The Tower made the announcement very quickly as the person stepped onto the ninety-sixth floor.
[One of the Nine Keys has been forged.]
[The number of works about your life, of people who have seen those works, and of people whose lives were changed by those works all meet the requirements.]
[The ninety-sixth floor has been cleared!]
Thus, the staircase to the ninety-seventh floor appeared. However, the person who heard the Tower’s announcement didn’t walk toward the stairs. Instead, he quietly followed the Asura comic artist, who was in his studio and lamenting about his life.
“Damn! I may not have money, but I’ve got pride, okay? No, wait. If I don’t have money, I can’t have pride. That’s how the world works. I know, I know, but I… Gosh. Should I climb the Tower too? Learn martial arts and become an adventurer?”
Just as a trail formed where animals frequently walked, lamenting also flowed smoothly after repeating it often enough. The comic artist’s lament was familiar and had a smooth flow even without the help of alcohol.
“Why did I pick up a pen instead of a sword? Why did I freaking choose to smear my hands with ink instead of blood?”
The comic artist’s gaze shifted from his manuscripts to this month’s comic magazine. Its cover had a character from the comic of Kim or Park Slaim, or whatever the name of the guy who built a building on the twentieth floor’s paradise was. The comic artist’s self-directed lament instantly turned into resentment aimed at others.
“I’m jealous… Bastard. I wish I could just draw what I like and have people love it. Damn it! Everyone else lives as they wish, so why am I the only one…”
Jealousy weighed heavily on the heart. After gritting his teeth, the comic artist grew tired and fell face down on his desk. Images flashed through his mind: God Kim Gong-Ja, the Black Witch laughing “ho, ho, ho,” and the Tower master changing from a hypercube into a bearded old man and back into a hypercube.
These images soon faded as snoring echoed loudly through the tiny studio.
[You may enter the ninety-seventh floor at any time.]
A quiet gaze was on the sleeping comic artist. The artist couldn’t sense the gaze on him. It wasn’t just because he was asleep. No one in this world could sense that gaze, not just him.
That gaze was fixed on the Asura. Its owner was in the same place as the artist. A touch that was intangible in this world rested on the comic artist’s shoulder. The stroke was gentle, as if comforting the sleeping comic artist.
The owner of the touch moved his lips several times, but his voice didn’t reach the Terra, nor could the touch itself reach him. This comfort, originating from another dimension, could never be delivered and thus held no meaning. It should have faded, leaving no trace.
Yet, it did not. No clear word came down like a prophecy. The comic artist didn’t gain a Skill, nor did he regress with the ideas for future hit comics. Each time his shoulder was patted, the comic artist’s breath simply grew calmer. His jealousy and resentment faded.
That night, the comic artist dreamed. In that dream, there was a man. A human man. He was confined to a tiny room—even smaller than the comic artist’s studio—pouring out his grievances and complaints about the world… Everything outside the Tower was unfair… The Tower itself was absurd… It seemed like the man belonged nowhere…
Suddenly, that unknown man gained a Skill, which suited him well. It fit him so well that it would be hard to believe it wasn’t specifically made for him. If there was anything special about that Skill, it was that it had been made only for him. That Skill held his whole life.
The man had probably never been alone. Even when he knelt in sorrow or shouted angrily at the world, he was not alone. Someone had always been with him. At the time, the man hadn’t felt it, but now he knew it with certainty.
While patting the comic artist, the man murmured.
—May luck be with you.
The comic artist sat up and looked around as if he had seen a ghost. Inside the dark studio, he was alone. At least, that was how he perceived it. Frowning, he thought about the dream he just had.
After thinking for a long time, he desperately grasped and weaved the bits of dreams that kept scattering like an old woman’s sigh in the winter wind. At first, he wasn’t sure, but the images gradually grew clearer over time. The comic artist nodded and dialed a number.
The elf editor’s sleepy, irritable voice came through the phone. “Hello? Why did you call me at this hour?”
“Ah.” The comic artist flushed. Come to think of it, it was dawn. “Sorry... Should I call later?”
A groan came through the phone. “No, it’s not the first time you call this early, after all. Just tell me. What is it?"
“You know, it’s about the comic...” The comic artist blushed for a new reason this time, then cleared his throat.
“Ah, yes. I’ve also been thinking about your comic. Hmm. Perhaps you can try making the Tower master a cute mascot animal with a jewel on her forehead instead of a pretty boy?”
“Can I redraw it?”
Silence fell. The comic artist’s heart pounded as he waited for an answer.
“Redraw it?” the editor asked after a long pause
The comic artist couldn’t see the editor’s face over the phone, so he couldn’t tell if the editor was angry, fed up, or just curious. Feeling like he was making an excuse, the comic artist quickly continued, “Yes… Well, umm, I feel like I can make a better version than the one I showed you.”
Silence fell again.
“It’s just... I… It’s definitely better than the one I showed you yesterday—” he added quickly.
“Are you sure?”
This time, the comic artist fell silent.
“Are. You. Sure?”
The comic artist thought about this deeply. Was he? Was he sure about this path? This story? He couldn’t tell. Certainty? Even when he chose to become a comic artist, he didn’t feel sure of his decision. It made him wonder if people who planned their lives with clear visions truly existed. He clearly wasn’t one of those people, but…
“I can show you something better, like I said,” the comic artist answered, his head drooping.
There was a long pause. A sigh then came from the other end of the phone.
“You really need to make money already…”
The comic artist understood the meaning behind that tone. In a voice that was both embarrassed and excited, he said, “I’ll do it. I can do it… Probably.”
“What do you mean, ‘probably?’”
“Please help me,” the comic artist said. “Just help me a little.”
Silence hung over the phone for a while. In the end, as their history proved, the Sylvan editor gave in first. He sighed. “Ugh, really. Alright, I’ll wait for the new version.”
The comic artist’s face glowed. “Thank you!”
“If you’re truly grateful, make it a hit. I would like to get an incentive at least once.”
“I’ll try my best…”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m hanging up.”
Like that, the call ended. After putting down the phone, the comic artist nodded and neatly folded the comic scripts he had drawn last time, tucking them into a drawer. He then picked up his pen and gripped it. His fingers, more excited than his heart, tapped stiffly on the blank paper. He was still not sure yet, but this time, he had a good feeling about this, a really good feeling.
Someone else felt the same way. He watched the comic artist work so fast that it seemed there were six pens racing across the paper instead of just one. As the Terra unconsciously mimicked his characters’ expressions, it also felt he was trying to be three people at the same time instead of just one. His strong focus would remind anyone who saw him right now of the name of his species—Asura.
The comic artist would probably earn less money than he had hoped. He would be disappointed by people’s reactions and frustrated by his own limits. However, after overcoming all those hardships and trials, he would create something that would make him feel that he had given his all.
The comic artist himself didn’t know this yet, nor did his editor, but the person watching them knew it very well. A gentle gaze rested on the comic artist for a moment before the person moved on.
[Entering the ninety-seventh floor.]
The end was near.
✦ ✦ ✦
Translator's Thoughts