I Don't Need To Log Out-Chapter 263: Humanoid

The universe was vast.

So vast that no mind in the physical world, no matter how advanced, could truly comprehend its full scale.

For a long time, the humans of Earth believed they were alone—that they were the only intelligent beings to exist.

But that very idea was absurd.

The universe stretched across countless galaxies, each one filled with trillions of stars.

And orbiting those stars were an uncountable number of planets, scattered like grains of sand across the cosmic ocean.

Some were barren, lifeless rocks. Others were gas giants with no solid ground to stand on. But many—many—were home to something. Some kind of life, in some form or another.

So, what were monsters, then?

The definition of "monster" was never universal. It depended entirely on the beings who named them.

On one planet, creatures with humanoid forms might view anything that didn't resemble them—or anything that didn't originate from their world—as monstrous.

Beasts with too many legs, too many eyes, or no eyes at all—those were monsters in their eyes.

Anything with fangs, scales, or wings that cast enormous shadows over their lands.

But to the very beings they called monsters, things were different.

The so-called "monsters" had their own names for themselves, their own societies, and their own understanding of the universe.

And just as the humanoid races looked upon them with fear, they too had names for the beings who hunted them—some called them invaders, others called them demons.

And when they were the ones invading, they called them prey.

In truth, there were no monsters.

Only different forms of life. Different ways of existing.

A civilization might fear the unknown, labeling anything beyond its own species as monstrous.

But the moment that civilization realized it was not alone—that other intelligent beings existed, ones that were simply different rather than monstrous—those creatures would no longer be seen as monsters.

They would be called something else.

Aliens.

And in the end, what did it really matter? Whether they were called monsters, aliens, or something else entirely, the truth remained the same.

They all had life force.

And in this universe, life force meant one thing.

Experience points.

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Since Arlon had never cleared all three levels of Floor 90 in his first climb, the option to start them all simultaneously no longer existed.

There was no way to slow things down. No way to force the fight on his own terms.

And as if to confirm that reality, one hundred monsters immediately spawned around him, their towering forms emerging from the air like shadows solidifying into existence.

But something was different.

The first time Arlon had climbed the Tower, the monsters had always been drawn from a fixed pool—a predictable rotation of creatures.

The same species would appear floor after floor, allowing him to memorize their weaknesses and adjust his strategies accordingly.

However, this time, things had changed.

Ever since Jiroeki altered the Tower—expanding its monster pool by pulling in creatures from other Towers—Arlon had encountered entirely different enemies.

New abilities, new behaviors, new dangers.

It had forced him to stay on guard, adapting to threats he had never faced before.

But this? This was something else entirely.

For the first time, among the one hundred monsters that had just spawned, some of them were distinctly human-like.

Arlon's gaze sharpened.

These weren't the usual grotesque creatures, nor were they mindless beasts mutated beyond recognition.

They had the shape of people—figures that stood on two legs, with hands capable of wielding weapons, with eyes that held something more than just primal instinct.

What was this?

A silent tension settled in the air as Arlon observed them—until the humanoid ones started speaking.

It wasn't mindless growls or the screeches of beasts. It was a structured, deliberate exchange of words. A language.

Arlon didn't understand it.

It was nothing like the languages he knew.

Not that he knew many.

When humanity entered EVR through Zeno, the system had granted them the ability to understand and speak two additional languages—one belonging to the Trionians and the other to the Keldars.

But these humanoid creatures weren't from either of those races.

And so, their words were meaningless to him.

At first, he instinctively thought of them as creatures, but they were just like the Maguses of Trion or humans of Earth.

Living, thinking, bipedal beings.

That wasn't anything new.

After speaking with Jiroeki, Arlon had learned something unsettling—something he hadn't noticed before. The monsters he fought weren't mindless.

They had always been speaking. Always trying to communicate.

But because he didn't understand their language, their words had always reached his ears as nothing more than the roars and screeches of monsters.

That meant one thing: ever since creatures around level 150 started appearing, every single foe he had cut down had been sentient.

And if that was the case…

Then there was no issue.

He had long since grown accustomed to fighting and killing enemies whose words were nothing more than background noise to him.

These humanoid aliens should be the same.

That was what he thought.

Yet, when the battle started, something was off.

His movements felt natural—precise, calculated, efficient. He struck down one enemy after another, cutting through the horde with practiced ease.

But he was avoiding them.

Without realizing it, his body had instinctively started prioritizing the non-humanoid ones.

He wasn't hesitating. Not consciously.

But some part of him was resisting.

That wasn't a long-term solution, though.

Arlon fought for three weeks without stopping.

Normally, a level with one hundred monsters like this would take him two weeks at most. But now, even after three, only the non-humanoid monsters had fallen.

And that meant there were no more distractions.

He would have to face the humanoid ones now.

At first, he tried talking.

Obviously, it was pointless. None of them knew Trionian, Keldarian, or the human language.

Or maybe they just didn't care.

Because they never stopped attacking.

He tried hand gestures, just as Jiroeki had done before. A universal way of communication. A sign that he wasn't attacking.

But they didn't care.

Just like he hadn't cared when Jiroeki tried to say that it wasn't trying to harm him.

In the end, there was no other option.

It didn't matter what they were.

They stood between him and the next floor.

So, he fought.

By now, exactly six days had passed outside the Tower since he had entered for the second time.

That meant he had one day left.

Not that he was worried. Most of the time outside had passed while he was on the lower floors, and the Tower's time flow was still slow.

Still, he wanted to push forward.

The moment he reached Floor 91, the Tower's time flow would hasten again.

And he wanted to finish this challenge before the week ended.

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