Chapter 160 - Potato I

1

To confess the truth, I agonized quite a bit over how to present the previous episode.

Would you call it a conflict between the editor and the original author?

Oh Dokseo and I were sharply divided.

“No matter what happens, absolutely, the [Operator of All Things at Play] episode has to go at the very end of the novel!”

That was Oh Dokseo’s position.

When I asked why:

“Are you an idiot, Mister? That’s how you get bookends. Matching bookends! How could anyone resist having the beginning and the ending use the exact same sentence?”

“Hmm.”

There was merit to that aesthetic, but conversely, aside from its aesthetic effect, it had nothing but drawbacks.

“Drawbacks? What drawbacks? Bookending is invincible. It’s god-tier. It has nothing but advantages!”

“Dokseo. I’m a regressor. If the beginning and ending become identical, it could create an anomaly where [Everything Repeats from the Beginning] even after the novel ends.”

“... Oh.”

I tipped my coffee cup.

“It would emphasize that this is an infinite-regression novel. But when it comes to actually escaping my fate of regression, I think it could only be counterproductive.”

There was another reason, too.

As I’ve emphasized time and again, I resolved to be as honest with you as possible.

So I don’t want to keep the circumstances that led to the writing of this work—this account of my life, which I’d simply call a collection of stories—under lock and key until the novel’s ending.

Why bother?

If I hide anything from you, there is only one reason: to subjugate an anomaly. That exception aside, I am completely open with you.

“Right... Your goal is to stop needing to regress, Mister. So a bookended structure could become an infinite ouroboros and hurt you instead. Wow, we really have to worry about even the tiniest details...?”

“Thank you for finally appreciating my concerns.”

As if that were my only concern.

Every episode comes with its own concerns. Some, for instance, delve too deeply into someone’s private life.

In those cases, I generally got the person’s permission before telling the story. For example, I might ask the Saintess of run 800 for her understanding before recounting an incident involving the Saintess of run 600.

Today’s episode was no different.

The central figure in this story was the Saintess. So I told her the whole story, then politely asked for permission in advance.

“... That really happened?”

“Yes. It may be hard to believe, but it did. So would it be all right for me to write about what happened to you, Saintess?”

“No... Um, yes. The act of writing the novel itself serves as a weight keeping the God of Alienation down. If I can help, that’s fine.”

The Saintess hesitated, which was unusual for her. After a brief silence, she whispered cautiously.

Perhaps it was my imagination, but her voice was trembling a little.

“... Um, Mr. Undertaker. So, really?”

2

It really happened.

One day, I was following my usual regressor’s schedule.

Then a familiar Saintess message arrived via Telepathy.

[“Mr. Undertaker. I’m sorry, but could we postpone this week’s study session until tomorrow?”]

“Pardon? Oh, yes. That’s fine.”

For the record, the Saintess and I held a study session every Wednesday.

We mostly read philosophy books. It was our own private tradition, dating back to run 63.

“Nothing’s wrong, is it?”

[“No. I’m fine. Thank you for worrying about me.”]

“Not at all. As long as everything’s all right.”

I sounded casual, but inwardly, I was a little surprised.

Once, immediately after we’d subjugated Meteor Strike, the Saintess had insisted on sticking to our schedule, saying, “Come to think of it, today is Wednesday,” and, “Let’s have our study session.” That was how seriously she took it.

And now she was postponing it? The concept of “putting things off” actually existed for the Saintess?

[“Mr. Undertaker. I’m truly sorry. Would it be all right to postpone our study session until tomorrow once more?”]

Even more astonishingly, she postponed it again the next day!

My expression turned deadly serious. This made no sense. I’d sooner believe that Sim Aryeon had quit online forums.

“Saintess. Are you certain nothing is wrong? This is the first time you’ve voluntarily postponed our study session twice in a row.”

[“...”]

“In my experience, first-time incidents are almost always connected to anomalies. Unless you give me a satisfactory answer, I will have no choice but to assume the worst-case scenario: that some anomaly has you under its spell.”

[“No, um. No...”]

The Saintess stumbled over her words.

This, too, should have been impossible.

As you well know, before initiating a conversation, the Saintess always stopped time with a “click” and rehearsed her lines alone. Her perfectionism was truly formidable.

And yet she’d stammered? Had she somehow caught Sim Aryeon?

[“What I mean is, I can somehow solve this on my own... No. No, I can’t. Yes. You’re an expert, Mr. Undertaker. Perhaps it would be better to rely on you.”]

“Where are you now? What happened?”

[“That is a very, very difficult question to answer.”]

The Saintess, who had called Kant’s transcendental idealism “a very easy concept” while explaining it during our study sessions, was admitting to difficulty.

[“Could you come to my house first?”]

I went.

The Saintess’s home in Yongsan was always steeped in the pleasant smell of water. Tropical fish swam in aquariums of all different sizes.

But the glass walls of those aquariums, always kept crystal clear, now bore a faint coating of algae.

A compulsive neat freak who used chopsticks even to eat potato chips was allowing algae in her aquariums?

‘Something really is wrong!’

I clenched my fist.

“Where are you, Saintess?”

[“Please come to the kitchen.”]

I went.

The kitchen was modest, as befitted someone living alone. A small dining table had been made in the firm conviction that it would never need to hold a meal for two.

In its center sat a lone object I’d never seen there before. A potato.

“...?”

Yes. A single potato existed there.

It was rather out of place, but I ignored it. Something else mattered more right now.

[“Mr. Undertaker, thank you for coming all this way so promptly.”]

“Pardon? Oh, yes. But where are you? Surely you aren’t hiding.”

[“Here.”]

The Saintess could send Telepathy as either voice or text messages. This time, she sent text.

[ → → → ]

[ ← ← ← ]

[ ↓ ↓ ↓ ]

I turned my gaze as the Saintess’s messages directed. And where my eyeballs ended up pointing, yes...

There was the potato, just as before.

“...?”

[“Yes. Here.”]

I tilted my head. As if equipped with a sensor that detected my gaze, the single potato rolled along with it.

“...???”

[“Here.”]

I tried tilting my head the other way. Once again, the potato rolled lightly in the direction of my gaze.

I made a SAN check.

The dice rolled in my brain. Success.

Whether I wanted it or not, realization struck like lightning.

“... Saintess?”

[“Yes.”]

“Please tell me it isn’t so.”

Then the potato performed an astonishing feat. It rolled a full turn in place, then stopped upright.

It was “standing.” Thus, according to potato ethology, that subtle little dip just now would qualify as a “bow.”

Fucking hell.

[“I’m sorry. I’ve turned into a potato.”]

Why hide it?

The Saintess had become a potato.

3

Even faced with the development “A companion suddenly turned into a potato,” which had never appeared in any web novel whatsoever, I remained calm.

It wasn’t easy, even for a regressor who’d sampled hundreds of deaths.

[“Thank you for helping. I tried to handle it on my own as best I could, but I couldn’t stop worrying about being unable to feed my fish.”]

“...”

An academic urge to ask, “Do potatoes have feelings, too?” welled up inside me, but I resisted.

This, too, was no easy task.

I cleaned the aquariums and fed the tropical fish in the Saintess’s stead.

Only after finishing those chores did I calmly sit down for a one-on-one discussion with the Saintess... Um. That is, I laid a cushion on the table, placed the potato on it, and met the potato’s gaze...

Where exactly was a potato’s gaze?

More importantly, now that I looked closely, the sprouts growing from this potato’s eyes were blue.

To describe it more precisely and avoid the ambiguity of the Korean word, by “blue” I mean blue, not green. Surely those weren’t reflecting the color of the Saintess’s hair?

Unable to hold back any longer, I asked:

“Saintess. I’m not sure this is an appropriate question to ask... But how did you become a potato?”

[“For a start, we can surmise that an anomaly is responsible.”]

Well, of course an anomaly was responsible.

[“Perhaps I’ve fallen under some sort of curse. That’s what I think.”]

Well, of course she’d been cursed.

[“First, I would like to make it clear that my mind and consciousness remain intact. This anomaly seems to turn only the body into a potato.”]

“What caused it? Did you enter somewhere you shouldn’t have while out walking, or burn hundreds of potatoes in a campfire and earn the hatred of potato spirits? Have you violated any taboo like that?”

[“No. Unless you count a bug getting into my eye during a walk a few days ago and hurting a little.”]

“A bug in your eye?”

[“Yes. Just a flying insect. Aside from little incidents like that, I truly can’t think of any possible cause.”]

It was maddening.

To give you the conclusion first, even I, a seasoned regressor, couldn’t cure the Saintess of her potato state. Every treatment I attempted over four days ended in failure.

Please don’t blame my incompetence. I guarantee that no regressor you could drag in from any work of fiction would have found a solution either.

[“Mr. Undertaker. I’m fine.”]

Yet the very person who ought to have been losing her mind and jumping up and down was the calmest of all.

Granted, she no longer had a head to lose her mind in or legs to jump on, but the Holy Potato was a little too composed.

The Saintess-potato spoke from inside my shoulder bag.

[“Acting as constellations, monitoring the awakened with Clairvoyance, sending Telepathy—everything still works normally.”]

“With all due respect, your current appearance calls the very concept of normality into serious question.”

[“At least so far, there haven’t been any problems.”]

Indeed.

Astonishingly, even after being reduced to this form, the Saintess was carrying out her “constellation duties” as usual.

At that moment, I entered the record books as the first human in history to feel respect for a potato.

It wasn’t a hall of fame I particularly wanted to join.

“... Is anything causing you discomfort?”

[“No. I would be grateful if you could occasionally look after my fish, as you’re doing now. Oh, and...”]

The potato peeked its head out of my shoulder bag. How? I’m not entirely sure myself.

[“My body has become a little dry and mealy.”]

“... Well, you are a potato?”

[“No. My body seems to be asking for soil, water, and sunlight. It’s difficult to put into words, but that’s the sensation I feel. Could you help?”]

“Hmm.”

At this point, my brain finally crossed its critical threshold.

As those who have watched me for a long time will probably have figured out by now, once I pass my limit, I’m the sort of person who lets go of all restraint.

If you can’t avoid it, enjoy it.

If you can’t enjoy it, dump it on someone else.

“Of course. I’ll gladly help.”

Having-a-good-time mode: ON.

I immediately took the Saintess-potato and kicked open the door to Commander Noh Doha’s office.

“No, what, what the fuck...?”

The expression Noh Doha made after hearing the whole story was truly a sight to behold.

How much of a sight? Enough to justify making a webtoon solely to show that face.

Watching his facial muscles work, I felt the knot in my chest dissolve. Yes. Why should I be the only one suffering?

“You’re saying this is really the Saintess? Huh? Awakened Undertaker. Are you fucking telling me to believe this? Well...?”

“The Saintess’s message currently echoing inside your head is proof, Commander.”

“Why in the world would this kind of bullshit...?”

“We don’t know the cause either. More importantly, Commander Noh Doha. Your ability is [Assistive Device Crafting], isn’t it?”

Noh Doha’s brow knotted fiercely.

Of course, he was a former civil servant. Tell a civil servant, “Come to think of it, you’re good at making PowerPoint presentations, aren’t you?” and their eyebrows will immediately start twitching.

“And...?”

“The assistive devices you make can move as freely as real limbs. Now, appearances aside, the Saintess is still an awakened. In other words, if you were to make an assistive device and attach it to a potato...”

“Aha. So now you’ve gone so far as to ask me to make an assistive device specifically for a potato? Do you want to die...?”

“Why? Do you object? Commander. Are you, by any chance, a potato hater?”

“This asshole thinks he can spew whatever shit he likes just because he has a mouth... How the hell am I supposed to make an assistive device for a potato in the first place...?”

It got made.

After a full fifteen days of fabrication, the Saintess’s custom assistive device was born. You might say it resembled a Goliath from StarCraft.

Or perhaps a tripod from Steven Spielberg’s <War of the Worlds>.

Either way, its science-fiction design was far ahead of modern humanity’s time.

A single potato rode inside a slender chassis fitted with robotic arms and legs.

“Saintess, how is it? Do they feel like your limbs?”

[“One moment.”]

CREEEEAK

Astonishingly, the mechanical arms and legs worked normally. The “potato robot” walked perfectly well on two legs.

[“Yes. It moves well.”]

“Ooooooh!”

I let out a cheer in the laboratory.

It was truly moving. What evolutionary biologist could ever have predicted it? Who would have thought that the next species after primates to achieve bipedal locomotion would be potatoes?

“Commander Noh Doha, it’s a success! This will be an astonishing discovery for humanity!”

[“Yes. Thank you sincerely, Mr. Noh Doha. Thanks to you, I can live a full life again.”]

“...”

Despite our fervent thanks, Noh Doha remained silent. His eyes were dead.

“Fuck, after all this, you expect me to believe that bullshit about you being on humanity’s side and not anomalies yourselves...?”

“Oh, of course. Where else will you find anyone who cares about people as much as we do?”

“Shit. You look like anomalies no matter how I look at it...”

CREEAK—CREAK

Even as Noh Doha and I talked, the Saintess kept moving the robot’s joints, testing its motions.

[“Hmm.”]

The potato-Saintess riding in the robot gave a little bob.

Perhaps it was my imagination—even I, a master of physiognomy, was still somewhat inexperienced in the field of reading potato expressions.

But the Saintess seemed to be in a very good mood.