In the opening stretch, over three hundred mortal participants were already out.
Too much planning on the mountain and too much thinking about gaining the greatest advantage did the job.
The tower's rock face offered what looked like footholds, chips and ledges scattered like a mercy.
Raj took the lead. He moved with a dancer's confidence even without cultivation, springing up in quick bursts, palms slapping stone, boots finding edges that should not have held.
Ropefist followed second, built for climbing, fingers like hooks and forearms like rope itself.
Ropefist reached for the next hold and the stone shifted under his hand.
The foothold cracked. The round edge around it flexed, then bit down.
"Fuck," Ropefist yelled.
He did not cling to pride. He let himself drop and caught a lower hold by instinct, arms screaming, body swinging.
Above him, the false foothold chewed shut like a mouth that had tasted him and wanted more.
Below, the flesh golems started climbing too.
