The World of a Hundred Towers

The physician in charge of me in the World of a Hundred Towers was an incredibly sensitive person. Just how sensitive? Even now she stood before me, dropping tears as fat as chicken droppings onto the floor.

“Muhan, I’m so sorry…”

Does it make sense for a doctor to behave like that? Anyone who thought it impossible would change their mind the moment they saw her.

“Why are you crying again? Doctors crying only makes the patient anxious, you know. It’s only because it’s me that I let it slide.”

I tossed the words out like a joke, but my physician couldn’t laugh. She bit her lip hard enough to draw blood before she spoke.

“The paralysis will soon reach your respiratory muscles.”

If the respiratory muscles stopped working, breathing became impossible. And when a person stops breathing, they die. She had dressed it up, but the message was clear: You’re about to die.

I pushed myself up a little, leaning back against the pillow.

“There, stop.”

“If only I had tried a little harder…”

My physician was a genius. I didn’t know the full story, but she had been famous since childhood—TV appearances, the whole thing. Early admission, early graduation, youngest graduate of Korea’s top medical school, youngest professor, meteoric rise in academia. A genius among geniuses.

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“What can you do when it’s impossible? ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Still, I made it to twenty, didn’t I?”

Even a true prodigy like her had never found the cause of my illness. An incurable disease of unknown origin that began in the lower body, gradually paralyzed every muscle, and finally reached the respiratory muscles, resulting in death. Similar to ALS, but not ALS. Symptoms had appeared when I was only ten. I had always been frail, but from that age I couldn’t even walk. No medicine worked. The doctor who first diagnosed it said that reaching twenty would require a miracle, and thirty was utterly impossible.

So I had spent more than ten years lying in this bed, simply waiting to die.

“Even if we withdraw the advance directive… just give me more time and I’ll find a way.”

She clutched the front of her white coat like a lifeline. I waved my hand dismissively.

“It’s fine.”

The moment I became an adult I had written the advance directive refusing life support. I was human—I wanted to live—but I hated pointless struggles. Keeping someone alive who couldn’t even regain consciousness only tortured everyone else. And if the body couldn’t move while the mind remained trapped… that was even more terrifying. In truth, that was what scared me most. When the disease first hit I had prayed for a meteor to fall from the sky, but I was an adult now. I couldn’t keep thinking like a child forever.

After a few more formal words, the physician left with slumped shoulders. I had first met her ten years ago. Back then I assumed she was simply a new doctor, but as wrinkles appeared on her face, her tears only increased. At that rate, how could she ever practice medicine properly?

Thud.

I tossed the phone I had been holding aside.

“Goddamn it.”

A curse slipped out naturally. Was I angry because I was about to die? No. I knew my body’s condition better than anyone. I had already accepted that the end was near. The fact that I had miraculously reached twenty was already a jackpot. I was Lucky Muhan personified.

Still, there was one thing even my super-positive self couldn’t endure. The hologram window that had appeared before my eyes some time ago.

It stayed there whether I was on my phone, talking to the doctor, eating, or using the bathroom. The window completely blocked my vision. Later it grew darker and larger, and now it even added a brutal warning.

It was driving me insane. The interference was so bad I could barely see the phone screen—my only real pleasure. The hologram moved as if it had a will of its own, dancing across my vision. I even visited the psychiatric ward thinking I had lost my mind, but they said there was nothing wrong.

The timer that counted down in real time shredded my nerves even more. I didn’t know what it meant, but even with my eyes closed I could see it. Did the world end when the timer reached zero? That part didn’t concern me much—I was dying anyway. But I didn’t want that sensitive doctor to die.

The worst part was that it hadn’t even given me proper time to think. Lying in bed made time pass quickly.

The timer that had once shown eighteen hours now had less than ten minutes left. Even the text had disappeared, leaving only the timer and the entry button. Maybe this was also an unknown mental illness, just like my unknown muscle disease. Pressing the button might do nothing at all.

Actually, there was another reason I hesitated. This body couldn’t do anything. What could someone who couldn’t even walk possibly accomplish? Then again, since I was going to die soon, what did it matter?

“Nothing to lose.”

I pressed the floating button hard.

A brilliant light instantly filled my vision.

To save one world, how many worlds are needed?

Consciousness flickered like a dying candle.

One hundred.

With that hundred, a tower is built.

Thus it is called the World of a Hundred Towers.

A mechanical voice, like one from medical equipment, tickled my ears.

I slowly lifted my heavy eyelids. Countless hologram windows poured in. The surroundings were a pure white space like a hospital room. It would have driven a normal person straight into an asylum, but to me it felt strangely familiar.

“Huh?”

I sat there with my mouth open. The air tasted sweet. I felt more refreshed than I had in years. Refreshed. That was the word. My body didn’t ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠feel like it weighed a thousand pounds. My breathing wasn’t labored. And most importantly—

My toes wiggled.

When I put a little strength into them, my legs moved too. The return of a forgotten sensation felt incredibly strange. I tried to stand.

Thump.

It hurt. I collapsed immediately. Clutching my knees, I glared at the hologram window.

It seemed the tower had recognized my disease as a status abnormality and cured it. It had healed the illness, but it hadn’t restored the muscles I had lost from years of lying in bed.

The damn hologram had added another time limit. I quickly scanned the windows. I was sure I had heard something about a trait in that dreamlike state.

A question mark naturally floated into my head. Cheonma Gallery Access? The moment I recited the words inwardly, a familiar window popped up like a browser.

It was a festival of complete nonsense posts. I clicked on one that looked relatively sane.

I still had no idea what kind of gallery this was. Giving up on figuring it out myself, I tapped the small “Write Post” button in the corner.

A moment later.

And so on. A festival of countless question marks followed.