10.

Fly first sensed something was wrong after they cleared the fourth floor.

[You have completed 'Hidden Quest: Pretty Fast, Aren't You?'.]

[A buff is applied.]

[Attack Power increases by 5%.]

[Duration: 23 hours 59 minutes 59 seconds]

There was a hidden quest and a buff.

He wasn't unfamiliar with the concept; he had noted their existence upon entering the Tower of Annihilation.

He had been mulling over how they might trigger and what effects the buffs might have. He just hadn't expected a quest to trigger so suddenly, or with such impact.

"A five percent attack buff," he muttered.

"Whoa, what the hell? Pretty Fast, Aren't You? is achieved when your average time per floor is under twenty-four hours. Duration is twenty-four hours."

The guild members were amazed. They hadn't known a buff like this existed.

Considering how hard they had struggled up to the fourth floor, the fifth and beyond suddenly seemed much more manageable, as long as they kept their pace under twenty-four hours.

But one look at Fly's hardened expression told them what this truly meant.

"If averaging under twenty-four hours per floor gives us a five percent attack buff… what kind of buff did the Korean team get?"

The teams below them didn't matter. This hidden quest, triggered nearly four days in, was essentially the baseline for the U.S. team.

Even if there were hidden quests with easier conditions, their effects would be negligible. There was almost no chance of being overtaken from behind.

The real problem was the team ahead of them. The Korean team had been pulling away with an overwhelming lead from the very beginning.

At first, Fly had assumed they would burn out. That assumption held true right up until they reached the fifth floor.

But the moment he saw the holograms and understood what the Tower of Annihilation truly demanded of its players, he realized his mistake.

He realized what the most effective way to earn a high score was.

The key wasn't the safe, long-term turtling strategy anyone would devise, but a high-risk, high-reward approach that prioritized challenge.

"Damn it."

For the first time, a curse slipped from Fly's lips.

His guild members, who had just started to settle down in the rest area, exchanged glances and quietly rose to their feet.

They weren't just placating him.

They were all top-ranked players, known around the world. If they couldn't grasp the implications of this—how things would unfold from here, how much of a lead the Korean team had already gained despite seeing the same holograms—they had no right to call themselves players.

"From now on, we take only the bare minimum of rest. We keep climbing. All firepower is to be focused on me. Our goal is no longer safety; it's speed."

He felt as if he'd been struck in the back of the head, hard enough to make him bite his lip, but there was nothing to be done.

He had known hidden quests and buffs would be important, but his experience in the previous event had solidified into a fixed mindset: that safe, long-term survival was more important than a rapid ascent.

It was a fatal mistake. Mistakes could not be undone. The only consolation was that he knew now. If the U.S. team was in this predicament, the teams below them would likely be eliminated before they even figured out what was happening.

In a way, this moment solidified their second-place position by a massive margin.

But looking up, first place was so far ahead it was out of sight. And the real problem was that the team in first place had likely understood this from the very beginning.

They had to move faster.

If only Fly had stopped to consider why they had been pushing themselves so hard from the start…

Swallowing his regret, he drew upon his mana, pushing it to its limit.

The high-end items they had distributed for a safe, reliable raid were recalled and concentrated on Fly. They weren't too late yet.

If they leveraged this newfound understanding of the system, they might be able to catch up by a floor or two—perhaps on the fifth and seventh floors.

"We are the strongest."

"The strongest!"

Flames roared to life, engulfing the fifth floor as the team began to pick up speed.

* * *

—They're screwed.

—They're only figuring this out on the 5th floor?

—So Fly was just carried by his class, huh.

The spectators, who had been watching nonstop for four days, were as invested as the players themselves.

With their comprehensive view of all the teams, their frustration was understandable.

—If someone's climbing twice as fast as you, common sense says you should at least suspect something's up. God, they're idiots.

—They might not have known. If you think back to how hard Kim Buja pushed in the early game during the solo event, this actually fits his style. We're only frustrated because we can see everything the Korean team is doing. If you were actually in the tower, you wouldn't have time to worry about rankings. More than half the teams have already been knocked out before clearing the 3rd floor.

It was the advantage of a third-person perspective. While they were vicariously climbing the tower, they were spared the intense pressure and tension the players felt inside.

Most people understood this. That didn't make them any more forgiving.

—It's over.

—Unless the Korean team makes some ridiculous mistake or takes such a long break that they lose all their buffs, there's no way this gets turned around, right?

—Turned around? The gap's just going to get bigger from here.

It was disappointing.

There were still plenty of fans who liked Fly, and most of them were hoping the U.S. would win or at least stage a comeback. But even to those fans, the difference in buffs was just too overwhelming.

Naturally, the complaints began.

—Isn't this totally broken balance-wise?

—Yeah, they should've at least warned people. They explained everything like you'd be fine playing it safe, then hid these Easter eggs. And not just any Easter eggs—game-breaking buffs. How are players who find them late supposed to catch up?

—We need a rematch.

—Yeah, this needs a rematch.

—Let's start a petition.

Of course, that line of reasoning was immediately torn apart.

—You're just going to ignore the fact that the Korean team spent less than twelve hours per floor to get those buffs?

—The holograms literally spelled it out, and even the spectators were all saying hidden quests and buffs were going to be important. There's no way Fly didn't know that. They chose to rest as much as they wanted and pace themselves while watching the rankings. Calling it unfair now is just disgusting.

—The reason Fly gets hate is because of his dumb fans.

The gap was so overwhelming that it had certainly killed some of the competitive tension, but that only mattered to fans of the teams trying to catch up.

Those watching from a neutral standpoint, or fans of Kim Buja and the Korean team, were having the time of their lives.

—There's no competition, it's clean, and I get to listen to Kim Buja's shot-calls while watching how far they can stack buffs. My ears feel purified.

—Who was it that called him a loser who raids alone because he can't command?

—The reason he doesn't form parties is because no party can keep up with his calls.

Most people had already forgotten about the other teams.

It barely even registered that Fly was still in the race. From Kim Buja's perspective, there was no need to look down. He was riding an elevator so fast that he couldn't even see Fly climbing from below.

For the people currently watching the Korean team's stream, only one thing mattered.

—How high can they go?

Their only interest now was in seeing just how far this challenge beyond all limits could go.

* * *

Watching the U.S. team slowly claw their way up, floor by floor, Buja thought, 'They finally figured it out.'

They had probably just realized the impact buffs had in the Tower of Annihilation and why a competitive event like this was structured as a series of single-team runs.

But it was far too late.

The buffs his team had accumulated were superior in both duration and quality, and the items from his Gold Shop amplified their effects even further.

More importantly, the Jeong Cheol Guild members were proving far more capable than he'd expected. It made him wonder again why the guild had been so underrated. Of course, after watching a few of their raid videos, Kim Buja had noticed some shortcomings.

'They should've done this here, and coordinated better there…'

But that was a feeling he got watching almost any raid video. When he met the Jeong Cheol Guild in person, he found that every member had sharp instincts.

They all had their own ideas, of course, but during a raid, they completely suppressed them, setting their own thoughts aside to move solely according to his commands.

That alone was enough. The biggest headache in a raid wasn't a player who couldn't perform at their peak; it was one who went off on their own.

They moved as a single unit, and Kim Buja filled in any gaps. That was their secret.

[You have cleared the 10th floor.]

[You have completed 'Hidden Quest: How Did You Clear That?'.]

[You may choose a Buff / Debuff.]

[You have completed 'Hidden Quest: Fastest Clear!'.]

[You have completed 'Hidden Quest: Possessionless'.]

That was how they'd managed to break through the tenth floor, despite all the debuffs.

"We're taking a twelve-hour break."

At his words, every guild member collapsed in the rest area.

For a moment, they wondered about the hidden quests and buffs that might follow, but the tenth floor had been so brutal they didn't have the energy to dwell on it.

There had been at least thirty moments during the raid when they had seriously wondered if clearing it was even possible.

When the boss went berserk and began spewing parasitic monsters, they had all thought, 'We're screwed.'

If not for Kim Buja's bold decision, they would likely be outside the tower right now, staring up at the sky in defeat.

"I feel a little embarrassed," Kim Buja, the man responsible for their victory, said with an awkward laugh. "I'm pretty sure we're going to be ostracized when we get out of here."

Calling it a "bold decision" was generous; he had essentially sacrificed his guildmates.

Three members had been eliminated on the way to the tenth floor, and five more were sacrificed to clear it.

He had predetermined the order of sacrifice, starting with the players least likely to be useful in the later stages. Once the decision was made, it was executed without hesitation to secure the clear.

The problem was that his choices had been so decisive, cold, and objective that the players involved might have felt their pride was on the line.

If this were just a game, he wouldn't have cared. But this was reality, and this might be the guild he stayed with for a while.

It wasn't that Kim Buja felt a deep need to build strong personal relationships, but he wasn't such a lone wolf that he would ignore them completely.

"Don't worry about it, acting captain. None of us are that petty. Honestly, I think most of us are glad. I know I am. At this point, I don't feel like I have much of a role left, and I'm just dead weight. I'd rather be useful on the next floor, even if it's as a sacrifice."

Thankfully, several voices spoke up, putting his worries to rest. He let out a sigh of relief and nodded.

"Then I'll feel free to use you as cannon fodder."

"Go right ahead. We'll block everything for you."

Their reaction was only natural, given what they had witnessed on the climb to the tenth floor.

Even as he spoke casually of "throwing them away," his actions during the raid—always shielding and helping any guild member in danger—were etched into their minds.

"Now then, shall we finally enjoy the reward for reaching the tenth floor?"

Shaking off some of their accumulated fatigue, they opened the door leading to the final stage of the team event.

* * *

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