The Regressor Is Startled (5)
The Regressor Is Startled (5)
To be honest, I can't say I've ever really felt my abilities were lacking lately. Sure, I'm not on par with the top-tier players, but my overall specs are exceptionally high.
Objectively speaking, I was a powerhouse.
"Huff, huff..."
And yet, right now, I feel that inadequacy acutely. No—to be precise, I feel how utterly insufficient my swordsmanship is.
Choi Ji-won's swordsmanship walks the Balanced Path of Offense and Defense. My swordsmanship focused exclusively on offense, centered on subduing the opponent quickly and precisely. In a sense, that's only natural; I honed these skills cutting down the endless swarm of monsters on Floor 4.
That's why every strike carries killing intent, aimed at finishing the fight in a single move. If I fail to subdue them in one blow, a counterattack comes, and that likely means a regression. So my sword, in martial arts novel terms, would be called the Forceful Sword.
But the clone's sword was different. His sword was light, fast, and formless.
Myriad Transformations. His sword was impossible to grasp. It looked like he swung it without any set form, yet every strike was lethal. Even my reaction speed, honed on Floor 3 to a level where I could nearly counter the Death God, could barely evade it.
The reason our swordsmanship diverged so drastically is simple. While I polished my swordsmanship against monsters on Floor 4, the clone polished his swordsmanship against me on Floor 5. His art was forged for a single purpose: to strike down me alone.
"Fuck..."
I regressed again just now from a cut on the shoulder. It's not a deep wound. The kind of light scratch a normal person could laugh off with a bandage. But I'm a regressor, and even a scratch like this is fatal.
"Not giving me a single hit, huh..."
The dynamic of our fights always followed the same script. I tried to force a clash of swords and drag the fight into a contest of power; the clone evaded and focused solely on wounding me. Strength versus Flow. So far, the clone had won every time. Or rather—I had won before, but maybe those wins had been erased from existence.
"Hey. How do you do that? Bending the sword mid-air."
"..."
"I tried copying it, and the ligaments in my wrist hurt like a bitch. I feel like I could pull it off, but at the same time, I think my wrist would shatter and force a regression."
"..."
"You're using mana, aren't you? Right?"
Time flows relentlessly. Just as the clone had come to understand me, so too had I come to understand the clone.
That clone bastard had clearly figured out how to use mana through repeated regressions. When you circulate the mana sleeping silently in your body at high speed, round and round, the colors of the world change—and at those moments, the color around his wrist always looked different. Beyond simply circulating mana to enhance physical ability like I did, he'd apparently devised his own method of application.
"But if you can do it, then so can I."
We are the same person. If the clone can do it, I can do it too. From the moment I realized the clone wielded mana, I began researching how to 'send mana to the right place at the right time.' It wasn't easy, but after countless attempts, at some point I found I could replicate it, however crudely.
"Heh, it actually works."
I discarded my old swordsmanship. I forgot the art where each strike was fatal and instead ingrained the clone's shifting swordsmanship into my body. It was more advantageous in a fight against a regressor.
And so, I succeeded in learning to 'bend the sword mid-air' as well. The moment I broke free from my offense-only style and gained the ability to use a wide variety of patterns—
"...Huh?"
—the clone had already surpassed me again.
This time, his slow sword suddenly accelerated, and his fast sword suddenly slowed. A mastery of tempo that pierced straight through psychological gaps. Marvelous tricks that defied physical laws through mana. Faced with techniques I had never encountered before, I could offer no meaningful response and regressed helplessly.
"...I'll do it too."
And once more, a regression began to catch up to the clone, who had pulled ahead again.
**
"..."
"..."
I have no idea how many times I've repeated the regression. Easily over a hundred. Maybe over a thousand? Ten thousand? I have no means of keeping count, so I can only gauge it by instinct.
Before, I would talk to the clone with a sort of grim cheerfulness. Now, I've lost my words, too. When the hell is that bastard going to fall? Was my willpower really this strong?
"..."
I discard every stray thought—reality, what I'll do after leaving Floor 5. The only thing worth focusing on right now is how to grow even a little stronger. Developing further and further, maximizing the number of regressions I can force out of that clone. I focus solely on that.
But this fight offers no taste of the result called 'victory.' I can only 'realize' I've won indirectly by feeling my opponent grow. In other words, my mind is being ground down at a breakneck pace.
"..."
When I catch my reflection in the blade, I look disturbingly similar to the wreck I saw in the clone when I first entered Floor 5. The light has gone from my eyes, and I radiate a hollow, sunken impression. If an acquaintance saw me walking around like this, 'Are you okay?' would be the only natural response.
Though, of course, the clone looks even worse. The speed at which he mutters to himself while staring at his sword has increased. If an acquaintance saw him walking around like that, they'd immediately start looking up the number for a mental hospital.
"Stop walking around with my face like that..."
Seeing my own face look like that every time I glance at the mirror feels strangely unpleasant. If Choi Ji-won's memories had never returned, and I'd climbed to the 20th, the 30th, Floor 40 repeating regressions all alone... I might have ended up looking just like that wreck.
A blank-faced thing climbing the Tower, closer to a machine than a human. I'm reminded afresh of my own good fortune.
Of course, realizing that doesn't end the fight. As the clone grows stronger, so do I. And the moment I finally catch up to the clone, he grows even stronger still.
Regression. Regression. Regression. Repeating the same situation endlessly, over and over—I felt like I was on the verge of a breakdown.
"Fellow climbers. What do you believe is the 'unique strength of humanity'? There may be many answers, of course. But the answer I hold is singular."
"Fellow climbers. What do you believe is the 'unique strength of humanity'? There may be many answers, of course. But the answer I hold is singular."
I've now memorized Raphael's entire speech—every line, every word. I know the speed, the accent, even the exact pauses where he catches his breath. I never wanted to memorize it, but it seeped in without my consent.
I wish that bastard would just give up already. I want to rest now.
**
"Ah."
Lost again.
I thought I had grown used to repeated defeat, but becoming used to it is the same as being pickled in it. I have been thoroughly pickled in the bitterness of loss and despair.
"..."
Slowly, dark concepts float up to the surface of my mind. What if the clone never breaks? What if I go insane faster than he does? What if Raphael is intervening, sheltering the clone's sanity?
What if I'm trapped on Floor 5 forever, never able to leave? What if I eventually lose my mind, lie motionless on the ground, and repeat regressions in an endless punishment?
A regressor can't even die. When that truth hits me, a chill runs down my spine and forces me to fight even harder. Though, of course, I still lost.
Choi Ji-won's face is starting to blur at the edges. In the relentless battering waves of this reality, precious memories are worn down like rocks on a shoreline. I feel a crisis looming—if this fight drags on much longer, my sanity might twist beyond repair.
There's no clear answer, of course. All I can do is repeat the fight and pray that my opponent tires and collapses first.
"...Fuck."
But the clone approaching from the distance is wearing the brightest complexion I've ever seen on him. His eyes are still clouded with muttering, but a faint smile hangs on his lips.
Has he finally snapped? No, that expression looks too good for that. I just want this to end. Please, just collapse already.
I grip my sword at an angle and stay on guard against the approaching clone. Whatever happens, my task is fixed. Struggle as hard as I can.
"..."
He stopped.
"...?"
The clone halted mid-stride, standing stock-still in place. Since this was a pattern I'd never seen before, I heightened my guard to its limit.
Had he devised a new technique? Had he grown even stronger again? Ha, how many more regressions will it take to win? Was I really this overflowing with talent, this son of a bitch?
Just as I clenched my sword tighter, mind swirling with irritation, competitive fire, and lament—
[...Stop.]
"Huh?"
After what felt like an eternity.
The clone spoke to me.