There Is No World For ■■

Room 101.

No one really knew who started calling it that, but anyone familiar with the place called it by that name.

A bare room with nothing but a desk—not even a clock for decoration. Inside, an old man pulled out an inkwell and a quill pen.

Carefully, he dipped the quill into the ink and began to write across the parchment laid out on the desk.

Scratch, scratch—

Elegant hand movements. Classical penmanship.

In a world ruled by smartphones and keyboards, the letters born from the old ways were beautiful.

But the story they spelled out was anything but.

Someone’s death. The ruin of a place. The collapse of a world.

It was a judgment, in the sense that it delivered a verdict.

A chronicle, in that it recorded the past. A prophecy, in that it described the future.

But the old man didn’t care what people called it or what was written on the parchment.

He simply recorded what had happened, and what would happen.

While the scratching of the pen continued without pause, the old man suddenly stopped and looked toward the door.

A moment later, the rusted iron door creaked open, and a Black man in a suit entered the room.

He was out of breath—clearly, he’d rushed over—and sat across from the old man.

“Special Advisor? What is it?”

The old man resumed writing as he asked. The man took a moment to catch his breath before answering, very carefully.

“...Another scenario’s been twisted.”

It should have been a shocking revelation, but the old man barely reacted.

He simply nodded slowly, as if it were expected.

“Isn’t that always the case? The butterfly’s wings always bring a different storm. Don’t let it rattle you.”

The pen resumed its scratching, uninterrupted. The man said nothing more—as if unsure how to even begin explaining.

Eventually, it was the old man who spoke again.

“Did the princess survive? If so, kill that stray before she crosses the dimensional gate. Three princes in Lord Howe’s court are enough—”

“No.”

“...Then did the crown prince survive? Rare, but not impossible. Leave him be. The player beside the third prince will take care of him.”

Right at that moment, the ink in the pen ran out. The old man reached for the inkwell to refill it.

Or tried to.

As he lifted the bottle, the man spoke in a strained voice.

“...The nukes are gone. Not just one—all thirteen of the warheads beneath Dreiteriel. Every last one.”

The old man froze, still holding the bottle mid-air, and stared at the man across from him.

His gleaming eyes swept across the man’s face, sharp and deadly.

“Why?”

“We’re still investigating.”

Still investigating. In other words—they had no idea. The old man, now feeling the stirrings of a headache, gently set the quill down on the parchment.

The scent of ink, the leathery tang of parchment, and the subtle stench of distortion lingered in the silence.

After a moment, regaining his composure, he picked up the pen again.

“What about Jugashvili? Is he dead?”

“Bikov opened the Red Dimensional Gate and fled to Baltua. The CIA is convinced he’s planning to attack the northern territories and incite revolution.”

Communists will always act like communists. That much, at least, was a relief.

“And those damned energy-based lifeforms?”

“The dimensional satellites picked up some activity. It’s possible they’re behind the missing nukes...”

The conversation continued.

The Empire, the Academy, the elves, the dwarves, and... Korea.

“...Tell the President this: the standard scenario has shifted.”

It was a unilateral dismissal, but the man left without protest.

He and the government had already gotten the intel they came for.

As silence once again settled over the room, the old man wrote a final line at the bottom of the parchment.

Where the Saint and the Princess gather, the drago—

Snap. The quill broke.

An omen so blatant it bordered on parody.

The old man stared at the ink seeping from the broken nib, then glanced toward the shadows gathering at the ceiling.

Click.

****

The difference between traditional martial arts and posthuman martial arts can be summed up in one word: mana.

Mana is what allows superhumans to transcend physical limits and regenerate from wounds that would kill a normal person.

But without mana?

Posthuman martial arts are no different from ordinary martial arts.

Worse, since they’re designed with mana in mind, they often fall apart without it.

That’s why Yeomyeong’s display of martial arts, devoid of mana, looked pathetic.

The footwork of Bigak Art, when no mana pooled in his calves or soles, was just clumsy steps and weak kicks.

The Comet Sword, which relied on using branches as a substitute blade, and the sword techniques stolen from other Players, were just wild swings with a stick.

Techniques like Payang Cut and Black Wing Style couldn’t even be performed.

Even so, Yeomyeong continued, wordlessly demonstrating his skills.

Sweat dripped from his forehead. His breath caught at the tip of his chin. He pushed on.

His demonstration only ended when, amidst the soft chirping of insects, came the sound of applause.

“That’s enough.”

Demerond stood as he spoke.

“The martial arts you’ve learned... Most of them were stolen, weren’t they?”

“...How did you know?”

“Someone like me can see everything. And of those techniques—how many do you actually understand?”

“About... half.”

“So you stole the forms and mana usage without grasping the essence... Christ, what are you, a Soviet?”

Jugashvili. Or Salgi. With a single glance, Demerond had read Yeomyeong like an open book.

Holding up the now-empty wine bottle, he continued.

“All right. Now use mana—and come at me.”

Yeomyeong, still catching his breath, picked up the branch again and asked,

“...You’re okay with breaking your oath?”

That oath—sworn just earlier on the World Tree—that no blood would be shed tonight.

Recalling it, the elf let out a dry chuckle. A simple answer: he was giving Yeomyeong permission to draw blood.

“Come at me.”

Yeomyeong gladly did just that.

As Yeomyeong summoned Payang Cut, the mana that had lain dormant surged through his veins like a raging tide.

It happened in the blink of an eye.

Yeomyeong, body fully charged with mana, swung the branch in his hand.

A strike so powerful that even the Saint, far in the distance, would’ve noticed it.

Demerond’s response was simple. He extended the empty wine bottle toward Yeomyeong.

A basic thrust. Maybe a push.

But the moment Yeomyeong saw that “simple” movement, he instantly retracted the branch and stepped back two paces.

Because he was worried Demerond might get hurt? No—because his instincts were screaming at him: Go any further and you die.

Right then, the mana surging toward the tip of the branch lost its target and exploded inside the wood.

BOOM!

Covered in splinters, Yeomyeong stared at Demerond in stunned silence, not even bothering to brush them off.

A brief pause.

Then, as the sound of insects returned to the night, Yeomyeong finally spoke.

“...Was that... Elven swordsmanship?”

A flicker of amusement passed over Demerond’s face.

“You figured /N_o_v_e_l_i_g_h_t/ it out in one strike? Sharp eyes.”

“...”

He hadn’t wanted to believe it, but now there was no denying it.

That was Elven swordsmanship?

Yeomyeong would’ve understood if he’d never seen Elven techniques before—but he had. He’d watched both Rime and Pinel in action. He’d even stolen their styles.

And what Demerond had just pulled off was like... launching a rocket with a toy car engine.

Swallowing his disbelief, Yeomyeong asked again,

“How did you—no, seriously, how the hell did you do that without mana?”

“Like this.”

Demerond casually swung the wine bottle through the air.

Another effortless move. And yet—

Slice! The insects fluttering around Yeomyeong were all cut cleanly in half, raining to the ground.

Not one or two—dozens at once.

“...”

Yeomyeong stared at the falling insect corpses, speechless. Demerond’s voice drifted in, slow and calm.

“Do you understand now?”

Yeomyeong didn’t respond right away.

Partly because he was stunned. But also because, in the severed bug corpses, he’d caught a clue.

A moment later, he offered a hypothesis.

“...Jin-ui.”

“Oh?”

“...You used a different jin-ui to perform Elven swordsmanship, didn’t you?”

He wasn’t sure of the exact method, but that had to be it. Demerond had altered the jin-ui—the core intent—of the technique. There was no other way to explain what just happened.

Demerond answered with a voice tinged with admiration.

“Correct. Just as you performed martial arts using only forms and mana without true jin-ui, I can perform multiple arts using just one jin-ui.”

One jin-ui, multiple martial arts...?

Yeomyeong was stunned. It was a complete shift in thinking.

And for someone like him, who had memorized countless martial arts without understanding their essence, this was the most valuable lesson imaginable.

As his awe began to grow, Demerond gave a dry chuckle.

“I know what you’re thinking—but the lesson I plan to give you isn’t that simple.”

It’s not? Yeomyeong tilted his head slightly. The elf continued.

“Among the martial arts you’ve learned, is there any jin-ui that truly moves your heart?”

“...”

No. Not really.

At best, the jin-ui of Payang Cut—Simjae Jamang (心齋坐忘), Meditative Oblivion—had offered a faint glimmer of insight.

When Yeomyeong said nothing, Demerond nodded knowingly.

“Jin-ui is just an ideology meant to move mana. No matter how noble the ideology, if it doesn’t move your heart, it’s just technique. Nothing more than data used to cast a spell.”

Then, Demerond lifted his head and looked up at the night sky.

“To use one jin-ui across multiple arts... you have to start by creating your own. That’s what I’m going to teach you.”

“...”

Yeomyeong’s eyes sparkled with anticipation—but he couldn’t help but ask the obvious question.

“Demerond, what’s your jin-ui?”

That jin-ui—the one that had nearly triggered Yeomyeong’s kill instinct with nothing but a wine bottle.

Maybe he hadn’t expected the question. Demerond hesitated for a moment before answering.

“My jin-ui? The one I carry is...”

He paused, his scarred face twisting under the moonlight as insects chirped around them.

“...Hatred.”

“...”

“If I had to phrase it more clearly... yeah. It’d be this.”

The elf’s voice was low and bitter beneath the flickering moonlight.

“The World Tree is just a big damn tree.”