My Charity System made me too OP

Leon stepped through the obsidian archway.

The air on the other side felt heavier—not in pressure, but in presence. Every breath carried a faint metallic taste, and the floor beneath him hummed faintly like a living thing.

The chamber was circular, walls made of black stone veined with silver light. At equal distances around the room stood six pedestals, each holding a crystal sphere that floated just above its surface.

Five were dim.

One burned with a steady white glow.

As Leon entered, the glowing sphere pulsed—and the silver veins in the walls lit up in response. From somewhere above, a calm voice spoke:

"Candidate arrival confirmed. Floor 107: The Oath Circle."

The sphere's glow intensified, and the other five began to flicker faintly, as if waking up.

"Here, no duel is given freely. You will face three Oathbearers. Refuse, and the Tower will end your climb here."

Leon scanned the room. "And if I win?"

The voice didn't answer.

Instead, the glowing sphere split into three beams of light, each forming into a humanoid silhouette—details sharpening until three distinct figures stood before him.

One in battle armor with a jagged spear.

One robed, holding a staff topped with a crystal eye.

One bare-handed, fists wrapped in blood-red cloth.

They didn't speak. They simply waited, each radiating enough pressure to make the air itself tense.

Leon tightened his gloves and muttered, "Alright. Three at once, then."

The armored Oathbearer moved first—no warning, no stance shift, just a blur of motion and a spear tip cutting through the space Leon had been in half a second earlier.

Leon sidestepped, but the movement felt… sluggish. Not because he was slow, but because the air here dragged on his limbs, as if resisting anyone who wasn't bound to this floor.

The robed one followed, lifting their staff. The crystal eye spun once, and suddenly Leon's vision fractured into overlapping copies—three images of the room, each slightly out of sync. In one, the spear was still being thrust. In another, it had already pulled back. In the third, the fist-fighter was already mid-swing toward Leon's ribs.

He exhaled sharply and pushed Shell Reverb into a defensive drift, letting the three timelines bleed into one stable frame.

The fist came in hard. Leon caught it—but the moment his palm made contact, the blood-red wraps glowed and the force multiplied, a shockwave pushing him back several meters. His boots scraped against the floor until he braced, leaning forward.

"Okay," Leon muttered. "This place isn't playing around."

The three Oathbearers began to circle—not mindlessly, but with the slow, exact steps of predators who had already measured their prey.

Leon flexed his fingers. "Guess we'll see if the Tower likes rule-breakers."

He triggered Timeline Drift—then split it. Instead of syncing with just one enemy, he pulsed two separate desynchronizations, flickering between the spear-user's movement and the staff-user's magic cycle.

For a moment, the floor dimmed. The Oathbearers all hesitated, their perfect coordination stumbling.

Leon didn't waste it. He stepped through the spear's reach, caught the armored man's wrist, and drove his palm up into their helm with enough force to send a shock through the silver veins in the wall.

The staff-user tried to react, but Leon was already in their space, knocking the staff aside and sending a delayed pulse up the shaft. The crystal eye cracked.

The fist-fighter's blow landed on Leon's side—solid, heavy—but this time, he caught the second impact before it could multiply, twisting the fighter's arm and slamming him into the wall.

The silver veins pulsed once, then steadied.

Two of the spheres dimmed.

The voice returned, calm but somehow heavier than before.

"One remains."

Leon turned.

The last Oathbearer stepped forward.

And unlike the others, they smiled.

The final Oathbearer was unarmored—no helm, no robes, no gauntlets. Just a tall figure in plain black training garb, sleeves rolled to the elbows, bare hands loose at their sides.

No weapon.

Leon's instincts went sharp. People without weapons in the higher floors weren't unarmed—they were the weapon.

The figure tilted their head slightly. "You've got good eyes," they said. Their voice was calm, almost conversational, but carried an undertone like a taut bowstring—ready to snap into violence at any moment.

Leon didn't reply. He was already adjusting his stance, keeping weight light on the balls of his feet.

The Oathbearer vanished.

Not teleportation—not speed. Something between the two. Leon caught the faint displacement of air just before a palm strike came for his throat. He blocked, but the impact carried a strange aftershock—not magic, but pure body mechanics amplified with perfect precision. His forearm ached instantly.

The next blow was already coming. A hook to the ribs. A knee aimed at his sternum. Every strike landed in the smallest possible gaps in Leon's guard, as if the Oathbearer had been studying his movements since the moment he stepped onto the floor.

Leon gave ground, just enough to read the rhythm. They weren't using Timeline Drift, but their reactions were unnaturally clean—no wasted motion, no overextension.

Then Leon caught it—a half-beat in their attacks where their breathing reset. Less than a tenth of a second, but it was there.

He didn't go for it immediately. He let them press harder, let them believe they were forcing him into desperation. Then, on the next reset, he pulsed Echo of Origin—delayed, again—timed so the impact would land in that exact opening.

The Oathbearer's eyes widened. His strike caught them in the side and sent them sliding back across the floor. They stopped just at the edge of the arena, one hand on the ground to steady themselves.

For the first time, their breathing was slightly uneven.

"You'll do," they said simply. Then they stepped backward into the wall, the silver veins parting like water and swallowing them whole.

The last sphere dimmed.

The voice spoke again.

"The path upward is open."

The silver gate ahead dissolved into light.

Leon took one step forward—then glanced back at the spot where the Oathbearer had disappeared.

That fight hadn't felt like an elimination.

It had felt like an introduction.

Leon stepped through the gate, and the shift in the air was immediate.

The oppressive pressure of the Oathbearers was gone, but something heavier replaced it—not a force pressing down, but a pull forward. It was like the tower itself wanted him to keep climbing.

The corridor ahead was narrow and lined with tall, dark panels that reflected his movements like distorted mirrors. The reflections didn't move exactly in sync; they lagged by a fraction of a second, then caught up all at once, like the images were struggling to stay in the same time as him.

He ignored them and kept walking.

The passage eventually opened into a circular platform suspended in a vast, open shaft. Above and below, countless other platforms floated at different heights, each connected by narrow bridges of light. Some were empty. Others had figures standing still, watching him.

Their auras were unlike anything he'd felt before—calm, absolute, and utterly confident. They didn't measure him the way fighters do. They simply knew where they stood, and it was high above most of the tower.

He was in the Sovereign tier now.

A voice spoke—not the tower's neutral one, but a human voice, warm yet edged with challenge.

"You climbed fast."

Leon turned. A woman stood on the platform opposite him, leaning on a spear twice her height. She looked relaxed, but her presence was sharp enough to make his pulse quicken.

"Name?" he asked.

"Varisse. Floor Keeper. If you want to pass, you'll need to show you belong here."

She tapped the spear lightly on the floor, and a circle of light flared around the platform. The bridges dissolved. The only way forward now was through her.

Leon tightened his grip on his pulse.

The climb wasn't slowing down.

It was accelerating.

Varisse didn't rush him.

She just stood there, spear held loosely, as if giving him the chance to prepare—or the rope to hang himself.

Leon kept his eyes on her stance. The grip was low, meaning she could pivot the weapon in any direction instantly. Her center of balance was perfect—no wasted tension, no tells.

When she moved, it wasn't an attack. It was a step.

And in that step, the air shifted.

His instincts screamed, and he pulsed outward immediately.

The energy hit something midair—

—not her spear, not her body—

—but a pressure wave, condensed so tightly it acted like a solid wall.

The wave shattered, and she was already on him.

The spear came in at waist height, faster than he could step back, so he twisted—letting the shaft scrape along his side instead of taking the point.

"Good," she said calmly, already reversing the momentum into an overhead strike.

Leon dropped low and pulsed again, this time layering his Shell Reverb with the new Timeline Drift. For an instant, her spear passed through where he had been, not where he was.

He countered with a palm strike toward her ribs—

—but she caught his wrist mid-swing, like she'd known exactly when he'd phase back in.

"You think that trick will work on Sovereigns?"

She twisted, and the next thing he knew, he was airborne, crashing toward the edge of the platform.

Leon stabilized mid-roll, slid to a stop centimeters from falling into the abyss, and pushed up to his feet.

She was smiling now—not mockingly, but with genuine interest.

"Show me something that says you deserve this floor."

Her aura expanded, and the light around the platform pulsed in sync with her heartbeat.

Leon exhaled. His eyes sharpened.

"Fine," he said. "You asked for it."