The mirrored floor was gone.
In its place was a hollow space — infinite, colorless, filled with the slow drip of light. The Tower didn't speak anymore. The System windows had frozen mid-sentence, and even the air felt hesitant, as though afraid to disturb the silence that had followed the Harvester's disappearance.
Arin stood at the edge of the crater, her wings dim, feathers trembling with exhaustion. Ji-an was beside her, leaning on his broken staff, breathing through his teeth.
Below them, suspended by threads of light, was a body.
At first, she thought it was another illusion. The Tower had used his image before — a projection, a phantom — but when she felt the pulse of his soul, raw and heavy and so real it hurt, she whispered, "Ji-an… that's him."
The healer glanced down, squinting. "Yeah. And he's… bad. Like, 'medically illegal' bad."
Arin didn't wait. She jumped.
Her wings flared, slowing the fall as she descended into the light-pit. The closer she got, the stronger the pull of memory became — the voices of all his regressions looping in soft static. Every whisper was his own: pleading, cursing, laughing, dying. The Tower had taken all of them and pressed them together into this single shell.
She landed beside him.
Hae-won was barely recognizable.
His silver hair hung limp, streaked with red and black from overuse of the chains; his skin was fractured, marked by thin fissures of light that pulsed faintly, like a cracked vessel barely holding divine fire. His breathing came in stutters — not weak, exactly, but deliberate, as though every inhale was something he had to choose.
"…Hae-won."
She knelt, brushing the dust from his face. "It's me."
His lips moved soundlessly. Then a faint rasp: "Arin…?"
Her throat tightened. "Yeah. You're here. You made it back."
Ji-an landed a moment later with a heavy thud, groaning. "If I ever have to jump into another god-sized hole again, I'm quitting. No amount of XP is worth—oh, hell."
He froze when he saw Hae-won's condition.
Even for someone who had seen a dozen near-deaths, this was different. It wasn't just blood — it was erosion. The kind that comes from being burned out by purpose itself.
Ji-an crouched beside him, hands glowing. "He's… fragmented. His physical form's fine enough, but his soul's running a thousand regressions at once. It's like he's stuck between every version of himself."
"Can you fix it?"
"Define fix." He wiped sweat from his brow. "I can keep him from collapsing entirely, but this? This is beyond healing. This is something the Tower designed."
Arin's jaw clenched. "Then I'll break the Tower."
The ground rumbled, as if it heard her and didn't appreciate the threat.
Hae-won's fingers twitched. A faint laugh escaped his cracked lips. "Still… reckless," he whispered. "Still you."
Arin's eyes widened. "You—"
"Don't move him," Ji-an interrupted sharply. "The regression seal's fragile. One wrong shift and—"
A burst of black light exploded from Hae-won's chest, throwing them both backward. The air warped, shattering like glass. Chains — red, black, and white — shot outward, anchoring into the walls. The entire cavern responded, pulling itself toward him, collapsing in reverse.
"Hae-won!" Arin shouted, trying to reach him again — but this time, something stopped her.
Not the chains. Not a barrier.
A feeling.
A voice.
Stay back.
It was his, but layered — deeper, fuller, carrying tones from every life he had lived.
The chains coiled tighter, weaving a cocoon around him. Ji-an raised his staff, shielding them both as the entire space trembled.
"What the hell is he doing?!"
Arin stared into the storm of chains, realization dawning. "He's syncing. All his regressions—he's trying to bring them together."
"That's suicide!"
"He's done worse!"
The light intensified until it was blinding. The Tower itself began to rewrite — walls bending, runes reforming. Fragments of forgotten cycles rained down like stars, each carrying a single memory.
Ji-an caught one instinctively — it flashed before dissolving in his hand: a little boy, sitting on a cold rooftop, smiling with a bruised face, whispering, "Even if I die, you'll be next."
Ji-an's breath caught. "That's… his last message. Before—"
Arin didn't answer. Her gaze was fixed on the cocoon of chains as it cracked open.
When the light cleared, Hae-won was kneeling, his hands pressed into the floor.
No chains moved. No system windows flickered.
Just silence — deep, raw silence.
Then he lifted his head.
His eyes were no longer red or black. They were silver, pure and cold, like the moment before a blade falls.
"…Arin. Ji-an."
His voice was quiet — and terribly steady.
"Welcome to Floor Seventy-six."
Ji-an blinked. "We didn't climb."
"I did," Hae-won said. "While I was asleep."
The light had barely settled before the air changed.
It was subtle at first — like the whole floor taking a breath — but Arin felt it in her bones: the weight of Hae-won's presence.
He wasn't just stronger.
He was anchored — not to one regression, not to one body, but to all of them.
Every mistake, every death, every victory had folded into this singular version of him.
It wasn't divinity. It was precision.
A terrifying, almost serene precision.
He stood, brushing dust from his sleeve.
His movements were quiet, unhurried — but even that sent ripples through the ground.
The chains no longer dragged; they floated, orbiting him like planets bound to an invisible gravity.
Each one carried faint etchings — fragments of every path he had walked. The Chains of Regression had evolved into something else. Something that made even the Tower hesitate.
Ji-an, catching his breath, was the first to break the silence.
"Okay… what the hell did you do?"
Hae-won looked at him.
"Caught up."
"That's—" Ji-an gestured at the fractured floor. "—that's not catching up, that's rewriting the entire OS."
Arin exhaled shakily. "Hae-won, we thought you—"
He raised a hand, and she stopped mid-sentence. Not in fear, but because she saw it too.
The Tower's code — normally invisible — was bleeding through the air like strands of smoke, re-stitching itself into text.
[ SYSTEM NOTICE: DUEL PENDING — UNRESOLVED OUTCOME. ]
[ CORE STABILITY: 43% AND FALLING. ]
[ FAILURE STATE: COLLAPSE OF STRUCTURAL LAYER. ]
Ji-an frowned. "The duel. From the singularity."
"Exactly." Hae-won's gaze turned upward, eyes silver and unblinking. "You didn't finish it."
"Wait—you're saying the Tower's dying because we didn't finish a fight?"
He nodded. "Every scenario is an equation. Every duel is a variable. When you leave an equation incomplete…" His eyes flickered with faint light. "The Tower compensates — by erasing the incomplete participants."
Ji-an blinked. "So… us."
"Unless you finish it," Hae-won said simply. "Right now."
The healer grimaced. "You're joking."
"Do I look like I'm joking?"
Arin looked between them. "Hae-won, he's a healer. You're saying he has to fight or—"
"Or everything collapses." Hae-won's tone softened, but his words carried iron. "The Tower's balance is fragile. The duel was set in motion before I was freed. That means the Tower still sees him—" he pointed to Ji-an "—as the opposing constant."
"And you're the other constant," Ji-an realized slowly. "Which means…"
"Which means," Hae-won said, stepping into the circle of light forming at the center of the floor, "you'll fight me."
The words hung there — absurd, inevitable, final.
Arin's eyes widened. "No. Absolutely not. You'll kill him."
"I won't," Hae-won said, voice calm. "But if we don't stabilize the scenario, the Tower will."
The circle brightened, runes spiraling outward until it filled the entire chamber. The duel field materialized — not with grandeur, but with a hollow, clinical hum.
Ji-an swallowed, rubbing his temple. "Okay. Let me get this straight. You just woke up from near-death regression collapse, absorbed your past lives, and now you want me to punch you so the Tower doesn't implode."
"Kick," Hae-won corrected absently. "Punching me would break your arm."
Ji-an's laugh came out strangled. "You really know how to make a guy feel useful."
Hae-won tilted his head. "You are useful. You just haven't seen it yet."
The healer sighed and rolled his shoulders. "Fine. You want a duel, Harvester? You got one. But if I survive this, I'm stealing your shampoo."
Arin watched helplessly as both men stepped into the light.
The air thickened, time slowing to a pulse.
For a heartbeat, Hae-won seemed distant — like someone caught between centuries — and then he smiled, faintly, the ghost of something human flickering through the steel.
"Don't hold back, Ji-an."
"Wasn't planning to."
The light snapped — and the duel began.
⸻
The field erupted into motion.
Chains slashed across the ground like living metal, weaving traps and trajectories that mapped Ji-an's every breath.
But Ji-an wasn't a novice anymore. The healer's aura flared emerald; his staff split into twin blades glowing with purification runes.
He darted through the first wave, twisting mid-air, deflecting a chain just enough to scrape sparks instead of flesh.
"You always overcompensate!" Ji-an shouted, slamming his palm into the ground.
A burst of green light detonated — a reverse pulse that disrupted Hae-won's footing.
"Adaptation. Not bad."
Hae-won's tone was almost proud.
Another chain snapped forward, this one moving faster than sight. Ji-an ducked under it by instinct, the whipcrack of its passage shattering stone.
The floor around them flickered, the Tower recording every motion, feeding the result into its decaying architecture.
The stability bar ticked upward — 45%… 47%…
Arin watched from the sidelines, fists clenched. She wanted to interfere. She wanted to scream. But something in Hae-won's eyes kept her still — the calm of a man who finally knew what he was doing.
Ji-an lunged, aiming low — and Hae-won caught the strike with his bare hand. The staff froze, runes flickering, then went dark.
Their eyes met — healer and harvester, life and death.
"See?" Hae-won murmured. "Balance."
Then he let go.
Ji-an stumbled back, breathing hard, sweat running down his temple. "You… done?"
"Almost." Hae-won raised a hand, chains curling loosely around his arm. "The Tower's watching for resolution. Not victory."
Ji-an blinked. "Meaning…?"
"Meaning you just have to survive."
And then Hae-won moved.
The chains didn't attack. They sang — weaving into sigils that etched across the floor. Ji-an realized too late what was happening: Hae-won wasn't striking, he was stabilizing the entire floor through the duel itself.
Each impact of chain and staff sealed another fracture in the Tower's core.
By the time Ji-an dropped to one knee, gasping, the light around them dimmed, and the System's voice finally returned:
[ Duel Concluded: Both Participants Alive. ]
[ Stability Restored: 83%. ]
[ Scenario Continuation Permitted. ]
Ji-an collapsed backward with a groan. "I hate you."
Hae-won offered a hand. "You're welcome."
Arin exhaled, tears she didn't know she'd been holding spilling down her cheeks. The Tower was still standing. For now.
And for the first time in what felt like centuries, Hae-won's smile was not a weapon.
Just tired. Human.
"Let's keep climbing," he said softly. "One up… one down."
The silence after the duel was strange — thick and pulsing, like the Tower itself was trying to understand what had just happened.
Light bled from the fractured arena, pooling at Hae-won's feet like liquid glass.
The message windows flickered erratically, struggling to compose coherent text:
[ SYSTEM ERROR: DUAL TRAJECTORY DETECTED. ]
[ PENDULUM MECHANIC — STATUS: COMPROMISED. ]
[ INITIATING STRUCTURAL REWRITE… ]
Ji-an was still sitting cross-legged, gulping water from Arin's canteen. "Okay, so… that felt unnecessarily biblical. What now? The Tower gonna applaud or smite us?"
Hae-won didn't answer immediately. His eyes were locked on the shifting light patterns underfoot — a thousand threads rearranging themselves, erasing the old rhythm.
The Pendulum was dying.
Or maybe, evolving.
A low vibration rippled through the floor — deep enough that everyone's teeth buzzed. Then the staircases that had defined the Pendulum Trial — one spiraling upward toward Heaven, one downward toward Hell — began to twist.
They bent toward each other, their steps merging like strands of DNA until the two paths fused into a single shining corridor.
[ NEW SYSTEM CONFIGURATION DETECTED ]
[ MECHANIC UPGRADE: Merged Pendulum Path ]
[ Rule: The way forward now contains ascent and descent simultaneously. Each floor reflects both redemption and damnation. ]
[ Requirement: Harmony of intent. Conflict between allies will distort the route. ]
[ Failure Condition: Collapse into Singularity Field. ]
Arin exhaled softly. "It's… beautiful."
"No," Hae-won said quietly. "It's efficient."
The corridor pulsed with twin auras — light and shadow moving side by side, each bleeding into the other. The steps shimmered; every time they blinked, the direction flipped. Up became down. Down became up.
Ji-an frowned. "So which way's forward?"
"Yes," Hae-won replied absently.
"Ha-ha," Ji-an said flatly. "You've been hanging around demons too long."
Arin stepped closer to the merged stairway, reaching out. Her fingers brushed one of the steps — and instantly she saw two images flash behind her eyes:
a sunlit cathedral filled with song, and a pit of molten glass filled with screaming.
She stumbled back, shivering. "It's… both."
"The Tower's done pretending there's a difference," Hae-won murmured. "Every level after this will test duality — not power. Mercy and wrath, creation and destruction. Up and down don't matter anymore."
The System pulsed again, brighter this time:
[ ANNOUNCEMENT: PENDULUM INTEGRATION COMPLETE. ]
[ Designation: Axis Path — Layer 2 Begins. ]
[ Participants Remaining: 812. ]
[ Advisory: Emotional instability detected in primary user: CHA HAE-WON. ]
[ Initiating behavioral countermeasure— ]
"Don't," Hae-won said sharply.
The light froze mid-sentence — as if even the Tower hesitated to contradict him now. The chains at his wrists hummed quietly, responding to his irritation. Their glow was different — not the fiery red of rage, nor the pale silver of regression, but a deeper hue: black threaded with starlight.
They were alive, now.
No longer bound to obey regression loops, but still incapable of freeing him from them.
The price of evolution was always continuity.
Arin noticed his expression shift — the faint tightening around his eyes, the subtle flicker of exhaustion.
"You can stop pretending," she said softly. "It's wearing you down."
He glanced at her, the faintest smile ghosting his lips. "If I stop pretending, the Tower stops listening."
"Then let it stop," she whispered.
He looked away. "It never does."
A tremor ran through the merged staircase — not the violent quake of destruction, but a pulse.
The Tower was breathing. Adjusting to the new logic.
Ji-an rose, dusting himself off. "So, genius, if up and down are the same now, what's the next move? We flip a coin?"
Hae-won tilted his head, eyes glowing faintly. "No need."
The Tower responded to him before he moved — the steps realigning under his feet like sentient stone, pulling into a perfectly vertical corridor that stretched infinitely upward and downward at once.
The System whispered like a heartbeat:
[ CHAIN SYNCHRONIZATION COMPLETE. ]
[ Passive Effect: The Harvester of Death guides equilibrium. ]
[ The next trial begins now. ]
"Follow me," Hae-won said, stepping onto the impossible staircase. "The path is one. But our shadows will decide which way we fall."
Ji-an groaned. "Cryptic. Again. Why can't you just say 'we're climbing' like a normal person?"
"Because," Hae-won said, glancing back, "we're not."
As he took the first step, the world shifted — and suddenly the floor beneath them wasn't stone anymore. It was glass, thin as air, showing both Heaven and Hell reflected beneath each other.
Angels and demons moved in mirrored sync, unaware they were walking the same road.
Arin felt the chill of realization. "It's not merging floors," she whispered. "It's merging realities."
Hae-won nodded once. "And every step will test if we deserve to exist in both."
The corridor stretched endlessly, the gravity pulling them in both directions. For the first time, even Hae-won didn't know which way was ascent or descent.
And somewhere deep within the Tower, unseen by any of them, a faint echo answered his movement — a second heartbeat syncing with his.
A mirror self, still trapped within regression, still dying, still reliving the first suicide.
The Pendulum had not stopped.
It had merely chosen to swing through him