Exploration (1)

“What the hell is this…?”

I squinted at the lines scrolling beneath the item description.

My head spun. Decreased patience? Physical parameter boosts? I assumed traits were just passive skills, but looking at the sum of these effects, one overwhelming realization hit me.

“It’s literally telling me to go pick fights.”

I had learned my lesson back with the convenience store anomaly. Unless backed into a corner with zero alternatives, I had vowed never to engage an anomaly if I could avoid it. These things weren't created for humans to brawl with in the first place. I had somehow managed to beat a couple of them ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠into scrap, sure, but still…

“Ah, whatever. Screw it.”

It was good, but it wasn't strictly good. That was the fairest assessment. Incredible if I was forced into hand-to-hand combat with a monstrosity, but completely useless if I avoided fights altogether.

“Not that amazing after all.”

Browsing the Survival Gallery had taught me that brute force couldn't resolve every anomaly. I had gotten lucky with the store cashier and the smiling anomaly because they relied on physical attacks or manageable psychological pressure. If I crossed paths with a creature packing an instant-death gimmick, I would drop dead before I could throw a punch. Clashing head-on with every abomination was the last thing I wanted to do.

Violence wasn't a cure-all, and my own strength-boosting anomaly only triggered when ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I was incandescent with rage. As it stood, my unbuffed physical capabilities were only slightly above average. If I failed to get genuinely pissed off when danger struck, I was a dead man. You only get one life in this place; caution had to come first.

Still, how was I supposed to use this thing? Since it had come from a Trait Gacha Box, I had expected it to dissolve into thin air and immediately bind to me, or exist as a formless concept. A trait was an innate property, a passive constitution. Packing it inside a physical object felt weird.

“Another keychain.”

Resting in my palm was a miniature metal fist hanging from a key ring. I pressed it, pinched it, and rubbed it against the back of my hand, but nothing absorbed into my skin. How was I supposed to activate it? Would willing it to absorb do the trick?

I stared intently at the fist-shaped keychain and concentrated on the thought of absorbing it.

“There we go.”

Good old status window. Truly an all-purpose tool. Relieved that my hunch had paid off, I pressed Yes.

The metallic keychain dissolved into shimmering motes of light, sinking smoothly into my pores and flowing through my bloodstream.

“Oh… ohhh.”

The moment the trait settled into my core, a deep surge of vigor coursed through my limbs. I threw a practice jab through the empty air. The snap of the punch was noticeably crisper and faster. I hadn't turned into a flying superhero, but the physical enhancement was unmistakable. It felt as though I had returned to the absolute peak condition of my gym-going days—no, noticeably stronger than that.

I had never been a serious athlete, having quit the gym after three months of half-assed lifting back in college. My combined big three lifts had hovered around 270 kilograms back then. If I stepped under a barbell right now, I felt confident I could easily clear 300 without breaking a sweat. Given my mediocre natural strength, this was plenty satisfying.

That took care of the physical inspection. Now for the rest.

SR: Canned Food in a Can.

SSR: Cat's Hamster Wheel.

Only those two left to test.

I spent the next two days running practical experiments on my new gear. With nothing better to do, I resumed bodyweight training, browsed the forum, and bragged shamelessly about my gacha pulls to harvest salty reactions from the gallery regulars. It was a thoroughly productive forty-eight hours.

First up was SR: Canned Food in a Can. Its performance was rock-solid. Even if the tin lid was torn off and thrown across the room, the keychain synthesized a brand-new lid out of thin air and slammed it shut, sealing the can airtight. But during my tinkering, I stumbled upon a surprisingly lethal alternative use.

“Activate.”

—Shnkkk!

The instant I barked the command, the lid slammed shut with immense force. Right along the can's open rim, I had wedged an empty plastic water bottle.

“Clean off. Damn.”

The shearing force was terrifying. It didn't care what was obstructing the seal; anything caught across that rim was guillotined without resistance. Inspecting the razor-sharp cross section of the severed plastic bottle, I whistled. In a pinch, this could double as an emergency blade.

Next came SSR: Cat's Hamster Wheel. This one was an absolute menace. Like the can, it responded to mental intent as well as spoken commands.

Activate.

Target: myself.

The moment the skill registered, my legs locked into a bizarre, inescapable loop. I pumped my feet to stride forward, but my body stayed glued to the exact same coordinates, spinning like a hamster on an invisible wheel. My feet weren't paralyzed; rather, the floor beneath my soles seemed to shift backward in perfect ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠sync with my stride, cancelling out every inch of momentum. Left, right, jumping straight up—nothing worked. My spatial position remained anchored to the exact spot where the skill had caught me.

“Eight… nine… ten…”

The moment the counter hit ten seconds, the binding vanished, and normal physics snapped back. A ten-second inescapable tether. That was an extraordinary tool for survival.

With testing complete, I packed my gear. Five cans of rations remained, not counting what I had consumed, and five bottles of fresh water. I had survived on one of each per day, but with tomorrow being exploration day, I downed three of each to push my body into peak condition.

I slid three cans and three water bottles into my pockets. I could have bought more from the store, but overloading myself would restrict my agility and throw off my center of gravity. Moderation was key. I stashed the heavy supplies in my lower cargo pockets and tucked the keychains into my upper pockets for instant access. It was fortunate that my pants had four deep pockets.

Finally, I folded the rules manual neatly and slipped it into an inner pocket. Crammed full of supplies, the fabric bulged like overstuffed sausages, but a quick lap around the room proved my mobility wasn't compromised.

Preparations were complete. I lay down on the floor and drifted into a deep sleep to bank energy for the trial ahead.

Over the past three days, thanks to a few memorable stunts, the community had stopped calling me "newbie" and started addressing me by my handle. Not that it changed anything about my situation.

“Phew…”

I exhaled slowly and started down the emergency staircase. My right hand gripped the reinforced iron mop handle, rolling the metal in my palm as I ran through my mental checklist.

My objective on the 99th floor was purely reconnaissance. No unnecessary fights. If I ran into an anomaly, I would prioritize finding the staircase to the 98th floor over squaring up. According to the forum intel, the 99th floor's anomaly trigger was tied to line of sight. I would keep my eyes glued strictly to the floor. Blinding myself entirely by keeping my eyes shut was suicidal, so keeping my chin tucked and gaze angled downward was the safest compromise. And once I cracked the door, maximum stealth. No muttering to myself.

Checklist done. Without further intel, this was as thoroughly prepared as I could get. I reached the bottom landing and stood before the sealed bulkhead.

“Zero.”

The moment my fingers touched the handle and swung the door open, a violent gravitational vortex yanked my entire body forward. My vision went dead black.

—Bzzzt… crackle…

The erratic buzzing of an unstable electric filament was the first thing that reached my ears. The system's parting words echoed in my head: Floor Theme: Art Gallery.

Tossed blindly into the void, my muscles seized up in panic. I didn't know where to orient my line of sight. Everything was pitch dark. I had intended to manage my gaze carefully, but I hadn't expected the tower to rob me of my sight entirely. Just as cold dread began crawling up my spine—

“Guh…!”

Light snapped back into the room, blindingly sharp.

'Welcome to the Skytower Art Gallery?'

Wary of what had triggered the illumination, I slowly lifted my eyes upward. The buzzing filament had fallen silent. Hanging from the low ceiling slightly ahead of me was an exposed Edison bulb, its thin golden wires glowing with steady warmth. That was where the light was coming from.

With my immediate surroundings illuminated, I took in the space. Polished, high-end marble tiles lined the floor beneath my sneakers. The walls were covered in an unnervingly pristine white wallpaper, so stark and clinical that staring at it made my head throb. The entire chamber was barely the size of a standard security guard booth. And directly in front of me stood another door.

A door nested immediately behind the entrance door. What was this, a Russian nesting doll?

Remembering the comments demanding live coverage, I pulled out my phone, snapped a quick photo of the white door, and uploaded it.

“What the fuck…?”

The unhinged hysteria flooding the comment section tore a gasp from my throat. And when I scrolled down to the image attached in the very next reply, all the blood drained from my face, freezing me dead in my tracks.