower, hidden from the world by an impenetrable curse. If there was even a shred of truth to the tales, if he could find the mage, perhaps he could save his people from their dying fate.
His thoughts darkened as he looked up, his eyes narrowing on the towering structure in the distance. It loomed above the horizon like a specter, a jagged silhouette against the orange haze of the molten lake. The tower was an impossibility—a place of ancient stone and sorcery, its runes pulsing faintly with the glow of forgotten magic. The nearer he drew, the more the weight of its presence pressed down on him, like a vast and invisible hand, pushing him toward it. The path leading to it was barely a path at all—scattered rocks jutted out from the bubbling, glowing lake of fire, each one precariously balanced as if daring him to step forward.
Bakugo’s brow furrowed in determination as he adjusted the sword strapped to his back, the cold steel a constant reminder of his people’s need. His tribe had always relied on strength, on fighting their way through their enemies, but now, with their survival at stake, it was not enough. The land, the disease, the very forces of nature seemed to turn against them. He needed more. He needed magic. And the mage who lived in this cursed tower was his last hope.
As his boots crunched over the sharp, volcanic stones, Bakugo could feel the heat intensifying, each step sending waves of oppressive warmth up through his legs. The smell of sulfur choked him, thick in the air, but he refused to falter. His chest burned with each breath, but he kept his eyes fixed on the tower ahead. There was no turning back now.
The closer he came, the more surreal the sight of the tower became. Its stone walls were dark, weathered by time and the unrelenting heat of the lava lake. The runes etched into the surface glowed faintly, their magic ancient and faint, as though they had been waiting for someone to come—waiting for him. But even as he approached, a deep unease settled over him. This was no ordinary tower. This was a place steeped in old power, cursed and isolated. It gave off an aura of danger, like a sleeping beast waiting to awaken.
He halted at the base, where the jagged rocks rose from the molten lake, forming a path that was as treacherous as it was narrow. The lava bubbled and hissed beneath him, sending bursts of steam into the air, the heat unbearable. For a moment, he stood there, staring up at the tower’s narrow, arched windows. He could almost feel the weight of something—or someone—watching him from above, hidden in the shadows of the stone.
He gripped the hilt of his sword tightly, his knuckles white. His pride had always been his strength—his power to push through anything, to overcome every challenge. But now, as he stood before the tower, that familiar sense of invincibility wavered. The air was too heavy, the heat too intense. The silence was unbearable. Yet there was no room for doubt. He could not afford to hesitate. His people needed him.
Bakugo’s jaw set in a hard line as he stepped forward, cautiously navigating the jagged stones. Each movement was deliberate, each step calculated. As he ascended the rocky path, the heat of the lava burned his skin, the blistering air wrapping around him like a living thing. Still, he pressed on, feeling the weight of the curse that surrounded the tower, the magic that seemed to hang thick in the air, suffocating and strange.
When he finally reached the foot of the tower, standing at the threshold where the stone met the blackened earth, he felt a strange shift in the atmosphere—a change, like the tower itself was aware of his presence. The wind that had been still now seemed to stir, the faintest whisper brushing against his ear. There was a hum in the air, an undercurrent of ancient magic that thrummed through the ground beneath his boots, as if the tower itself were alive, watching him, judging him.
Bakugo inhaled deeply, his chest burning from the heat and the weight of his mission. This was it. The final step. To enter this forsaken tower, to seek out the mage within, was his only chance. The path ahead would be treacherous, and there was no telling what dangers lay beyond the tower’s stone walls. But Bakugo would not turn back—not now, not when his tribe’s survival depended on him.
With a final, defiant glance at the dark windows high above, he squared his shoulders, stepping into the shadow of the tower’s looming walls. His heart raced in his chest, but his resolve was unwavering. The mage, whoever they were, would help him. Or he would force them to.
The air inside the tower was thick with an eerie stillness, the kind that made the hairs on the back of Bakugo's neck stand up. His boots echoed against the smooth stone floor, the sound muffled by the thick, magical atmosphere that pressed in on him from every direction. The stone walls, etched with ancient runes and symbols, seemed to hum with quiet, unseen power. Even the temperature inside the tower was oppressive, the warmth of the molten lake still radiating through the walls, mingling with the musty scent of old parchment and dust.
As Bakugo stepped deeper into the cavernous corridor, the grand hallway stretched out before him, dimly lit by floating orbs of golden light that hovered lazily in the air. The walls towered above him, and the space seemed to go on forever, like a forgotten palace of some long-lost kingdom. His eyes flickered to the intricate tapestries that hung in sparse intervals, faded but still beautiful in their depiction of scenes from a world long past. But he had no time to admire the décor. His mission had brought him here—to find the mage who could save his people. And nothing, not even the strange beauty of this forsaken place, would stand in his way.
But then, as he rounded a bend in the corridor, he froze.
A figure stepped out of the shadows before him—a man, tall and broad-shouldered, with a wild mane of crimson hair that fell in untamed waves around his face. But it wasn’t just his appearance that caused Bakugo’s breath to catch; it was the way the figure stood, the way his gaze fixed on him, sharp and calculating. The man’s eyes were a fierce shade of amber, glowing like molten gold, and his skin was marked with strange, shimmering scales, dark and iridescent, that crawled up his neck and across his arms. Horns—curled like those of a beast—emerged from his temples, jutting out in a jagged arc, and a tail swayed behind him, sinuous and powerful, like a whip ready to strike.
A dragon. Or at least, half of one.
The man—no, the creature—sized Bakugo up with an intense, almost predatory gaze. His muscular form rippled with raw power, and his wings, folded against his back, were broad and dark, the leathery membranes stretching from his shoulder blades in a way that seemed to defy the narrow confines of the corridor. A low growl rumbled from his throat as he stepped closer, his boots thudding softly against the stone.
"You’re not welcome here," the creature said, his voice a deep, rumbling growl that seemed to vibrate through Bakugo's very bones. "Leave now, before you regret it."
Bakugo’s jaw tightened, the heat of the tower and the urgency of his mission igniting the spark of defiance in his chest. "I’m not here to ask permission," he snapped, his hand instinctively moving to the hilt of his sword. "I came for the mage. I don’t have time for you."
The dragon-man’s eyes narrowed, and in a flash, he was upon Bakugo, his powerful tail snapping forward with a speed that was almost impossible to track. Bakugo barely dodged in time, rolling to the side and narrowly avoiding the whip-like strike of the tail. His body tensed, his instincts kicking in, and with a growl of frustration, he pulled his sword from its sheath, the blade gleaming in the dim light. "You wanna fight, huh?" he snarled, his fingers tightening around the hilt. "Fine. Bring it."
Without another word, the dragon-man lunged again, his claws slashing through the air in a blur. Bakugo’s blade met the creature’s claws with a sharp clash, sparks flying as the two forces collided with the sound of grinding metal and stone. The sheer force of the dragon-man’s strength made Bakugo stumble, his feet slipping slightly on the polished floor. He gritted his teeth, his temper flaring as the dragon’s eyes locked onto him with cold, unwavering focus.
"You don’t belong here," the dragon growled again, his voice low and dangerous. "I’m not going to let you harm him."
Bakugo’s eyes flashed. "Who the hell is 'him'?" he demanded, his sword twisting in his grip as he parried another powerful blow from the dragon’s claws. He could feel the heat of the creature’s body radiating off him, a scorching warmth that made the air around them seem to ripple. The dragon was strong—far stronger than any opponent Bakugo had faced before, but Bakugo wasn’t going to back down. His body tensed, his mind racing as he fought to keep up with the creature’s speed and strength.
In a swift motion, Bakugo spun, using his momentum to bring his sword down in a powerful arc aimed at the dragon-man’s side. But the creature was too quick, his wings unfurling in a blur of movement, blocking the strike with a sharp, jagged claw. Bakugo hissed in frustration, his mind already calculating his next move.
"You’ll have to go through me if you want to get any further," the dragon-man growled, his eyes flashing with warning. "And I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen."
Bakugo’s teeth ground together, but he stood his ground, his heart pounding in his chest. He wasn’t backing down—not for anyone. But just as he prepared for another strike, a voice echoed from the distance—faint, but unmistakable.
"Eijiro."
The sound of that voice—soft but filled with an undeniable authority—made both Bakugo and the dragon-man freeze. The creature’s amber eyes softened slightly, the tension in his posture loosening just a fraction. Bakugo’s eyes darted toward the direction of the voice, and there, standing at the end of the corridor, was a figure.
A man—no, a young man—his hair dark and his face framed by the soft glow of the magical lights, stood with an air of quiet strength. His eyes, despite their gentle expression, were sharp and full of resolve, and the faintest trace of a smile tugged at his lips.
"That’s enough, Eijiro," the young man said, his voice calm but firm.
The dragon-man—Eijiro—stayed perfectly still, his muscles still coiled, ready for battle. But he didn’t move. His gaze shifted from Bakugo to the figure standing at the end of the corridor. Slowly, he straightened, a sigh of resignation escaping his lips.
"I’m sorry, Izuku," Eijiro murmured, his voice laced with regret. "I couldn’t let him pass."
Bakugo, still tense and ready for a fight, looked between the two of them, his eyes narrowing. "Who are you?" he demanded. "Why are you stopping me?"
The young man stepped forward, his expression softening as he met Bakugo’s gaze. "I’m Izuku," he said, his voice steady. "And this tower... this place... it’s not meant for someone like you. I’m sorry, but your journey ends here."
Bakugo’s brow furrowed, his instincts screaming to push forward, but something in Izuku’s voice, something in the quiet authority that radiated from him, made him hesitate.
"You’re the mage?" Bakugo asked, his voice skeptical but tinged with a hint of hope.
Izuku’s smile was small but genuine. "I am," he replied softly. "But there’s more to this place than you realize. And I can’t let you put yourself in danger."
Bakugo’s grip on his sword loosened, but only slightly. He had come so far, fought so hard, but the weight of Izuku’s words, the power behind them, left him with no choice but to pause, to question everything he thought he knew.
The battle was over—for now—but the real challenge, Bakugo knew, had only just begun.