Chapter 18: The Spider Watch and the Spider Robot
The watch looked elegant. Its display was square with rounded corners, glossy white with a surface as smooth as premium ceramic.
At the top of the screen, a sharp black spider logo stood out in bold contrast, simple yet firm in its design. The strap was bright white, flexible yet sturdy, fitting snugly around my wrist when I put it on.
Its surface felt cool against my skin, giving off a sensation of advanced technology I had never touched before.
[Spider Watch: This device allows the user to access maps through the internet network at any time. Every important piece of news—whether from online sites, television broadcasts, or police radio—will be detected automatically. The location of incidents will be displayed accurately. This device can also connect directly to the Spider Robot through an integrated camera system.]
The explanatory text appeared clearly in the air before slowly fading away.
I moved my wrist slightly. The watch screen lit up softly, revealing a clean and futuristic digital interface.
A map of New York City appeared in a thin three-dimensional display, its street lines glowing faintly. Several small dots blinked gently, as if marking certain activities.
“This… is like a mini command center,” I muttered under my breath.
The image of how useful this item would be immediately crossed my mind. No more waiting for viral news or coincidentally hearing sirens in the distance. Everything could appear instantly on my wrist.
Then my attention shifted to the small robot in my other hand.
[Spider Robot: A small-sized robot, approximately the size of an adult man’s thumb. Equipped with basic-level artificial intelligence capable of understanding user commands. Functions for tracking, searching, and scouting narrow or dangerous areas. Can be fully synchronized with the Spider Watch to display live camera footage.]
The robot felt light, almost as if it had no weight at all. Yet when I examined it more closely, its details were remarkably precise. The eight legs of the spider robot were slender and pointed, their tiny tips seemingly coated with a special material—perhaps to cling to walls or ceilings.
Its body was dark metallic with thin blue accent lines. At the front, there was a small round dot—a tiny camera reflecting the room’s light. For a brief moment, that reflection made the spider robot look as though it had eyes staring back at me.
“But System Spiderman, does this Spider Watch have an invisibility feature? Because this spider emblem is a bit… too conspicuous. And besides, is this watch durable enough? I don’t want it to be destroyed just because I face a strong enemy in a fierce battle.”
I asked quietly while lifting the watch closer to my face, tilting it slightly so the light could reveal its details more clearly.
The yellowish kitchen lamp reflected off its glossy white surface. The black spider logo at its center looked bold and firm, like a symbol deliberately designed to attract attention. Too much attention, in fact. It felt like wearing a large name tag that read “Future Superhero” on my wrist.
The surface felt smooth when my fingertips brushed over it, nearly flawless. Yet precisely because it was too clean and perfect, the watch looked out of place among the simple, slightly worn kitchen furniture.
[The Spider Watch has E+ level durability, but it does not possess an invisibility feature. You can complete various missions to upgrade the Spider Watch so that it gains an invisibility feature.]
“E+ level durability, huh? Not too bad, I guess,” I murmured softly.
I turned around, carrying the pot to the kitchen sink. The metal still retained a bit of warmth from the chicken soup I had cooked earlier. When I turned on the faucet, water rushed out forcefully, striking the bottom of the sink with a rhythmic, soothing sound.
A thin trace of steam mixed with the faint aroma of chicken broth and pepper still lingered in the air, creating a warm atmosphere that sharply contrasted with my earlier conversation about battles and powerful enemies.
I left the Spider Watch and the Spider Robot on the dining table. The two objects looked completely out of place among the floral tablecloth and the old wooden chairs, like fragments of a different world that had accidentally slipped into an ordinary home.
I could have left the pot dirty overnight. No one would have scolded me. Still, there was something in me that disliked postponing small tasks like this. Cleaning it now meant that tomorrow morning I could simply hand the pot to May without any lingering burden.
Simple habits like washing dishes or wiping down the table felt strangely calming. For a few minutes at least, my life felt normal—no emergency mission holograms, no mysterious system in my head, no futuristic watch with an eye-catching emblem wrapped around my wrist.
After the pot was clean and gleaming again, I dried my hands with a small towel and walked toward the dining table. I picked up the Spider Watch and fastened it around my left wrist.
The strap fit perfectly, soft yet sturdy. At first, the metal felt slightly cold against my skin, but gradually its temperature adjusted to my body. A faint sensation followed, almost like a subtle vibration, as if the device were recognizing me.
I picked up the Spider Robot and carried it to my room. Its small legs folded neatly when I placed it on the bedside table. The robot’s lens-like eyes reflected the room’s light for a brief moment before dimming.
I let myself fall onto the bed. The mattress absorbed my weight at once, its springs releasing a quiet, familiar creak. The fatigue I had been holding back all this time began to creep upward from my legs to my shoulders.
I raised my hand, studying the watch on my wrist. I started tinkering with its interface, exploring the menu that appeared as a thin projection hovering just above its surface. My fingers tapped the small icons, each one responsive and precise beneath my touch.
Eventually, I set the alarm for five in the morning.
“Five o’clock,” I muttered softly. “Training begins.”
After that, I turned off the bedroom light. The room sank into darkness, illuminated only by a faint glow from the window and the gentle shimmer of the watch on my wrist. Its indicator light blinked slowly and steadily, like a small, even breath in the dark.
I closed my eyes. In that darkness, my thoughts drifted—to E+ level endurance, to unfinished missions, to that overly conspicuous spider symbol. One by one, those thoughts slowly faded, replaced by a heavy, deep drowsiness.
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The next morning, even before the alarm could fully ring, my eyes were already open.
My first reflex was to lift my left wrist. The digital numbers shone clearly in the dim room.
05:00.
Right on time.
The corner of my lips lifted slightly.
“Good,” I whispered to myself. “Time to begin Saitama-style training.”
My eyes still felt heavy when they opened completely, my eyelids reluctant to rise from the remnants of sleep clinging to them. Strangely, though, my body felt light and fairly refreshed. My muscles weren’t stiff, and my mind wasn’t clouded.
Maybe it was the effect of last night’s warm soup, filling my stomach and calming my nerves. Or maybe it was simply a mental push—because now I had something clear: a mission, a goal, and a training schedule that couldn’t be negotiated away.
I sat on the edge of the bed for a few seconds, steadying my breathing, then stood up. Without overthinking it, I put on a black hoodie and long black training pants. The fabric felt comfortable, thick enough to block the morning chill yet light enough to move freely in.
The Spider Watch was already wrapped around my left wrist, cold for a brief second before adjusting once more to my body temperature.
I opened the front door slowly and stepped outside.
The morning air immediately brushed against my face, its chill sharp yet refreshing. The scent of damp grass and lingering dew that had not fully evaporated filled my nose, clean and crisp.
The sky was still pale, painted with a gradient of light blue gradually pierced by golden hues from the rising sun. A few small birds chirped in the distance, their thin voices adding life to the quiet of the early morning.