The Regressor Deceives (2)
The Regressor Deceives (2)
"Good."
Watching the players dive into their meeting from a distance, I gave a slow nod.
This was the best solution I'd found over dozens and dozens of regressions. Playing the part of a deranged killer. Making them feel fear.
"I'm seriously exhausted."
To the players I'd attacked, it must have felt like a curse. Every strike they threw missed by a hair, and every one of mine landed—always shallow cuts.
Was I that much stronger? Well... if we're talking pure skill, I was at least three levels above them. I'd spent countless regressions on Floor 5 honing the art of fighting superhuman opponents, while they'd spent their time fighting monsters. Naturally, I had the advantage.
But there's a massive gap between having the upper hand and "toying with them without taking a single hit." No matter how good I was, these players were top-tier warriors. People who'd climbed this far fast because they had faith in their own strength. Not the kind you could take lightly. Still...
"Regression really is broken."
When I'm the only one who gets to study in advance, the equation changes. A few regressions spent observing an opponent's little habits—their martial arts, their physical abilities—and I could momentarily overwhelm even the best of the best.
Oh, you're wondering why I'm using a swordsmanship that only leaves shallow cuts?
At first, I wanted to win fair and square. And honestly, at the start, I did fight with my real skill and won.
'You little fuck!'
But... there's a reason they were top-tier. They adapted to my fighting style fast. I still had the edge, sure, but I regress from even the smallest scratch. The longer the fight dragged, the more my odds of winning evaporated.
'Heh heh heh... Scum like you deserves to be wiped out. Even if I die today, I'm taking one of your arms with me.'
And on top of that, there was that pride—or ego—that came with being "top-tier." The players who fought me didn't give up easily. No matter how much I screamed internally—Please just run away! You idiot! You're actually going to die!—they'd fight to the bitter end out of sheer stubbornness.
What could I do to make these people give up? After racking my brain over and over, I finally found the answer.
The reason they wouldn't quit was simple. To them, I looked like a villain they had to judge. An enemy to be cut down.
"Playing a lot of horror games really paid off."
That was it. They fought to the end because they saw an enemy.
Why are the ghosts in horror games terrifying? Because you can't understand them. Because you can't fight back.
They say the truly scary opponent is the one you can't predict. So for that, I pulled a skull over my head, smeared animal blood all over my body, and practiced creepy laughs like "kihihihihi."
The swordsmanship that barely grazes the skin was part of that too. Its origin was the swordsmanship I'd seen from the Clone on Floor 5.
The Clone's style specialized in inflicting "shallow wounds." Optimized for fighting a regressor who returns upon taking damage, but generally a wildly inefficient swordsmanship. People don't die just because you nick their skin a little.
But for instilling "fear," there was nothing like it. A swordsmanship that obsessively carves away at the opponent's skin? From a third party's view, it would look utterly grotesque and terrifying.
Once I adopted the Clone's swordsmanship, the players lost their will to fight in an instant. They got scared and ran before they could ever get used to my blade. Thanks, Clone.
But for everything you gain, you lose something.
In my current state, I was stuck with one critical penalty.
"...I can't use mana."
Why can't I suddenly use mana? There's a reason for everything.
"..."
Saaaah.
When I channeled a hint of mana into my fingertip, pale frost bloomed and cold energy bled out.
"So it wasn't just a cold..."
Exactly.
I don't know how or why, but whenever I use mana, frost forms. No, to be precise, cold energy has infused my mana. When I tried channeling mana into my sword and swinging it as a test, ice crystals scattered through the air.
You're asking if that's a good thing?
"...You think it's a good thing?"
To fight at full strength, I need to spread mana through every corner of my body. And if I spread mana through my body right now... I take damage and regress.
Seriously, what's this "Cold Mana" nonsense? I don't know what kind of effect Floor 10 had, but something clearly went very wrong there.
"But it feels like a waste to just chug an Elixir, you know..."
If it comes down to it, I'll have to use an Elixir, but... for now, I decided to watch and wait. It was a situation I could overcome with enough regressions.
While I was muttering to myself, I spotted the players off in the distance talking to the Dwarves. Looked like they were asking for help.
Everything was going according to plan so far.
"Time to move to the next phase."
Now it was the Dwarves' turn.
Over the last several regressions, I'd confirmed that Dwarves don't scare easily. No matter how much I tried to intimidate them, they refused to cooperate with the players.
So against the Dwarves...
"I'll have to threaten them."
I'd hold a blade to their throats and threaten them.
**
Around sunset.
Inside a large wooden building, about ten Dwarves sat gathered around a round table.
"I trust everyone is aware of the situation."
The one leading the meeting was the Passage Stone shop owner. The others seated were also older, respected figures—the representatives of the Dwarves, you might say.
"The Climbers have requested our help. They say a mad Climber has entered Floor 11."
"...And what exactly are they asking for?"
"They asked if we could let them stay inside the fortress and stand watch together. They seem thoroughly terrified."
They hadn't exactly barred players from entering before, but giving them space inside the fortress was another matter entirely.
"Shameless little bastards."
A Dwarf stroked his black beard and sneered.
"They were happy enough to kill their own kind when greed blinded them, and now they come begging for help. Why not just throw them out? They're thinning their own numbers for us—that's a win from our point of view. They can all just drop dead for all I care."
"..."
The other Dwarves thought the black-bearded Dwarf's remarks were excessive, but no one actively stopped him. He had been particularly close to the Dwarf who was murdered.
"Calm down. You're too worked up."
The one who reined in the black-bearded Dwarf was a white-bearded Dwarf. He was the village's eldest, a figure some of the Dwarves called "Father" and followed devotedly.
"How about we let the Climbers in only until the funeral rite is over? Once the rite ends, we can just hand over Passage Stones and send them packing."
"Hmm..."
"That seems the most reasonable..."
The Dwarves' funeral rite had three days left. They were truly despicable creatures, but if they were going to disappear in three days anyway, there was no reason not to offer them some space in the fortress.
"Then we'll grant the Climbers the northern clearing. Are we all in agreement?"
"Agreed."
"Agreed."
With the matter of the Climbers settled, the discussion turned to the Dwarves' relocation.
No—it was just about to.
"S-something terrible has happened!"
A Dwarf burst through the door, panting. His beard was relatively short, so he looked to be a young Dwarf.
"Hey, can't you see the elders are talk—"
"The warehouse, inside the warehouse...!"
"What?"
"The inside of the warehouse is destroyed...! The beer kegs and water barrels are smashed, the provisions are scattered in the dirt, and in the middle of it all, there's an animal skeleton..."
"...?"
The warehouse was destroyed? That was impossible.
The Dwarven fortress looked from the outside like a rough wooden fort, but in truth it was built with complex magic engineering. The wooden ramparts were tougher than steel, and the key facilities were fully equipped with magical traps. On top of that, guards patrolled constantly.
Not that it couldn't be breached if the players united and attacked... but by the same token, it meant the defenses were strong enough that it couldn't be breached unless the players united. That was also why every Dwarf who died had died in the forest.
And now the warehouse was destroyed? The most heavily fortified warehouse they had?
"Hmm..."
The shop owner instinctively recalled the various defensive measures set up in the warehouse. For the most part, they weren't dangerous if you knew about them, but they were traps designed so that if you didn't, you were bound to fall victim.
If someone had gotten past the guards without being noticed, and breached it through sheer physical ability alone...
"This... we might be in danger too."
Just as the Climbers said, a monstrous creature had definitely entered the floor.