Chapter 58 - The Manipulator I

1

This episode is a somewhat bizarre mystery.

2

I occasionally use the term “route.” That is because I often compare my journey to prevent the end of the world to climbing a mountain.

Mountaineers ascending the Himalayas call the paths they take “routes.” I borrow their usage to describe my own strategies.

The regressor’s central question:

How, exactly, do I prevent the apocalypse?

How do I conquer the summit of that “Everest of time,” where no human being has ever set foot?

Over a life of regression spanning 1,183 runs, I have explored truly countless routes.

For instance, the ascent I tried to pioneer from runs thirty-five through 107 was the “Civilization Reconstruction Route,” or the “Revival Route.” The companions on my climbing team—my essential equipment for this ascent, you might say—were as follows.

1) The Saintess, who can observe every awakened within her range and holds herself to extremely high moral standards.

2) SG Net, a community every awakened can access anytime, anywhere, even when their areas of activity are isolated from one another. In other words, Seo Gyu, who possesses the Ubiquitous ability.

3) An administrator who connects the urban strongholds with at least a bare minimum of roads, maintains and manages that road network, and remains politically incorruptible. In other words, Noh Doha, commander of the National Road Management Corps.

4) Someone who can mediate between and lead all of them, someone unfailingly diligent—the superhuman on a white horse for our age. In short, yours truly, the Undertaker.

Those of you who have listened to my stories so far will agree that I made my preparations steadily, one step at a time.

Even after losing Old Man Scho, the strongest swordsman and my ultimate wild card, I am proud to say I did my best.

Yet the Revival Route collapsed in an instant.

[“Please remember, Mr. Undertaker.”]

[“An awakened’s ability is not an unqualified blessing. It is a double-edged sword.”]

Alias: Saintess.

Code name after her fall: Executor.

It would be no exaggeration to say that her emergence completely derailed the route I had envisioned until then.

[“When awakened go beyond becoming accustomed to their abilities, to the point where those abilities devour them, they will become something close to anomalies, like me.”]

[“Twenty years. You must restore the world to its original form—preferably before fifteen years have passed. Please remember, Mr. Undertaker.”]

Yes.

Awakened were not the polar opposites of anomalies. They were the same kind. If anomalies were beings born from the void, then awakened were nurturing anomalies inside their heads—and their hearts.

Dang Seorin. Noh Doha. Cheon Yohwa. SwordEmpress, too.

Their abilities, the miracles no ordinary human could ever achieve... were not merely blessings, but curses as well.

Some readers may now be starting to understand why I had to slog through 1,183 runs.

Yes. You need awakened to kill anomalies, but once those awakened grow powerful, they turn into extra-large anomalies themselves. It was as though the world were shyly asking:

“Do you... happen to enjoy misery fiction? As a matter of fact, I love it too. Misery.”

“I’ve cooked up a really delicious misery stew. Would you care to try just one spoonful...?”

And forcing its own tastes on everyone else.

You may be wondering what kind of lunatic does that, but unfortunately, the world’s unfair bullshit does not end there.

Still, let us leave this regressor’s grievances there for now.

Today, I thought I would briefly discuss the very first route I devised.

The so-called “A Route.”

The first route of my life as a regressor, whose full name is the “Academy Route.”

3

Unlike all the others, the A Route was the only one Old Man Scho and I created together.

In other words, it predated his goddamn vacation. Just you wait until that old bastard comes back.

“Hey, Embalmer.”

Old Man Scho spoke while lifting a dumbbell.

Please don’t ask me why he was suddenly lifting a dumbbell. The old man generally pumped iron twenty-four hours a day.

For reference, “embalmer” was another term for an undertaker, and Old Man Scho sometimes called me that. Not out of respect for my alias, of course, but because he could make it sound just enough like an insult to sneak a “you damned pest” into it. Goddamn old bastard.

“What?”

“Have you heard the news?”

“What news?”

“In Fukuoka... Wait, what is that tone, you little brat? Eh? An elder asks you a question, and all you do is snap back at him.”

This was precisely my eighteenth run.

Old Man Scho’s mental state was still sound then. Of course, a mentally sound Old Man Scho merely meant the world had one more German old fart in it.

Here is a surprising fact: that old bastard graduated from art school.

Doesn’t that give you a bad feeling?

Anyone who has studied history can imagine what sort of sentence emerges when the subject “Germany” joins the predicate “art school.”

“Did you leave your brain cells behind when you last regressed...? Anyway, what about Fukuoka?”

“Ah, yes. Apparently, a rather interesting awakened has appeared in Fukuoka. Goes by Puppeteer, I believe.”

“Puppeteer? What’s their ability?”

“How would I know? Awakened keep their abilities tightly under wraps. All I’ve heard is that the council has made repeated personal visits to recruit them.”

Old Man Scho tapped the tip of his nose. Smug bastard.

“But I have a feeling. A feeling. This Puppeteer is bound to be exceptional.”

“Oh, here we go. That damn feeling again.”

“Why? My feelings are usually right.”

There is a concept in subculture fiction called “academy drift.”

It refers to a perfectly good story going off on a tangent midway through, with the protagonist suddenly enrolling in an academy or something. There is a remarkably high chance that the story’s quality will nosedive along with it, dragged down as though by a drowning ghost.

But Old Man Scho and I had an eminently rational reason for establishing and running an academy.

“Let’s recruit them ourselves.”

We wanted to collect promising talent.

It was nearly impossible for just the two of us to prevent the end of the world anyway.

So wouldn’t we need to assemble the strongest party we could, if only to give the middle finger to this world of ours that kept boiling up misery stew?

And even if both approaches amounted to recruiting talent, there was a considerable difference in tone between these two invitations:

“Wouldn’t you like to join our guild and do our grunt work?”

“Would you like to enroll in an academy and take classes from experts?”

That was especially true for Asians. Many Asians, Koreans included, were born with a perverse sexual fetish that made them excited by words like “education,” “entrance exams,” and “prestigious.”

Is it not a pleasure to learn and practice what one has learned? An ambition to succeed and rise through a guild might be nothing more than a lust for power, but surely an aspiration to enter an academy and study diligently was self-cultivation, filial devotion to one’s parents, and loyalty to one’s country?

There was no reason not to take advantage of such a wonderful culture.

Instead of the stiff title “guild leader,” Old Man Scho put up a nameplate reading “Academy Principal.” I became vice principal.

Then we added a little seasoning.

“An academy run personally by a German!”

“Skills proven in the campaign against Tenlegs. Guaranteed by the Sword Star and the Undertaker.”

The advertising line about an academy run by a foreigner of pure German blood was practically a hypnotic brainwashing beam that worked exclusively on Asians.

For reference, our institution was called Freedom Academy—or, in German, Freiheit Academy.

Actual Germans might have raised an eyebrow at an institution of “freedom” that placed such peculiar emphasis on “pure blood.” The entrance to the most famous structure built by Germans also bore the words “Work will set you free.”

Fortunately, Old Man Scho supported the Social Democratic Party. People enthusiastically placed their trust in our foreign-run academy for awakened without any reservations.

Establish an institution spelled “guild” but pronounced “academy,” then cherry-pick promising awakened from every country.

That was the truth behind the A Route.

“Well, if they really are exceptional, we should recruit them. So you’re going all the way to Fukuoka to recruit this Puppeteer kid? Are ships even still running?”

“Now, now. Where there is a will, the means will follow. If a scholar says he is going, he goes. Surely I can find a single ship.”

“Even if you cross the Korea Strait safely, the Japanese won’t just let their own awakened go. They’re pretty desperate over there too.”

“It’s fine. This one is Korean, not Japanese.”

“What?”

“Originally from Busan. Apparently they evacuated quickly, as soon as the gates broke open.”

“But even if they were evacuating, why there of all places...? It’s not like the monsters are the North Korean army. It’s the exact same hell over there as it is here.”

“Who knows that yet? We’re only in year three, you brat.”

“Oh.”

I observed a brief moment of silence.

“... But if it’s Fukuoka, are they involved with the provisional government people? Getting mixed up with those bastards could give you a headache.”

“No idea. Do you think I’m omniscient and omnipotent?”

“Hmm. So when are you leaving, old man?”

“Good question. When are you leaving?”

“...?”

“...?”

We exchanged looks.

“...?”

“...?”

Communication: failed.

We both silently raised our swords. We held the method humanity had traditionally chosen when communication failed since ancient times in the highest regard.

Five minutes passed.

“Have a good trip, Embalmer.”

“Fucking hell...”

“You think you can beat a Swordmaster with that pathetic swordsmanship? Oh, and if there’s any instant ramen, buy some on your way back. Tonkotsu, preferably. Fukuoka’s famous for tonkotsu, isn’t it? Let me grease my stomach a little.”

It was unfair, but what could I do? At this point, I was still worse than Old Man Scho.

I dragged my bruised body miserably out of the principal’s office.

[The ‘Saintess of National Salvation’ cheers you on.]

I smiled bitterly.

‘As I thought, only my constellation is on my side.’

Of course, in the eighteenth run I had no idea that constellations were actually awakened. My relationship with the Saintess was closer to what is technically called parasocialism—a parasocial relationship.

“You’re the only one who understands me, honored constellation. I’m taking a short business trip to Japan, so please look after that old geezer while I’m gone.”

[The ‘Saintess of National Salvation’ encourages you not to worry.]

“My constellation...!”

The closest comparison would be a VTuber and an overly invested fan.

What? Constellation fiction originated from livestreaming platforms anyway. Surely this qualified as a healthy hobby.

Hmm.

... I was immature in many ways back then.

4

Even if that period was an embarrassing chapter in my memories, to other people, the awakened known as the Undertaker was undoubtedly someone to watch.

Old Man Scho. Dang Seorin. The Undertaker.

Whatever anyone said, the three of us had been the central figures in the campaign against Tenlegs.

And ours was the first case in the world of a boss-class monster being defeated entirely through civilian rather than government leadership.

The Korean Peninsula had a tradition of giving buffs to volunteer militias rather than the regular army, so it was hardly strange.

Of course, if you ranked us purely by popularity, both at home and abroad, the order was:

Dang Seorin > Old Man Scho ≥ Undertaker.

While Old Man Scho and I traded places in fame, Dang Seorin always held the undisputed top spot.

She was the Alliance Leader of the Korean Peninsula Guild Alliance—the name varied slightly by run. Above all, her character concept absolutely crushed nobodies like the old man and me.

A witch who sang on the battlefield? Wasn’t that cheating? How were two swordsmen supposed to compete with that?

To put it crudely, anyone who watched Dang Seorin belt out her four-stage a cappella on a battlefield could only think she was fucking awesome. Especially when her singing pumped them full of performance-enhancing buffs with no side effects.

Ah, the awakened of the Korean Peninsula had already become incapable of going on boss raids without Dang Seorin’s songs...

Anyway.

My position on the peninsula was number two, occasionally slipping to number three whenever Old Man Scho unleashed some unprecedented potential.

“A heartfelt welcome to Japan, Mr. Undertaker!”

But even that status was enough to attract all manner of flies.

“Wooooo!”

“Welcome to Busan!”

“Undertaker! Undertaker! Undertaker!”

As soon as I disembarked at the port, nearly three hundred people cheered in unison. Quite an army, for flies.

They were even flapping banners furiously instead of fly wings. The banners bore the following:

[★South Korea’s Pride, the Awakened Undertaker★]

[Welcome to Busan!]

[The Cabinet of the Second Provisional Government of the Republic of Korea]

Ah.

The back of my neck tightened.

‘What the hell do you mean, Busan, you lunatics...?’

Let me explain.

First, naturally, I had boarded a ship in Busan and headed to Fukuoka, Japan. I had emphatically not taken a sightseeing cruise around the Korea Strait and returned to Busan.

What had gone around the bend was not my itinerary, but their minds.

Fukuoka.

Read in Korean, its Chinese characters gave “Bugang.” The second character, gang, meant “mountain ridge”—a mountain or hill.

So the flies before me had agreed to call Fukuoka “Busan.” Despite the city already having a perfectly good name.

It was no different from declaring to the indigenous peoples of the Americas, “From now on, you are Indians.”

Even more maddening was the fact that Japan already had a city called Toyama, whose characters could actually be read as “Busan” in Korean.

In short, these people were being a triple nuisance to Busan, Fukuoka, and Toyama alike.

Why on earth?

“Hohoho. Welcome, Mr. Undertaker!”

The middle-aged man at the very front of the welcoming crowd explained it all.

Mayor Jeong.

Full name: Jeong Sang-guk.

Despite the title, he was not a sitting mayor. On the Korean Peninsula, the occupation of civil servant had long since been deleted, along with elementary, middle, high school, and university students.

Jeong Sang-guk was the former mayor of Busan.

His current position was head of the Second Provisional Government of the Republic of Korea.

When a massive void appeared south of the Han River, prompting the Blue House and the National Assembly to reconcile amicably and form a grand coalition bound for heaven, Sejong and Busan were the remaining stronghold cities with some chance of bringing the situation under control.

The civil servants in Sejong at least attempted to take control of the armed forces. They, too, then took a friendly culinary tour into Tenlegs’ stomach.

Busan’s Mayor Jeong Sang-guk, on the other hand, chose a slightly more traditional method.

[“My fellow citizens, what kind of people are we?”]

[“Uh... the people of Baedal?”]

[“No. We are the Terran people.”]

Jeong Sang-guk lifted off his entire organization, supporters and all, and relocated his Command Center.

The public could only marvel at a joke so perfectly suited to his generation.

Kim Il-sung, founding patriarch of the Taedong River Sect, could only use his ground-shrinking technique on himself. Hadn’t Jeong Sang-guk pulled off a mass teleportation? It proved that the true martial lineage of the Three Han belonged to the Nakdong River Sect. His footwork was literally on another level.

Koreans now acknowledged that Busan Mayor Jeong Sang-guk’s name belonged in the same league as Won Gyun, Naval Commander of the Three Provinces, and Yi Wan-yong, Prime Minister of the Korean Empire.

Given how stingy Koreans were in their assessments of politicians, that was no mean achievement.

All politicians, as a rule, are idealists through and through.

They believe that even if they are a little short on legitimacy in reality, they can borrow as much as they like from the realm of ideas. Jeong Sang-guk was no exception.

The group of exiles soon became a “government in exile,” which abruptly transformed into the “Second Provisional Government of the Republic of Korea.” Jeong Sang-guk’s business cards were reprinted with each change, and now read “Prime Minister of the Second Provisional Government of the Republic of Korea.”

On the day he was elected prime minister, Fukuoka was also renamed Busan. Thus, as head of the Fukuoka Korean Association, Jeong Sang-guk acquired the additional title of “Representative of Busan.”

In short, it was a fucking circus.

And now I had been invited onto its stage.

A politician who had lost his backing cozying up to a war hero was a language understood all over the world.

“I’ve admired you immensely for a very long time, Mr. Undertaker!”

Jeong Sang-guk, a Terran player who had supposedly reached 2,150 points on the StarCraft ladder back in the day, embraced me with a radiant smile.

Following the Second Provisional Government’s prime minister, the ministers of foreign affairs, finance, justice, and the interior inundated me with requests for handshakes. The hugs were mechanical, executed with impeccable precision.

I gave them a mechanical smile of my own. Meanwhile, I mentally assigned the provisional government’s cabinet members trendy millennial-and-Gen-Z nicknames in order: Fucking Hell, Goddammit, Shit, and so on.

‘That fucking old bastard. This is why I didn’t want to take a business trip to Fukuoka.’

HA! HA! HA!

I seemed to hear Old Man Scho’s laughter from far away, accompanied by a phantom voice saying, “Yep, your swordsmanship sucks.” Goddammit.