I'm an Infinite Regressor, But I've Got Stories to Tell-Chapter 409

I constantly think about how I can always be truthful with all of you.

Now that I confess it, there was actually a rather desperate reason I hired a “ghostwriter” named Oh Dok Seo.

Was it simply to subjugate the Mastermind? That was part of it, yes — but not the whole story.

I was, by nature, a person fundamentally unfit to write my own autobiography.

I could only ever be that kind of person.

Far down the street, I see the back of someone I know well — someone you’re close with.

So you quicken your steps a bit and call out their name.

“Ah.”

That person turns around.

“Undertaker. What a coincidence. Are you going somewhere too?”

Ordinary. Everyday reaction. Natural reply.

However — for someone like me, who possesses Perfect Memory, such a thing could never occur.

That person—

“Ah.” “Vice Guildmaster?” “Undertaker.” “I knew you’d come.” “Why are you so late?” “I’ve been curious since the first time we met… that staff of yours, what is it?” “What a coincidence.” “Hm? Ah, it’s you? Sorry, I was just thinking for a bit.” “What, that outfit again. I told you not to wear that gloomy thing.” “You really always wear that barista uniform, don’t you.” “Are you going somewhere too?”

They look back at me. Keep walking as if they didn’t hear. Laugh brightly. Smile with flushed cheeks. Let out a soft chuckle as if in disbelief. Playfully nudge my side with an elbow. Put their hands behind their back.

Now, after the thousandth regression—

There are over a thousand versions of you.

“……”

Perfect Memory.

The coexistence of past and present.

In the kaleidoscopic scenery spreading before my eyes, I dust away the sands of the past like an archaeologist, separating it from the present.

I fish out “this round.”

How could I possibly convey this feeling to all of you?

I pick out the most fitting illusion — the one most suitable to the context of the present moment.

In some sense, you could even say I “immersed myself in this iteration of me” and acted accordingly.

It’s all so natural to me that it’s hard to explain.

“……”

Once,

“Uncle. Sorry, but… this is useless.”

Oh Dok Seo said, picking up my manuscript.

Right. At first, I hadn’t planned to entrust her with writing the novel alone. I had fully intended to help her with much of it.

What she was holding in her hands was my rough draft.

“Useless? Why?”

“Because… every single line of dialogue overlaps with a thousand others. And the story’s supposed to be covering just the 20th regression right now, but you’ve got lines that only appear way later — like in the 400th. Readers won’t be able to follow this.”

“But, Dok Seo.”

I said,

“To me, this is the truth.”

“……”

Oh Dok Seo’s expression twisted slightly.

“If my truthful world looks grotesque in your eyes… then maybe I really have already fallen into monstrosity.”

“……”

A long silence followed.

Oh Dok Seo removed her hat.

“…No.”

She opened her laptop, unclasped her hands, and looked straight at me.

“That’s not true. You just awakened as someone with the ability of memory. You became an Awakened just because you didn’t give up, rolling through hundreds of regressions — and now to call that the result of corruption? No way. I refuse to accept that.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“I’ll edit it.”

Oh Dok Seo put on her glasses.

For some reason, she hated letting others see her in glasses — she only wore them when writing alone.

“You don’t need to lie to the readers. Just tell it as it is. I’ll be the one to— as best as I can, in as close to chronological order as possible — edit it into something coherent.”

“……”

“You said I’m not just the Mansangyuhee’s miko, but yours as well, right? Perfect. That’s what miko’s do, isn’t it? Mediators — interpreting and translating the words of gods.”

I always think about how to be truthful to all of you.

“Let’s share the truth.”

“……”

“Your truth is yours. I’ll stay true to mine. Any friction, any narrative inconsistencies between us — I’ll take full responsibility for them.”

That was my editor.

Oh Dok Seo’s solution.

“But… yeah. Now I get it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was wondering how you could repeat the same route hundreds of times without getting tired of it. I always wanted to know where that mental strength came from.”

A bitter smile crossed Oh Dok Seo’s lips.

“From your point of view, repeating the same route isn’t all that bad, huh? Why? Because it’s convenient when people react the same way every time. You don’t need to distinguish one round’s people from another’s.”

“……”

“Of course, you’re still human — sometimes you must get sick of it. So when that happens, you create a ‘round that could never overlap with any other.’ Either way, it’s the same: you make the other’s reaction into a single, predictable pattern.”

I nodded.

“But there’s one problem.”

“Hm? What problem?”

“Didn’t I say I’d be the one to write about you?”

“Ah— hm. Then just follow my writing style for that part.”

Oh Dok Seo shrugged.

“I don’t mind if you lie a little to the readers about me. I’m just an editor, after all. I was never supposed to be visible at the forefront of the novel anyway.”

“Hm.”

“I’m a kind of clown in the Regression Alliance. I don’t need to show readers my true self.”

“Still, are you okay with that?”

“Yeah. That’s what I want.”

And so it was decided.

“I’ll never let them treat you like some kind of monster.”

Oh Dok Seo’s eyes glimmered red.

“I’ve decided. Every episode title I write will end with the character ‘자 (ja).’”

“‘Ja’?”

“Yeah — meaning ‘person.’ After all, this is a story about humans, about people meeting people.”

“……”

At that grand declaration, I smiled faintly.

“For that, you didn’t really keep the rule very well.”

“Huh?”

“Like Dan-ja (Monad) or Gam-ja (Potato). The former uses the character for ‘son,’ not ‘person,’ and the latter isn’t even Chinese characters.”

Oh Dok Seo tilted her head, then opened her mouth—

“What are you talking about?” “Ah, come on, that was a short story collection! It’s an exception!” “I never wrote that episode!” “Gam-ja came from Gamsija (Watcher), I just dropped the ‘si,’ it was a pun — it still works because it can also mean potato, so I’m not wrong!” “The character for ‘son’ is kinda like ‘person,’ isn’t it close enough?” “Sorry, Uncle.” “I didn’t get what you just said.” “What did you mean?”

……

I smiled.

“It’s nothing.”

“Uncle, seriously. You’re always muttering nonsense or talking to yourself like a proper protagonist stereotype.”

“……”

Flashback (回想).

For me, recollection was the same as the present.

Life was always an epilogue.

——Every time I faced the Ten Tribes.

There, along with the writhing tentacles, I saw my comrades.

There was Dang Seo Rin, her head severed.

There was old man Sho, his chest pierced.

There was Yoo Ji Won, who pushed me aside and died in my place.

All in different forms, the comrades who had died in each regression lay at the ends of those tentacles, beneath the claws of the Ten Tribes.

“Under— taker…” “Doctor!” “Sir,” “Run!” “At least you—” “Hold the rear!” “Please deliver my will—” “We’ve been annihilated—” “Vice Guildmaster!” “Sorry.” “For getting you caught up in this too.” “Failed again?” “The defensive line—” “……” “I’m sorry.” “Will you pass this on to my next self?”

This world hated humanity.

The abominations insulted humankind.

They mocked even human death itself.

I could not forget.

I could not flee.

I simply could not forgive.

Hình dạng

Shim Ah-ryun saw through me.

The secret only Oh Dok Seo knew — even the truth I had first told her myself — Shim Ah-ryun discovered it entirely on her own.

It was astonishing.

And yet, somehow, part of me thought, of course.

Shim Ah-ryun drank human emotions. I’d joked before, calling her the “bird that drinks attention,” but in truth, she was more like a “bird that drinks feelings.”

In front of Shim Ah-ryun, every human was forced to expose their bare, unfiltered self.

For example—

“Can I take a picture with you, artist?”

To the ear, that might sound like an innocent, harmless request. But to Shim Ah-ryun, it might have sounded completely different.

The color changed depending on what emotion was behind it.

Was it pure admiration? A desire to brag to someone? An attempt to secretly upload it to SGnet and dox her? Lust?

Whatever it was, Shim Ah-ryun felt it.

And since her intelligence was anything but low, she could more or less predict what would follow, based on what she sensed.

So she answered:

“Huh? No. I really don’t want to.”

“Eh?”

“Eh.”

Their reactions missed each other.

Static. Noise.

Between the world Shim Ah-ryun perceived and the world everyone else walked in, there was an unbridgeable gap.

It was the same even in conversation.

“Haah, it was so, so hectic. It reminded me of my graduation exhibit deadline. I don’t dream about that much anymore, but back then, even a little stress would make me dream of that nightmare again…”

Even when her conversation partner sat silently, listening — Shim Ah-ryun could see their emotions reacting in real time.

So in truth, for her, a “listener who quietly sits and listens” didn’t exist.

Instead, it was like this:

“Haah, (Curiosity — why is she sighing?) it was so, so hectic. (Curiosity — what was hectic?) It reminded me of my graduation exhibit deadline. (Puzzlement — graduation exhibit?) I don’t dream about that much anymore, but back then, even a little stress would make me (Curiosity — stress?) dream of that nightmare again…”

Naturally, she stammered when speaking.

Because people’s emotions constantly “responded” to her words — relentlessly, rapidly, unstoppably.

To keep up with the tempo, Shim Ah-ryun was always being buffeted by the ever-shifting context, rambling over herself as if repeating words.

And now, one paradox becomes clear:

Q. Why doesn’t Shim Ah-ryun stutter at all when she plays the Northern Saintess?

A. Because she doesn’t need to answer sincerely. There’s no “conversation” — she simply has to act out her assigned role.

In essence, she and I were similar.

Whether it was me with Perfect Memory, or Shim Ah-ryun who drank emotion — both of us were detached from the world.

…People might mock Shim Ah-ryun, asking why she doesn’t wash her hair, why she’s so dirty, why she wanders around like that.

But in truth, she’d probably like to ask the opposite:

“You’re the ones leaking your emotions everywhere, aren’t you?”

Washing one’s hair and dressing neatly — those were acts of covering oneself up, to “look good” and “avoid judgment.”

But before Shim Ah-ryun, such coverings were meaningless. Whoever they were, they were all naked before her eyes.

Different values. Different vision.

So in hindsight, it’s only natural that she was the one who saw through my deepest secret.

We were alike.

“Hehehe…”

Slide—

While brushing my hair, Shim Ah-ryun, back turned to me, let out a quiet laugh.

“I… like this…”

I didn’t ask what.

She had simply answered “I like it” to the feeling of kinship she sensed from me — the sense that I saw her as one of my own.

Unlike people bound by words and sentences, language between us was always a secondary tool.

“When did you notice?”

“Ah. Mmm. When the Guildmaster… never showed any signs of sexual desire, no matter the situation.”

“?”

This time, her reply was unexpected.

“Sexual desire?”

“Yes… It’s strange, isn’t it? So I thought about it. I mean, when you look at people, you see corpses overlapped over and over again… There’s no way you could feel sexual desire.”

“……”

“Because the Guildmaster is normal.”

A bitter smile formed.

It was truly hard to hide anything from this girl.

Thus even the traits I’d disguised under the name of “genre conventions” — not only my “habit of monologue,” but even the cliché of being a “chaste protagonist” — were seen through.

“People are really strange.”

“Please understand them.”

“Mm. But really, isn’t it easy to imagine? To remember everything perfectly — how would the world look? To drink emotions — how would that feel? It’s so simple.”

Shim Ah-ryun rested the back of her head against my chest.

“Y-you’re the only one I’ve ever done this with, Guildmaster.”

“…And you’re the only one who’s ever done this for me. Your paintings are truly wonderful. Thank you.”

“Hehehe.”

“But Ah-ryun. People often don’t understand unless they’re told.”

“You knew, though.”

“That’s…”

“I don’t care about others.”

Shim Ah-ryun looked up at me.

“I’m happy, Guildmaster.”

“……”

“The exhibition. It’s been so long since I had one. But those people, after seeing my paintings, only worship me, right? Hmm. So, Guildmaster… even if I can never paint again, you wouldn’t mind, would you?”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Yes.”

The brushing stopped.

Not because I stopped — but because Shim Ah-ryun had completely leaned into me, making it impossible to continue combing her hair.

“You don’t have to try to fill the hole in my heart, Guildmaster.”

From beneath my chin,

Shim Ah-ryun looked up at me.

“I have a defect in my heart… a memory of losing someone. I-it’s not because of that that I like you.”

“……”

“I like you because you’re you, Guildmaster. Even if I can’t paint, even if I cause trouble… it doesn’t matter. You still see me as me.”

Shim Ah-ryun raised both arms and wrapped them around my neck. Then she buried her head against my chest.

“Other than the two of us, honestly, no one else could ever understand this exhibition…”

In the quiet night gallery—

Beneath frames stained by monstrosities, in the hall filled with thousands upon thousands of depictions of death I had witnessed—

Shim Ah-ryun smiled.

“I truly think… it’s beautiful.”