After the absurd moment of narrative disarray passed, the Tower Manager—Lilith, the milky Mommy—finally stood.
"You’ve all remembered your past. Now it’s time... to meet it with full awareness."
The Monster Girls slowly rose. Their outfits were still in shambles.
"Hmmm..." Lilith snapped her fingers after giving them a once-over, and just like that, the Monster Girls’ outfits reverted—back to how they were before the memories came, before their consciousness reached 100% integration.
No one got angry, even though they clearly knew the outfits had changed because of Lilith’s snap. Not even Morvessa, whose pale cleavage was once again on full display, protested. She just smiled.
Livia frowned. "Meet who, exactly?" she asked.
Lilith raised her right index finger—
and pointed behind the Monster Girls.
At the man with a dusty cock, standing there in confused silence.
From afar, Nathan blinked. "What? Are they gonna kill me?" He looked genuinely concerned.
The Monster Girls slowly turned toward where Lilith had pointed.
Some of them even squinted, as if they needed extra time to confirm...
that man was still there.
Nathan raised one hand slowly, half waving, half surrendering.
"I... I’m not... going to be executed?" he murmured.
’Shit, am I really useless now?’ he thought.
Validia took a step forward.
The wind followed—not strong, but just enough to make her silver hair float a little.
A free dramatic effect, courtesy of a system still not fully stable.
But once she stood in front of Nathan, she leaned in... and pressed her forehead to his—
"You’re stupid. But you’re sincere.
Unfortunately... you’re also dusty."
Then came Velmora. Not angry. Not swaying sensually.
She simply stood beside him—touched his shoulder, and let out a long sigh...
like a tired serpent that had finally run out of excuses not to forgive.
She reached into the air and pulled out a system-generated piece of fabric—where it came from, nobody knew—
and draped it over Nathan’s lower half
with the grace of a widowed noblewoman.
"Thank you..." Nathan murmured.
Domina didn’t respond.
But slowly, she smiled—a faint smile, like someone who had finally accepted that this man’s absurdity...
was part of their destiny too.
From afar, Lilith watched. Her arms crossed. But her eyes... were warm.
"They’re ready," she said.
Then she looked up— at the sky above Floor 100, which, for some reason once again looked like a real sky.
"Now then... let’s begin the education phase."
Here is the English translation in Broodie Mode, preserving the emotional gravity, layered absurdity, and quiet theatricality of the original:
Livia and Morvessa still stood at a distance—
hesitant to approach Nathan the way the others had.
Livia’s eyes briefly flicked toward him, then darted away.
Morvessa, arms crossed over her chest, looked down slowly—
as if trying to hide her confusion behind that cold stare.
Suddenly, Lilith appeared behind them without a sound.
Only a warm aura, flowing like a gentle mist, marked her presence.
"No need to force closeness if your hearts aren’t ready," Lilith said calmly.
Startled, Livia and Morvessa turned—then nodded slowly.
They sat on the artificial grass.
Nathan followed, scooting closer, though he kept his posture cautious,
still trying not to humiliate himself any further.
A board appeared in front of them.
Not a regular school blackboard—
but more like a premium insurance presentation screen—
elegant, floating without legs, glowing faintly under the pseudo-sky of Floor 100.
The board didn’t just float—it existed. It shimmered with the dignity of a forgotten religion and the smugness of a premium sales demo. Runes danced across its surface like bored angels re-enacting special software transitions. The very air smelled faintly of ozone and misplaced ambition. Even the ground beneath their feet felt compelled to stay respectful. It wasn’t just a board. It was the kind of object that made lesser objects question their purpose.
Lilith stood before them.
Her hand moved sideways like a lecturer calling the next slide.
"My children," she said.
"You’ve remembered your past.
Now it’s time... to understand the war that took everything from you."
The board instantly showed a grand and absurd image:
galaxies colliding, faceless god-like beings standing atop tiny worlds like ping pong balls.
"This... is the Dimensional War."
It wasn’t just a war. It was theater for the divine. Each explosion across universes carried rhythm, like beats in a genre only gods could dance to. Fire imploded like fireworks meant to impress no one. Entire civilizations were born, bloomed, and obliterated in the span of a cosmic breath. This was no battlefield—this was art school for creators who had gone clinically insane with power.
Worlds destroyed and rebuilt.
Some of The One—those great architects of reality—laughed.
But all were busy: creating, destroying, creating again.
"Dimensional War isn’t just inter-world conflict," Lilith continued.
"It’s a competition of creativity.
The One compete through the worlds they shape."
Morvessa and Livia watched with calm expressions,
as if they’d always known.
"But if a One’s world is defeated," Lilith went on,
"they can still remake it... and enter the war again."
Nathan raised a hand.
"Wait—so it’s like they can reset everything?"
"Yes. But the new world is completely different. Personalities, history... even the laws of reality can be rewritten."
The One did not remake worlds like rewinding film. They reinvented from scratch. New species. New rules. Sometimes, new colors. There were worlds where guilt floated in lakes, where justice was a sound, and where every lie added a wrinkle to the sky. These were not reboots. These were hallucinations granted structure by divine will. And yet, they all obeyed one thing: The desire to win.
"But... doesn’t that mean they can keep trying until they win?"
"They should be able to. But not one of them."
A vague image appeared—
Earth, humans, mountains, oceans... and silence.
"The One Who Made the Earth... chose not to remake it.
They stopped playing."
In a universe full of editors, He became a poet. Earth was not efficient. It was not fair. But it was real. Instead of fixing it, He broke Himself—becoming a prayer with no voice, a god with no altar. Every time the Earth reset, He didn’t overwrite it. He simply watched, again and again, hoping that something—someone—would choose better.
"They sacrificed their own existence," Lilith said softly,
"So that Earth could keep turning.
With the same lives. The same souls. Contracted every soul in same one universe. But hoping... for different outcomes."
"Why... would they do that?"
Lilith didn’t answer right away.
She stared at the board, then lowered her gaze.
Her voice became a whisper.
"Because of your ancestral sin.
Because humanity destroyed... their most perfect creation."
That creation wasn’t a weapon. It wasn’t a throne. It was a single moment of perfect coexistence. A garden that knew no hierarchy. A species that chose to listen rather than conquer. It lasted hundreds years. Until humans, scared of peace, gave it a name. And like all things named, it became something to own.
Nathan’s whole body tensed.
"Wait. What did humanity destroy?"
Lilith closed her eyes.
Her voice was nearly a sigh.
"It’s unfair to keep blaming your ancestors," she murmured.
"Perhaps, more accurately..."
Lilith took a breath.
"...because they— The One Who Made the Earth—
once tasted something they were never meant to touch."
Nathan’s confusion deepened.
"What... did they taste?"
Lilith opened her eyes slowly.
Her gaze pierced straight through him.
"Empathy," she answered.
to make the wind forget how to move.
The 100th floor didn’t fall silent. It fell thoughtful. Like a museum after hours, when even the statues want to sit down. No one moved. Even the board stopped flickering, as if the word itself—Empathy—was too sacred, too glitchy, too forbidden to be processed in full. Somewhere, in a higher plane, an old version of the system tried to delete the word from existence. It failed.
Nathan stared at her.
"...So what did we destroy?"
with a breath that sounded like she was remembering pain, not history—
Lilith didn’t repeat herself.
She just walked a few steps toward the board.
"The design was clean once," she said softly.
"But humans... kept folding the same paper.
Until the crease became rot."
Nathan tilted his head.
"Wait—what are you talking about...?"
But Lilith didn’t answer.
She only looked up at the flickering sky above Floor 100,
as if it, too, remembered.
"The Tower appeared...
because you lost access to mana."
"Because the code that was once divine— was rewritten by...." Lilith Sigh.
He didn’t know what to say.
The board faded to black.
Lilith opened her mouth, "By..."