A thousand spider eyes.
At first glance, the name conjured images of a dungeon crawling with eight-legged horrors.
But the reality was far worse.
Screeeee! Screeeeee!
You could argue they looked like spiders—if you squinted.
But in place of a body, they had massive eyeballs, each one dragging itself along by thick, sinewy optic nerves that slithered like legs.
No one in their right mind would call these things “spiders.”
Calling them that would be an insult to all arthropods.
If real spiders ever laid eyes on these freaks, they’d probably issue an official statement renouncing their lineage and devolve into monsters themselves.
And these things?
These were the ones that had already signed the declaration.
Monsters in every sense of the word.
Screeeeeeeeech!
Crimson optic nerves coiled and hardened into jagged limbs.
Vertical pupils split down the center, revealing a grotesque mixture of internal organs writhing behind the cornea.
Between their jagged, round teeth, globs of sticky flesh still clung.
Fresh from a meal.
Probably cannibalism.
In this dungeon, that was just another Tuesday.
I drew my black blade and let mana surge into my voice.
“Prepare for battle!”
My voice echoed, charged with mana—a command in and of itself.
The slaves, previously frozen in place, scrambled to raise their weapons.
Orin’s face hardened as he drew the rapier at his waist, its gemstone-studded hilt glinting under the torchlight.
“Don’t kill too many. Cripple them if you have to, but keep them alive.”
He muttered it to the slave next to him.
Loud enough for my ears, of course, but I pretended not to hear.
In Orin’s mind, I was still just a rookie who had only recently set foot in the Tower.
No need to break character and reveal how attuned my senses really were.
“…Hrrrh…”
The slaves stepped forward, dread etched into their faces.
They didn’t want to fight.
They didn’t want to die.
And those who stood face-to-face with death often found themselves paralyzed, unable to move.
Like a deer caught in the headlights—frozen moments before the crash.
That’s just how humans are.
But not me.
No one feared death less than I did.
A little perk from being a regressor, I suppose.
“Yuna. Hit them hard.”
“Y-Yes!”
I shook off my thoughts and gave the order.
She didn’t forget her alias, responding immediately.
At the tip of her staff, flames gathered and condensed into a sphere before launching forward.
The torchlit cavern exploded into shades of crimson.
Screeeeeeeeeeeeech!
Screee! Screeech!
Grrrrrk!
The fireball struck dead center, engulfing several eye-spiders in flame.
They shrieked and popped like overripe fruit.
That was all it took. The rest, who had been cautiously observing us, now saw us as a clear threat—and charged en masse.
“You dumbass! Why’d you provoke them?!”
Orin shrieked like a girl as he pointed his blade at the six-legged monstrosities.
I ignored him and swung my sword.
Sloppily. Like someone who’d just learned to hold a blade for the first time.
“Sorry! But hey, damage is done!”
“Shit! This is why I hate diving with amateurs!”
“That’s harsh! No one could’ve predicted this!”
…I could.
“And if I remember correctly, you invited us. Bit late for regrets, don’t you think?”
“Shut it and focus! We’re about to get wiped!”
“Good point! Focusing now!”
That was the end of the bickering.
From that moment, we were all business.
Orin didn’t revise his earlier orders; he simply focused on the monsters charging at him and stabbed with precision.
His form was efficient, no wasted movement.
Not a first-rate swordsman, but third-rate at least.
And that was more than enough to survive in the lower levels of the Tower.
“Don’t let them through! If you miss one, it ends up crawling over me!”
“Ah—my bad.”
“You bastard!”
Orin cursed, slicing down another beast.
I watched him for a moment, then resumed swinging my blade in wide arcs.
With every stroke, eyeballs split cleanly in two.
To others, it looked like amateur flailing—but each strike carried the essence of the Restorer’s Swordplay.
Overkill for monsters like these.
“Hold the formation! Injure them if you must, just don’t kill! Drive them back!”
“Aaaaaargh! My arm! MY AAAARM!”
“They’re coming from behind! Behind!”
Not all of the slaves were green.
A few had seen battle before, even before their enslavement, and they held their own.
But the rest?
Blood-soaked from head to toe. No lost limbs yet, but some had flesh torn down to the bone.
It could’ve been worse.
Would’ve been worse—if I hadn’t subtly intercepted the monsters heading their way.
Normally, more than half of them would’ve died here.
The survivors wouldn’t come out in one piece either.
Rita would’ve lost an eye.
But not this time.
I couldn’t save everyone.
A part of me—a faint moral instinct—whispered to protect the slaves and let Orin die.
But that didn’t align with my mission.
The greater good took priority over scraps of personal virtue.
A regressor’s chronic disease.
‘Forgive me.’
I offered them an apology.
Not out loud—just in my heart.
In the end, it was an apology to ease my guilt.
The swarm lasted ten minutes.
When it was over, silence fell like a curtain.
I drove my blade into the last monster’s vertical pupil, watching its body twitch one final time before going limp.
Then I wiped the clear, viscous fluid off my face.
No more screeches.
No more skittering.
Only the sound of our ragged breathing remained.
“It’s more or less over now.”
Oren approached as he wiped the blood off his rapier with a silk handkerchief.
The sharp edge that had clung to his voice moments earlier had vanished without a trace, likely smoothed over by the calm that now lingered in the aftermath.
Perhaps it also had something to do with the fact that none of the slaves had died.
That alone must’ve lifted his spirits considerably.
But not everyone shared his mood.
Yoo Hana’s face was twisted in visible discontent, remembering all too well what he’d said during the fight.
“He… he swore at you, oppa. We should kill him. Who knows how d-deep the wounds are in your heart. Idiot. Moron. D-dumbass…”
She mumbled just loud enough for me to hear.
Oren, oblivious, kept talking, but I acted as though I hadn’t caught a word of her curse-laced whisper. Internally, I offered a brief moment of silence for his future soul.
“My apologies for earlier,” Oren said. “With death looming so close, my nerves must have frayed more than I thought.”
“It’s fine. I understand.”
“Thank you. As a token of apology, allow us to share some of our supplies.”
He said it with the air of a saint bestowing a blessing, though it was nothing more than common decency dressed in self-righteousness.
Dozens of retorts bloomed in my head, but I didn’t let even one escape.
Right now, I was playing the part of a wide-eyed newcomer—fresh off the lower floors, clueless and grateful for every scrap of generosity.
A naïve drifter still dazzled by the Tower’s cold brilliance.
So I thanked him with all the innocence I could muster.
“Oh, thank you so much.”
“It’s nothing. Let’s get some rest for now. We’ll distribute the supplies over there.”
And so we did.
A short walk brought us to a small clearing, where everyone unpacked their camping gear and started settling down.
Resting ten minutes after entering a dungeon would’ve sounded insane anywhere else—but here, in the Tower, you survived by shedding your sanity.
I lit a small campfire and helped Yoo Hana set up the tent. We weren’t planning to sleep yet, but setting it up early was easier than fumbling with it later in the dark.
“For the supplies, we’ll offer some rations. You gave away a lot of bread earlier, so we’ll compensate with something of equal value.”
Oren rummaged through a food pouch carried by one of the slaves.
He eventually pulled out some dried squid and jerky—nothing even remotely close to the bread in either nutrition or taste.
Not that I was surprised. I accepted them with an awkward smile.
“…Thank you.”
“Think nothing of it.”
He smiled.
I could tell he’d caught the slight tremor in my voice. He probably understood what I meant underneath the surface—Is this what you think fair compensation looks like?
And yet, he played along, pretending not to notice.
It was a cheap move, really.
A calculated insult.
A subtle way of saying, I’m above you.
He wanted to erase the goodwill I’d earned by sharing bread.
Wanted to reassert himself as the one true benefactor—the one in control.
Childish. Petty. Stupid.
If only his target hadn’t been slaves.
“…Kh.”
“…”
To someone who’s been abused or tortured, their tormentor might as well be the devil.
If the devil says die, you die.
If he says hurt, you hurt. Refusal is not an option.
That’s what being a slave means.