“I don’t actually know why. The Primordial God vanished silently, without even the faintest sign or warning.”

Unfortunately, Cho-Yeon’s explanation offered none of the details I had hoped for. As disappointment flooded through me, I felt hollow, as if something inside me had abruptly lost its footing.

While I recovered from that momentary letdown, Cho-Yeon commented, “Maybe we made a mistake.”

“What do you mean?”

“Once the Primordial God created gods to oversee each world, the faith directed toward him gradually disappeared.”

“Wait.”

Her words made some sense, but something about them didn’t fully connect the pieces.

“Are you saying he disappeared because no one believed in him anymore?”

“It’s only my speculation.”

“But there were still other beings like you, Seorden's Forest, and the worlds he created—”

“He didn’t oversee His creations directly,” Cho-Yeon interjected firmly. “Also, He didn’t create many worlds to begin with, and any He did were entrusted to me. In those moments, I acted as a kind of indirect god. Seorden’s Forest is somewhat of an exception, but Seorden oversaw that one.”

“But still, you believed in him, right? Plus, surely there were gods loyal to him, too.”

“Perhaps. As I mentioned, I don’t know the truth. It’s entirely possible that for Him to continue existing, our belief alone simply wasn’t enough.”

I didn’t push further and just nodded. In the end, everything we discussed remained conjectured. No amount of questioning would suddenly reveal the truth.

After a quiet pause, Cho-Yeon smiled, albeit faintly and bittersweetly. “In truth, the Primordial God likely left of His own accord. He suffered deeply as a result of His conflicting ideals and from His children’s constant battles. In fact, creating the gods and me may have been something He did for his own sake.”

I nodded again as it was a plausible conclusion. Not only did she possess far more information than I did, but she had likely contemplated this matter for a very long time. Whether the transcendent born from faith had disappeared due to a lack of it or had become overwhelmed by doubt and chosen to disappear, I couldn’t judge. In the end, I agreed that the Primordial God had probably disappeared for one of those two reasons. Although perhaps the truth lay somewhere in between.

“The real trouble began afterward,” Cho-Yeon added, then explained that after the Primordial God vanished, the situation began to warp in unsettling ways.

It was inevitable. When an absolute restriction disappeared, those who had once held themselves in check would seize the chance to break free. In time, factions formed among the gods. The high-ranking gods who led them began altering the laws and claimed to represent the rest.

There had been a quiet understanding behind their actions. As the tower continued discovering new worlds and creating new gods, the older ones saw little point in competing endlessly among themselves. Instead, they decided it would be more advantageous to exploit the new existences emerging within this vast expanse.

“And Thunder Axe just let that happen?”

“At the time, there were seven high-ranking gods who possessed the most authority. Thunder Axe and Master of the Five Carriage Wheels were part of the seven, but even they couldn’t turn the tide.”

Cho-Yeon mentioned that of those seven, four had died due to infighting, while Kalain had slain the fifth. That revelation left me momentarily silent. Kalain had killed a being equal in rank to Thunder Axe. It made my future feel even more uncertain.

Despite my inner turmoil, Cho-Yeon continued, “By piecing together countless excuses, the difficulty of each trial began rising little by little.”

After five of the most powerful beings in the universe died, the hostility toward newly created gods only intensified. Placing the selection of roles before the tutorial was one such example. In the beginning, the tower revealed one’s innate talent outright and immediately strengthened it. Although it still empowered each climber’s talent, it now obfuscated it.

From the existing gods’ standpoint, it was a remarkably effective tactic. With a single, deceptively simple addition, they managed to reduce the likelihood of anyone conquering the tower to just one-quarter of what it had once been.

Wait, with how insane my talent is, choosing to become a mage still doesn’t explain how I failed to climb the tower before.

Objectively speaking, there was no comparing me to the other gods. This wasn’t arrogance. It was simply the reality of my current strength and a reminder of how obstructive the additional laws were. In any case, the share percentage system, sponsors, and status window trap were simply other examples. It was an absurd structure, though. Unless a climber chose the status window, climbing the tower would be nigh on impossible. However, if they did that, they would lose full ownership of their world.

“Despite their hidden intentions, the gods justified everything with a seemingly noble claim that since the Primordial God vanished, another absolute god had to be selected.”

“Is that even possible?”

“After the Primordial God disappeared, most of His power was transferred to me.”

“Wait.”

Not once had I imagined that challengers existed to become a successor for the Primordial God. Trying to steady myself, I forcibly pushed my countless clamorous thoughts aside.

“So, Kalain and I, either of us could become the Primordial God’s successor?”

“That’s correct.”

My thoughts tangled further. I had just been told Kalain defeated a first-class god. If he became the new absolute god, would I even stand a chance?

“Then why doesn’t Kalain try to stop me? If I’m capable of becoming that, shouldn’t he have done everything he could to interfere?”

“Interfering with a challenger’s trial in a negative way is nearly impossible once you consider the cost. And... I blocked him from doing so,” Cho-Yeon said with a faint glimmer of pride as if expecting recognition.

I had suspected as much, but hearing it still brought me a strange sense of reassurance.

“Thank you.”

“You owe me nothing. I acted because I wished to.”

Her expression from a moment earlier didn’t quite match her words, but that wasn’t important.

I returned to the main topic at hand, “So, since Kalain climbed the tower before me, does that make him the successor? What happens if there are two successful challengers?”

Although I had asked two questions at once, Cho-Yeon calmly answered as if she had anticipated them, “Clearing the tower doesn’t immediately make someone the successor. You were able to become a challenger, The Coming Dawn, because Sky of the Nine Heavens failed to meet the necessary conditions.”

“What conditions?”

“My judgment.” Cho-Yeon’s eyes brightened, her dark irises seeming to pierce straight through to my core. “When the Challenger system was introduced, the gods accounted for almost every possibility. That’s why they granted me the authority to make the final decision.”

I stared at her in shock.

“They assumed that because I was born from the Primordial God and had followed Him, I wouldn’t accept any other being.”

I could understand their reasoning. Even without that assumption, selecting a successor through the tower offered the gods an opportunity to eliminate potential threats.

Beneath Cho-Yeon’s resolute expression, I sensed a faint, controlled bitterness directed solely at those gods. “But I chose differently. I saw an opportunity. My purpose was to raise gods for the sake of a world, not to empower gods through conquest the way they do now.”

“And there isn’t anything you can do?”

“I’m no different. I was created out of necessity. Even with the power I inherited from the Primordial God, I cannot act beyond the authority I was given.”

While climbing, I had resented the tower. However, I hadn’t understood any of this, and it turned out that the tower hadn’t wanted me to suffer, either. A faint guilt stirred inside me, mingled with something close to sympathy. The tower was forced to act, and she had shouldered the hatred and resentment of every challenger who came before me. It wasn’t only challengers, though. She had likely heard the despair, curses, and fury of every soul who ever climbed the tower.

At that moment, the wraiths I had encountered on the ninety-seventh floor came to mind. Perhaps the tower had endured their resentment for countless ages. It had required someone capable of releasing that accumulated grief, after all.

“I sincerely wished to return to the purpose for which I was born, so that authority became my hope. No matter how long it took for someone to eventually appear, I could wait. And I knew someone would. That hope arrived far sooner than I ever expected, however. It was—” Cho-Yeon looked away for a brief second, almost bashfully. “You, The Coming Dawn.”

I scratched the back of my neck, embarrassed in spite of myself.

A soft silence settled between us. During that pause, I turned her words over in my mind. Her words made sense to me—they aligned with the hypothesis I had formed while climbing the tower. The tower wanted to end the senseless trials and invasions, to simply allow each world to live as it wished.

“But with Kalain—”

“His conviction is to destroy every world. He intends to erase the gods and the tower—all of the established systems. Moreover, his belief in that conviction has only strengthened.”

“Is that necessarily wrong?”

From the tower’s perspective, it could have been. However, I had considered something similar before and realized that Kalain and I would agree on many things. Only our methods diverged sharply.

Not wanting her to misunderstand, I quickly added, “Of course, that doesn’t mean I want to kill every god.”

“I understand.”

“But ultimately, wouldn’t things be more peaceful if the tower and the gods disappeared?”

“Remember why the Primordial God was born. In the void that is chaos, another force will always rise.”

“Ahhh...”

That, I could understand. The Primordial God had restrained other primeval forces to begin with. Even if Kalain remained as the sole being, he wouldn’t be able to withstand the chaos of the entire universe. Even the Primordial God had struggled. The process would spill far too much blood.

Neither I nor the tower desired an outcome like that.

Cho-Yeon hesitated before continuing in a low tone barely above a whisper, “And... The Coming Dawn’s homeworld holds special meaning for me as well.”

“What do you mean?”

“When the Primordial God disappeared, His power fragmented, and those remnants scattered throughout the entire universe. Only I could sense those traces. One of the shards ended up in the region Earth exists in.”

When I told her I didn’t understand, Cho-Yeon paused, then elaborated, “To put it simply, the fragments nourished nearby star systems. Earth is in one of those affected systems.”

“You mean I possess the Primordial God’s power?”

“No, not at all. It doesn’t mean The Coming Dawn is His reincarnation or was born with His strength. It’s simply that Earth’s region is of personal significance to me.”

Roughly, I understood, even if it felt a little unexpected, almost like an unnecessary aside. It wasn’t unpleasant, though. Our conversation had flowed easily until now, but we finally encountered a hitch. Well, the tower was still a sentient existence, after all, and she probably didn’t have many chances to speak comfortably with someone. These were likely the words she had wanted to say for a long time.

I gave her a small, reassuring smile.

She grew flustered, tripping over her own words to the point that she used my name instead of my divine title. “Even so, I would’ve chosen you, Su-Hyeok.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. The tower existed in too many of my memories, and this was nothing like what I had imagined. Aside from her gentle voice on the first floor, I had thought of the tower as merciless and emotionless. The contrast was striking.

After a quiet cough, she steadied her expression again. “Anyway, in conclusion, The Coming Dawn is the hope I found, and the most perfect possibility.”

“Is that so?”

“There were only two individuals who possessed enough talent to surpass supposedly impossible trials. I witnessed both.” She swallowed once, visibly composed yet faintly tense. “And the probability of either of them realizing my intention... I dare say it may be as improbable as the Primordial God Himself being born.”

“I see.” A genuine smile spread across my face.

Something within me felt lighter, somehow at ease. After all this time in the tower, I finally understood why I had indirectly regressed. Although my shoulders now carried the tower’s hopes as well, that was something I had always wanted. It didn’t feel burdensome at all.

I lifted my gaze toward the sky. Under the warm sunlight, a gentle breeze drifted across the plains. The short hair I had roughly trimmed in the waiting room brushed softly against my cheek.