Chapter 2
Chapter 2
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 2
Chapter Title: Used Bookstore's NPC
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I posted it on the bulletin board in the plaza.
It was a masterpiece among masterpieces, crafted through my home industry. Since I'd made it purely with my own strength, without anyone's help, it filled me with even greater pride.
Especially the artwork was perfect.
The Old Man had seen it and reacted with jealousy, saying even a child could draw better than that.
Well, how could an ordinary person possibly match a genius's touch?
I'd drawn the person as a simple stick figure, using just lines and circles.
And the book as two rectangles.
Two people trading with each other, both beaming with satisfaction. I rendered those smiles as triangles.
"Yeah, yeah."
This was more than enough. I nodded, brimming with satisfaction.
It was the aesthetic of simplicity.
And now I had plenty of money.
The Old Man had returned the cash, and Ber had forgiven my debt.
With the debt wiped clean, the world seemed so much brighter. Of course, it was nighttime right now.
Just a figure of speech. Metaphor. Metaphor.
Even skill books containing the same skill can have vastly different contents.
The creator's style inevitably shapes the content.
No two skill books in the world are exactly alike. Each holds its own unique charm.
That's why the same skill feels just a bit different from person to person.
Therefore, even skill books with identical skills will inevitably evolve the skill further the more you read them.
You gain all sorts of knowledge—from varied applications to derived concepts.
Of course, you have to be able to read, comprehend, and apply it first. And the comprehension here means a flawless grasp that even the system would acknowledge.
The number of people reading books had dwindled compared to before. Those who truly enjoyed reading were fading away.
It was a side effect of vanishing leisure time.
Climb the Tower by day, guard the Outskirts by night. No one was expected to handle both alone.
That would leave no time for sleep.
Instead, guard duty rotated among Players each month.
Some focused solely on climbing, others purely on guarding—or a mix.
Even so, time was always short.
That's what drove people to crave quick, stimulating thrills.
And in the process, interest in books just kept declining.
How bad was it? Even among mages, pure researchers were dying out, replaced by combat mages chasing rapid growth through skills.
Skills aren't acquired solely from skill books. Enlightenment or repeated mastery works too.
That's why I could pick up a skill even from my own used-up skill book.
These days, though, the skill book route dominated overwhelmingly.
It was simple and took less effort.
But it wasn't flawless. Skills without true understanding hit walls fast.
A tower built on shaky foundations is bound to teeter.
That's why the ranker system stayed entrenched, unchanged. Unshifting rankers let top guilds monopolize everything.
And why the Tower had climbed so high it was on the verge of rotting.
"In the end, it's about effort. The gap in effort."
To be precise, it was a matter of direction, not sheer volume.
Blindly repeating a skill to grind proficiency wasn't the answer.
To reach higher levels, understanding had to come first.
"But that's got nothing to do with me."
Whatever. It was the Players' problem.
I was just a fragile NPC—I knew nothing about it.
Players were like moths to a flame.
They didn't have to climb the Tower, yet they obsessed over it.
What drove them to that?
They were moths fluttering toward the light dangling from the Tower.
They flew straight for it, unaware they were burning alive.
I'd seen so many go up in flames. Watched far too many.
I knew those who crumbled to ash, scattered by the wind until even memory faded. No one remembered them.
So it was best to stay uninvolved.
A handful of fleeting bonds that vanished in a blink meant less to me than knowledge piled up over ages.
The seaside chat had been part of that line of thinking.
...
"It'd be great if you shared that mountain of knowledge you've built up."
The Old Man muttered, gazing at the coastline.
"Why would I?"
"Climbing the Tower—or guarding it—would get way easier."
I stared at him, wondering if he meant it.
His eyes were sunk deep, like the serene sea.
Not a child's eyes sparkling with innocent joy, but an old man's, colors faded by endless years.
Like a dusty antique, profound despite the grime.
"No."
The Old Man ignored my flat refusal and pressed on.
"Fewer people would die for sure."
"Wrong."
I'd trained a disciple once, too.
Figured if I couldn't climb the Tower myself, raising Players well would do the trick.
Vaguely hoped it'd boost survival rates.
But I was wrong. Dead wrong.
The cost of that mistake had been too steep for me to bear. Still left a bitter taste.
"Right now is perfect. Sticking to low floors, not chasing higher ones—that's ideal."
A stable life without pushing too hard, just like now.
Give people power, and they flaunt it desperately.
They chase hollow "honor," tossing their own lives aside.
Scale one floor, crave the next. Always staring up, pushing upward.
Then ambition consumes them—they ignite from within and plummet. Flames lick their wings, yet they tumble dumbly, no struggle left.
I'd watched countless heroes crash like that.
"No need to climb the Tower, right?"
If you're doomed to fall anyway, why bother flying high?
"Anyway, all that matters to me is our shop. Long as I protect my Used Bookstore, others can do whatever."
"Liar."
"Huh?"
"Forget it. You've got your reasons. I spoke out of turn. Sorry."
"...Just keep your promise."
Making my heart all flutter for no reason. I wasn't the sentimental type.
Shaking off the thought, I looked up.
Dark night sky.
Even in the gloom, light persisted. If anything, the dark made it glow fiercer.
Nothing like the Abyss in the Outskirts. That thing devoured light itself—a world apart.
Feeling extra moody tonight.
Better head back and crack open a book.
Forcing brighter thoughts, I started walking.
"If you polish Fireball enough, could it pack Hellfire-level punch? What do you think?"
"Obviously."
"What?! Guess I misread you. How's a low-tier skill like Fireball gonna rival Hellfire? End times, end times."
"All skills are equal. Grades aside. And yeah, end times—the world ended, Tower went up. What nonsense. Senile much, Old Man?"
"Such disrespect!"
"Hmph, words from Tower newbies don't faze me. And it's presbyopia—I'm older anyway!"
Long time since I'd debated the Old Man on something constructive.
Both intellectuals, our back-and-forth ran deep.
Seemed childish at a glance, but packed real profundity. Or so.
I'd worried the last talk might make things awkward, but nope. I loved this childish—no, profound—vibe.
"Tuning's pinnacle is stock, right? Hellfire derives from Fireball ultimately."
"Sure, valid angle. But check this skill book—totally different framework. Explain that."
"Huh? You missed the point. Topic's: can Fireball hit Hellfire power? If one person forged Hellfire from Fireball's system, that's proof it can grow that far."
Hellfire comes from fleshing out Fireball, tweak by tweak.
No skill's too low-tier to hone into higher grades.
Not easy, sure.
But success stories exist.
Not for everyone, but someone's blazed the trail.
Proof others can follow.
"So growth alone beats innate grade?"
"Yep. Know why one skill has multiple skill books?"
"Diverse views. Same Fireball—power focus for some, accuracy for others, low cost for more. Skill books specialize."
"Huh? You knew."
"Not your level, but I've researched steady."
"Then why—?"
If you knew, why this pointless spat?
"Needed conviction."
The Old Man's gaze swept the shelves of books.
"You've hoarded a ton."
"Jealous?"
"Yeah. Envious of that conviction in your path."
His old eyes brimmed with regret, roiling in doubt.
Then smoothed to calm. Post-storm sea—infinite peace.
"What's up? Doesn't suit you."
"Does it? Heh heh."
"They say uncharacteristic behavior kills."
"...Just wanted to chat. No friends for this geezer."
"What? Total outcast?"
"Yup. Same boat as you. Birds of a feather, right?"
What was this old coot on about?
"Wh-what? I have friends."
"It's fine. No lies needed. Heh, old pals."
"No, really—tons of friends!"
Ber! Old Man!
Staring at fingers that wouldn't fold further, I quietly dropped my hand.
Either way, my one-up made it my win by decision.