Before the mainstream, there was the climb: Stray Kids and the Tower of God connection

Before global tours, sold-out arenas, and blockbuster soundtracks, Stray Kids were already telling stories through sound—long before their explosive collaborations on Deadpool & Wolverine and Arcane.

Their work on the Tower of God wasn’t a side project.

It was a prelude. A prophecy.

A climb that mirrored their own.

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Disclaimer: This article explores the collaboration between Stray Kids and Tower of God through cultural, narrative, and emotional layers. It draws from the anime’s complex lore, the symbolic weight of the tower, and the group’s ongoing sonic journey—one where music isn’t just performance, but transformation. Every connection made here is rooted in critical analysis, artistic context, and the evolving mythology that Stray Kids builds across mediums.

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They didn’t lend mere songs. In the second arc of Tower of God season 2, Stray Kids came back with two more songs: one opening, Night. The closing song: Falling Up.

They delivered both the opening and the ending themes for the first season of Tower of God —in three languages: Korean, Japanese, and English.

For both seasons. From the base to the summit.

That’s not background music.

That’s narrative architecture.

That’s world-building through sound.

A Korean story, told through a Japanese lens—with Stray Kids at the center

Tower of God is based on a Korean webtoon. But its anime adaptation was handled in Japan. The result? A cultural hybrid. A global conversation.

And Stray Kids were the bridge.

They weren’t just “chosen” because they were Korean. They were chosen because they understand what it means to climb.

The anime itself is about ambition, betrayal, and identity. About climbing a tower not just to survive—but to become something else. And Stray Kids? That’s their entire ethos. They don’t just make music. They build worlds.

And like the tower in the story, those worlds are full of trials—each floor a new test of who you are and who you’re willing to become to survive.

Hellevator was never just a debut—it was a floor one

It’s no coincidence that one of their earliest songs is Hellevator—a metaphorical descent that becomes a rise. They’ve always written music about transformation through pain, about trials by fire, and about ascending through noise.

Hellevator wasn’t polished. It wasn’t clean. It was grief in motion. It was desperation turned into propulsion.

And isn’t that what the Tower of God is?

A hellevator you can’t escape. Only endure.

Each step forward means something gets left behind. Each new floor costs something invisible. And sometimes, the more you climb, the less you recognize yourself. In the anime, betrayals, real friendship and all sorts of things happen while some desire and do sometimes extreme things with the purpose (or for some, an excuse) to "get to the top."

That’s not just the plot of an anime. And it's not a coincidence at all that their song for the opening of Tower of God is called TOP.

That’s the blueprint of a band that turned trauma into rhythm. And a story that talks directly to many of us. Have you ever felt like you were losing part of yourself, your identity, in order to "fit"? Whether in a job, or in relationships—wearing masks too much until you cannot even recognize yourself anymore.

The climb changes you—and that’s the point

In Tower of God, identity is always in flux.

The higher you go, the less you resemble who you were at the start. Friends become strangers. Memory becomes myth. Loyalty becomes weakness. And Stray Kids have never hidden from those themes.

Their lyrics bleed with questions of self-worth, duality, pressure, and collapse. Songs like MIROH, TOP, and Maze of Memories don’t just express ambition. They expose the cost of it.

They’re not about victory. They’re about what gets shattered along the way. Because climbing isn’t glorious.

It’s isolating. It’s violent. It’s endless.

And yet—they climb.

And the endings?

They don’t resolve the tension.

They haunt you with what’s still unresolved.

Because SLUMP isn’t a lullaby—it’s a breakdown in slow motion. A confession whispered at the edge of exhaustion. It’s the sound of collapsing under your own expectations. Of questioning your purpose when the summit keeps getting higher. While TOP screams the climb, SLUMP mourns what’s left behind.

And that’s the genius of it: Stray Kids weren’t just scoring a Japanese animation of a famous Korean webtoon. They were scoring emotional states.

Because that’s the point of Tower of God.

There is no safety.

Only the next level.

The soundtrack isn’t decoration—it’s dialogue

In anime, a great opening theme doesn’t just hype you up. It prepares you. It tells you what kind of pain is coming. What kind of world you’re entering. A great anime opening doesn't make us skip the credits.

Stray Kids’ opening tracks for Tower of God do exactly that.

They don’t just set the tone—they announce the threat.

The first notes aren’t hopeful.

They’re tense. Climbing. Sharp.

The lyrics aren’t simple. They’re loaded with emotional weight, with metaphors of ascent and collapse.

And the endings?

They don’t resolve the tension. They haunt you with what’s still unresolved. They leave the taste of blood and promise.

While this does not work for everybody and for every anime, TOP is a great opening. However, SLUMP? So perfect, reflecting really what happens in the anime in terms of fears, failures, betrayals, and descent. Stray Kids in SLUMP echo the plot perfectly, just like with Come Play from Arcane.

Because that’s the point of Tower of God.

There is no safety.

Only the next level.

Stray Kids didn’t just enter the tower—They rewrote the map (and in real life too)

This collaboration wasn’t about visibility. It was about alignment.

Stray Kids didn’t adapt to Tower of God.

They amplified it.

They echoed it with such intensity that their songs feel like they came from inside the story—like they were already there, waiting to be uncovered. And when you zoom out, it becomes clear: this wasn’t just one collaboration.

It was an early sign of everything that would come later.

A blueprint for the Megaverse

The Megaverse didn’t start with a press release. It started here. With an anime about its impossible climbs. Fiction reflecting/mirroring/serving as an allegory for real life.

With a soundtrack in three languages.

With a tower built from pain, and a group that knows pain like a second skin.

Stray Kids don’t just flirt with worldbuilding.

They construct sonic mythologies.

They write songs that bleed across mediums, across languages, across entire fictional dimensions.

The moment when they proved they could write for characters they didn’t invent—because they’ve lived those arcs themselves.

The reality show that created Stray Kids aired from October 17 to December 19, 2017—but calling it just a show feels reductive. It was more like a survival prophecy. A glimpse into a group that wasn’t just being formed but forging themselves in real time.

From the start, it wasn’t about polished idols. It was about chaos, hunger, and self-production. JYP and Mnet gave them the platform—but the boys built the blueprint. Floor by floor. Sound by sound.

It wasn’t just debut or die. It was: prove you can rewrite the rules before you even enter the game.

Stray Kids were always aiming straight (and mainly to get) to the top

Long before Deadpool & Wolverine. Long before Arcane. Stray Kids were already in conversation with the audiovisual world.

Already treating music as myth, as structure, as architecture. Tower of God wasn’t a stepping stone. It was a declaration. Even then, they weren’t just idols.

They were narrators. Architects. Strategists.

And looking back now, it’s easy to see: Stray Kids didn’t join the visual era. They helped build it. Because when you hear “straight to the top,” it’s not just a line.

It’s the entire blueprint.

It’s what happens when artists climb without shortcuts.

And write their story on every floor.