I Don't Need To Log Out

Jiroeki let out a breath.

"You don't need to worry. Since the creature belonged to the Tower, you're not responsible for its actions."

That alone made Arlon feel like a boulder had been lifted off his back.

If he was going to be killed after all he did, then it would suck much more than dying to the creature.

"But," Jiroeki continued, "normally, the Tower itself would give the reward. Not me. Unfortunately, it seems the Tower doesn't recognize you as having finished Floor 100."

Arlon's brow furrowed. "Because you were the one who killed it?"

Arlon had nothing to do with the death of the creature. But he had still leveled up.

There was only one reason behind it: he was "in-combat" this whole time.

Since he attacked the monster one year ago, he had been in combat. And he received experience probably for the scratch he had left on its hand.

Maybe everything he did from that moment on counted as experience, but he didn't know yet.

"Yes. But your plan is what made that possible. So I am entitled to reward you. The problem is…"

Jiroeki trailed off.

"...What's wrong?"

Arlon's heart skipped a beat. Was something interfering? A higher power? The architect?

Maybe the other ascended beings observing him?

But Jiroeki shook its head.

"It's nothing like that. I just… don't have a reward."

"...Huh?"

Arlon blinked. He felt stupid—and relieved.

"I don't usually give rewards. When I do, I use relics from the Tower itself. But I already gave you the best one I could."

Jiroeki paused, then added, "So now I have nothing left to offer."

Arlon scratched his head.

"Uh… may I suggest something?"

Jiroeki gave him a curious look.

Arlon reached into his inventory and pulled out the core of the Voidbound Tyrant.

Jiroeki's gaze sharpened.

"Ah. That core. But you cannot manipulate it."

Arlon blinked. "What do you mean?"

"Don't you want to manipulate the core into a shape?"

He'd seen the Tyrant shape a sword from it. He'd seen the power. But he didn't know the core was used for that purpose.

He thought that it was the monster's power.

His plan was different.

So he asked, "Can you put it into the sword you gave me?"

Jiroeki considered the question for a long moment.

"You brought the material. Merging them isn't exactly worthy of a Floor 100 reward, but… since you asked for it, and I have nothing else to give, I'll allow it.

However, are you sure?" Jiroeki added. "Is that enough for you? If I accept this, I can't give you more even though this is less than the reward you should receive."

Arlon didn't need to think twice.

"Yes, that is more than enough."

"Then, give them to me."

Arlon didn't know what kind of a sword that would make, but he felt like the void attribute was something he could use.

So, he wanted his sword to have it. And if it turned out to be bad, Arlon didn't care.

He had lived even though he was supposed to die on floor 100.

And now, he had a chance to get a better sword even though his current sword was overpowered.

---

Jiroeki didn't invite Arlon inside this time.

And Arlon didn't take a step forward.

Even though Jiroeki belonged to the same race as the beings Arlon had spent the last floors slaughtering without hesitation, this one was different.

It wasn't someone he could treat with the same indifference.

Walking inside without an invitation—it felt wrong. Not just because of what Jiroeki was, but because of what Arlon wasn't.

He wasn't suicidal. Not anymore.

No matter what shape it wore or how calm its presence seemed, Jiroeki was still an ascended existence.

Just like Agema. Just like Karmel. The kind that lived in a realm Arlon couldn't yet grasp. A realm that stared back.

And the truth was, Arlon had no idea how the power levels among ascended beings even worked.

Was Jiroeki weaker than Agema? Stronger than Karmel? Were they equal, or was there a hierarchy above the ascended ones he'd met? A Council? A Pantheon?

He didn't know, and that made it worse.

Jiroeki might very well be stronger than both of them combined.

And there was something else, too. Something far more dangerous than any vague ranking of strength.

Jiroeki wasn't just another spectator from beyond. Unlike Agema and Karmel—who had only spoken, watched, and nudged—Jiroeki had the ability to act.

It could affect the Tower. It could influence the world. Maybe not freely, not entirely, but enough to matter.

Enough to kill.

Whether that power came from the Tower's authority, or whether the Architect had found a loophole in whatever laws governed the physical and the divine—it didn't change the outcome.

If Jiroeki wanted him dead, Arlon would die.

Just like that.

So, he waited. Patiently. Respectfully. Outside.

Jiroeki moved past him and entered without a word. Arlon didn't follow, didn't glance inside.

He'd already seen what it did last time—how it forged with precision, with intention, as if the Tower itself bent to its will.

There was no need to imagine what was happening beyond that threshold.

It would be quick.

And as expected, it didn't take long. Less than a minute passed before Jiroeki stepped back out, and in its hand was—

Arlon blinked.

A sword. But not just any sword.

It wasn't black like Wandsword or even like a weapon painted in void magic. It was... the void.

Not a metaphor. Not a poetic flourish. It was the absence itself, the kind of black that bent the air around it, the kind that swallowed light and didn't give it back.

The kind of black that should not exist in reality.

If the night sky was stripped of its stars—if even the hint of distant light was erased—that would be this sword.

It didn't feel like it was made of metal or magic or anything material at all.

It looked like a digital glitch—like something photoshopped into the world but not fully rendered.

Its edges were too sharp. Its presence was too still. It was more like a cut in space than a weapon.

But that wasn't even the strangest part.

When Arlon moved his head slightly, changed the angle of his gaze, the sword responded. Not with reflections, not with color-shifts, but with tone.

Tones of void. Depths. Layers. Like looking into something bottomless that was still trying to show him what it held inside.

Arcanium Edge had shifted in color before, but this was different. This was alive.

This was the void given form.

And Arlon knew—just by looking—that his plan had worked. At least aesthetically. His old sword, Arcanium Edge, hadn't disappeared. It was still in there, still the core.

But it had changed. Upgraded. Merged with something ancient and wrong and powerful.

It wasn't beautiful in the way people described swords. It was beautiful in the way stars were—distant, silent, and vast enough to make you feel small.

Of course, appearance meant very little to Arlon.

But for a moment, it didn't matter. His body moved on its own.

As soon as Jiroeki extended the sword toward him, Arlon reached out and grabbed it. Not with composure.

Not with care. He snatched it. Just like that. As if he'd been waiting for it all his life. As if he'd earned it.

Jiroeki made a soundless expression—something that resembled a smile, maybe. Or maybe Arlon was just imagining it.

He didn't care either way.

The sword was cold in his hand. Not temperature-wise—its chill was emotional, existential. It hummed faintly, like something dormant. Waiting.

Arlon stared at it for another few seconds, turning it slightly, watching the void ripple across the blade like waves of nothingness.

Then, unable to hold back anymore, he activated his Eyes of KET**.

He wanted to see what this thing really was.

He wanted to know what he'd just pulled from the jaws of floor 100.

And maybe, a small part of him just wanted confirmation that this sword—this impossible creation—was truly his.

[Void Edge]

Warning: This sword is far above the standards of this world!