Community

I opened the door.

Or, to be precise, I tried to open the door.

"Why won't this thing open?"

But the door stayed firmly shut, as if something on the other side was braced against it.

Thankfully, the answer was floating right in front of my eyes.

An unlock timer?

So did that mean I had to stay here for seven days?

No, wait. The gallery user who came here before supposedly moved straight on down to Floor 99.

How did that person manage it?

I wrote a post to the community.

Barely had the bait landed before a flood of users swarmed in and started replying, and that was how I learned just how bleak my situation actually was.

Going by the reactions, four days without water put you on death's doorstep, and somewhere around day five you actually died. Could I really hold out that long?

How had the previous survivor managed it?

"A merchant?"

If something like that existed, you could've led with it.

Then again, when I thought it over, it really wasn't recommendable.

Paying a kidney and a liver for a few sips of water? The exchange rate was completely off its rocker.

Buying a few extra days of life on those terms was a losing deal no matter how you sliced it—apparently the gallery regulars knew that too, which was probably why nobody had bothered mentioning it.

"Hoo..."

Still, with the way down blocked off, the merchant was the only card left on the table.

Though I had no idea whether I could even find the guy, let alone what the terms of trade would be.

After leaving my thanks, I climbed back up the stairs.

Maybe I'd been trying to rush down to the next floor anyway, so I figured I'd spend the remaining time keeping a slow eye on the gallery.

Two days of watching the gallery, and here's what I took away from it.

These people were less "traumatized survivors" and more "idlers with way too much free time on their hands."

Though admittedly, most of them did seem to be living under constant threat from the aberrations.

The whole thing had the vibe of people banging drums and playing the janggu for their own amusement.

By my rough count, posts like that made up a good eighty to ninety percent of the gallery.

Well, the occasional real horror show did get posted too.

It really did seem to happen now and then—users dying like that.

And every time it did, the gallery would take on the atmosphere of a funeral home.

Everyone was doing their best to keep the mood light, in one way or another, but it clearly wasn't quite working.

And yet not a single person ever brought up death directly.

They had all learned with their own bodies what happens to someone in a world like this who sinks into grief or helplessness—and so, even though there was no formal rule about it, they simply never mentioned it.

That restraint, I supposed, was proof of having survived.

Which meant—

"Alright, then."

I threw myself into researching this place too.

Two days without a bite to eat had left my throat parched and my stomach gnawing at itself, but I hadn't spent the whole time parked in front of the community.

The rough dimensions of this floor, the layout of the rooms—I'd committed those to memory to a reasonable degree.

The map I'd pieced together went something like this.

How should I put it—the building was roughly shaped like that.

The room I was currently occupying, which I'd taken to calling the security office.

The stairs sat right beside it.

And everything else consisted of open spaces ringing ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠it around.

My head had been too scrambled at the start to notice, but looking back on it now, one thing stood out.

"It's definitely gotten smaller."

Compared to before I killed the aberration, the space had shrunk considerably.

When I first arrived here, I'd wandered for the better part of half an hour without managing to find the security office at all. It took nearly twenty full minutes of searching before I stumbled onto the room.

Now? A minute or two.

The place had shrunk to the point where I could see one end from the other at a glance.

I couldn't say for certain whether that was some lingering effect of the aberration, but one thing was clear: this space was different before and after I killed it.

And precisely because the space had grown smaller, I could say one thing with total confidence.

"There's nothing here."

Nothing. That was it. This space held nothing but what amounted to a big empty parking lot.

No water. No canned food.

Not a single thing that would have helped me before now, either.

All this place contained was the rule sheet I'd found at the very beginning, and the big mop.

Come to think of it, whoever designed this place probably built it from the ground up with the intention that no one would ever clear it.

Having surveyed every inch of it, I could say for sure: if I'd tried to survive here the way the gallery veterans described—scavenging, conserving, rationing—I would have failed, plain and simple.

The other thing I'd poked at in detail was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the status window.

And this little friend of mine was every bit as infuriating.

Outside of that, there was nothing at all.

A status window is supposed to show your health, your stats, a shop, and all manner of other handy things, isn't it?

But this one had exactly two features: those messages, and the gallery.

Nothing else. Truly the very pinnacle of unreasonable design.

Though honestly, the "Safe Zone" part I could have figured out on my own, announcement or not.

I'd beaten an aberration that ruled the entire 100th floor to death with my own hands—if this place didn't count as safe, what would?

The whole system was useless in a dozen different ways.

But I decided to give up complaining about it.

The clock was running down.

Day three—exactly what the gallery had told me.

The merchant was due. That was the whole reason I'd been holding out here with my stomach eating itself.

I'd already mapped out where to expect him.

The location the gallery user had mentioned came from a guy who'd glimpsed the merchant mid-flight, so it couldn't be trusted as exact.

Instead, I'd picked out a handful of vantage points that could survey the whole space at once.

Now it was time to check whether the merchant had appeared.

I was short on information, after all.

He might show up and leave just as fast, so I had to find him as quickly as possible.

Which meant—

"Time to move."

I got to my feet.

I set off toward the first spot on my list, and partway there, my footsteps stopped.

Because there was no longer any need to keep walking.

"Found it."

Day three of surviving Sky Tower.

At long last, I had met the merchant.