[Our sect is of the righteous faction.]
That's how his master began the conversation.
[What is the righteous faction? How would you answer that?]
At his master's words, he fell into thought. 정 (righteous), upright, straight.
He answered as he thought.
[I think it means to pursue what is right.]
[What is the right thing?]
He thought and then answered.
[It literally means something that is not wrong.]
[What is the difference between what is not wrong and what is wrong?]
He thought, but could not answer.
The master, with his bandaged hand, pointed in one direction.
[What does 'that' look like to you?]
He looked in the direction his master pointed. There were clouds like sheep's wool floating across the sky so blue it could tear.
[It looks like clouds.]
[Yes. They are clouds.]
The master nodded and then asked.
[How do 'they' look to you?]
That question plunged him back into deep thought.
It was a while before he answered.
[They look pitiful.]
[Why?]
[Because they occupy such a vast sky alone.]
[Hmm.]
A horizontal crease formed on the master's bald face. A smile was spreading.
The master, squatting crookedly, said,
[The first thing you said is the 'right' one.]
Calling a cloud a cloud is not wrong, the master said.
[Seeing all things of heaven and earth as they are. Accepting them as they exist. A mountain is a mountain, a cloud is a cloud, the wind is the wind, and water remains water. This is the mindset of the righteous faction.]
Pfft.
The reed held between the lips that opened alone without eyes and nose flapped like a pipe.
[The next thing you said was the 'wrong' one.]
Putting one's own sentiments onto the cloud is wrong, the master said.
[Why is the sky so clear? It is because it doesn't understand my feelings. Why is the cloud floating alone? It is because it empathizes with my situation… This perspective. From this interpretation, in the view, a mountain cannot be just a mountain, and water cannot just be water. This is what is called the mindset of the demonic faction.]
The master chewed on the reed as he elaborated.
[In essence, the righteous faction empties itself to contain the world, while the demonic faction uses itself as a rope to entangle with the world.]
[....]
[Both have clear limits. In the world of the righteous faction, a mountain is just a mountain and cannot be entangled with me. Conversely, in the world of the demonic faction, all things cannot exist separately from me.]
While listening to the master's explanation, he thought of those who had tempered him and those he had cut down.
The master showed his bandaged fist.
[I hit you on the head, didn't I? That was because it is part of the introductory procedure of our sect. Why do you think that procedure exists?]
[To empty the mind.]
He answered like that, and then spoke in a respectful manner.
[Because you can only fill it after it's emptied.]
[That's right.]
The master nodded.
[As humans, it's difficult to see a mountain as just a mountain. There's a need to cut away the contexts that have settled in our heads. You also, being of a special birth, needed to be hit more.]
[I thought it was because my head was hard.]
[Of course, that was also a reason.]
A silence followed for a moment.
The master smirked and took the reed from his mouth, pulling it out from between his index and middle fingers.
[Thus, I have emptied you, my disciple. But do not misunderstand. Whether it is the righteous faction or the demonic faction, both have their own value as much as they have their limitations. In other words, both can be dangerous if taken to extremes.]
[What kind of danger?]
[ For example, imagine a martial artist from a righteous faction. This renowned martial artist has reached almost the level of an immortal, only able to see humans as mere humans. Whether it is a human who has tragically lost a child to a sudden calamity or someone born into a wealthy family who has lived without lacking anything their life, in his view, they are merely the same single person.]
The master sighed.
[If you get used to seeing the world just as 'the world,' eventually you come to regard all things as 'nothingness.' Truly those who view the world with equality are those who cannot empathize with anything, mere monsters who have strayed from humanity.]
Having spoken clearly, the master stared intently at him.
[Do not become like that.]
[....]
[I have taken you as my disciple. I have emptied you. Having been tempered in the midst of the demonic faction, I will teach you how to see the world correctly. But disciple! That 'world' includes the hearts of those who tempered you, even your feelings towards them.]
The master spoke while leaning on his sword proppimh to the floor.
[The loneliness you have felt up to now is also a part of the world. It is not something to be overly valued, nor is it something to be discarded. Accept its weight as it is.]
The master's sword pointed towards the clouds drifting in the distance.
[Accept it!]
He saw it.
[Accept the world, accept yourself!]
He did just that.
[Uwaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah—!!!]
He stood up abruptly and took a deep breath. He opened his mouth. He screamed.
The roar spread with the force to kill the spring.
There wasn't any change on his face. His eyebrows furrowed slightly as he shouted with all his might. No tears flowed, and thus there was no sobbing.
But that was his scream.
[Yes.]
The master nodded.
[Let it out. Cry. Keep what you've inherited, but make room for other things to enter. After that, I will—]
The master spoke in an energetic tone.
[I will teach you how to smile.]
The master kept his promise.
6.
[Key Formation complete.]
The Tower's declaration this time was extremely swift.
As soon as he entered the 96th floor, it echoed.
[The number of works depicting your life, the number of people who have seen those works, and the number of people whose lives have changed due to those works meet the required numbers.]
[The 96th floor is cleared!]
Thus, the stairs leading to the 97th floor appeared.
However, the one who heard the Tower's declaration did not step towards the stairs. He simply followed the path of the Goblin cartoonist.
The Goblin cartoonist was stuck in his workshop, lamenting his fate.
"F*ck. Is it that I don't have money, or is it that I lack dignity? No. Yeah, if you don't have money, you lose dignity—that's the way of the world. I know. But still, should I… maybe I should climb the Tower too? Learn martial arts and try being an adventurer?"
Where beasts tread, a path forms; lamentation too becomes routine. The cartoonist's complaints were familiar and flowed smoothly even without the help of alcohol.
"Why did I pick up a pen instead of a sword? Why was it ink and not blood that I smeared all over?"
The cartoonist's gaze moved from his manuscript to a comic magazine released this month. The cover featured a comic character by Kim Seulam or Park Seulam, who had built a building in paradise.
His self-pity quickly turned into resentment towards others.
"I'm jealous… that damn bastards. I wish people would just like what I draw without any fuss. Damn it. Everyone else seems to live just as they please, so why do I have to suffer like this…"
Jealousy weighs down the heart. The Goblin cartoonist, grinding his teeth, eventually exhausted himself and collapsed onto his work desk. His mind, which had become as heavy as waterlogged cotton, was briefly occupied by images of Gong-ja, the Black Dragon Master laughing heartily, and the Tower Master alternating between a hypercube and a bearded old man before fading away.
The sound of snoring filled the tiny workshop.
[You may enter the 97th floor at any time.]
There was a gaze quietly observing the cartoonist who had fallen asleep like that.
The cartoonist could not feel that gaze. Not just because he was asleep. It was a gaze that no one in this world could feel.
But the gaze was definitely fixed on the cartoonist. The owner of the gaze was clearly in the same place as the cartoonist.
– ....
In this world, an intangible touch rested on the cartoonist's shoulder.
It moved up and down.
It was a comforting pat on the sleeping cartoonist.
– ....
The owner of the hand slightly mumbled with his lips.
The voice did not reach the cartoonist. The touch, too, was not something that could be conveyed to him.
Being on different levels, such comfort was never meant to be conveyed, thus it was meant to leave no trace and fade away.
– ....
But it did not.
– ..., ..., ........
No specific message came down like an oracle. The cartoonist did not suddenly awaken a skill, nor did his mind regress with ideas for a future hit comic.
Every time the touch patted his shoulder, the cartoonist's breathing became more relaxed.
Jealousy subsided, and resentment faded.
– ....
That night, the cartoonist dreamed.
It was a incoherent dream… There was a man… a human man… This man was cooped up in a tiny room even smaller than the cartoonist's studio, venting his dissatisfaction and lamentations about the world… Everything outside the Tower was unfair… Everything inside the Tower was absurd… It seemed there was no place for the man anywhere…
Suddenly, the man received a skill.
It was a skill truly suited for him… As if someone had spent a long time observing him and tailor-made it for him, it fit him so perfectly that it was hard to believe otherwise… If there was anything special about this skill, it was that it was made solely for him… The skill encapsulated his life…
Perhaps the man was not alone.
Even as he knelt lamenting, even as he spat out his resentment towards the world consumed by rage, the man was not alone. Someone had been with him. At the time, he might not have felt it, but now, the man knew. He knew it as clearly as possible.
– To you.
While comforting the cartoonist, the man moved his lips.
– May luck be with you.
The cartoonist bolted upright.
He looked around as if he had seen a ghost. In the darkness of the workshop, he was alone. At least, that was the only perception he could have.
"...."
The cartoonist furrowed his brows, thinking about the dream he just had. He thought for a long while. As he desperately clung to and pieced together the fleeting contents of the dream, like an old woman's sigh dissipating in the winter wind, the cartoonist imagined a story.
Initially uncertain, the images gradually became bolder and clearer.
The cartoonist nodded his head and then made a phone call.
"Hello, Editor."
"Author?"
From the other side of the receiver, an irritable voice of an elf who had just woken up came through.
"What brings you to call at this hour?"
"Ah."
The cartoonist's face reddened. It was, after all, dawn.
"Sorry… should I call later?"
A groan came from the other side of the receiver.
"No, it's not the first or second time… Just go ahead. What is it, Author? What's up?"
The cartoonist's face turned red again, and he cleared his throat.
"It's about the comic."
"Ah, yes. Hmm. I was thinking, instead of making the Tower Master a pretty boy, how about a cute mascot animal with a jewel embedded in its forehead—"
"Can I redraw it?"
Silence followed.
The cartoonist waited anxiously for a response. After a while, an answer came.
"Redraw?"
It was impossible to discern the expression from the other side. The cartoonist couldn't tell if the editor was angry, disgusted, or just curious.
The cartoonist spoke as if making an excuse.
"Yes… I think I can draw a better comic than what I showed you…"
Silence followed again.
The cartoonist hurriedly spoke.
"No, it's just that… what I showed you yesterday, I can do much better than that…"
"Are you sure?"
This time, the cartoonist fell silent.
The editor prodded as if urging a confirmation.
"So, are you confident?"
The cartoonist thought deeply. Was he confident? Did he believe in this path? Did he believe in this material?
He wasn't sure. Confidence? There was never any certainty in choosing to walk the path of an artist. He doubted whether there were really people in this world who could design their lives with a clear vision. At least, it was something the cartoonist didn't know.
But still.
Despite everything.
"I can take responsibility."
The cartoonist replied with his head bowed.
A long silence.
Finally, a sigh came from the other side of the receiver.
"You need to make some money too, Author…"
The cartoonist understood what that attitude meant. He spoke with a voice half ashamed, half excited.
"I will make it. I should be able to… probably."
"What do you mean probably…?"
"Please help me."
The cartoonist said.
"Just help me a bit."
Silence flowed for a while between the two over the phone.
Eventually, as it always has historically, the elf was the first to concede.
"Ugh, really."
The editor lamented.
"Alright, I'll wait."
A flush of relief spread across the cartoonist's face.
"Thank you!"
"If you're really thankful, make it a hit. I'd also like to receive a bonus or something for once."
"I'll do my best…"
"Okay. I'm hanging up."
And with that, the call ended.
The cartoonist put down the phone and nodded his head. He neatly folded the manuscript he had drawn last time, tucked it into a drawer, and picked up his pen. His fingers, more excited than his heart, tapped on the blank manuscript paper.
Although still not certain, this time, he had a good feeling. A really good feeling.
– ....
Someone else was feeling a similar feeling too.
He watched as the cartoonist began his work. The speed of the work was so fast that the pen running over the paper seemed not one but six, and the face unconsciously mimicking the expressions of the characters felt like not one but three faces. That sight of him immersed in his work as if possessed truly evoked the name of the race the cartoonist belonged to, the Asura.
Perhaps the cartoonist would not make as much money as he hoped.
He might be disappointed by people's reactions and frustrated by his own capabilities.
However, when all the difficulties were overcome, at least he would be able to feel that he had done his best to create a work.
This fact, the cartoonist himself did not know. The editor probably didn't know either.
But the one who was with them could infer it.
– ....
Like a cloud floating across the spring sky, a warm gaze swept over the cartoonist and then turned away.
[ You are entering the 97th floor. ]
The end was approaching.