Infinite Regressor, Chapter 422 - I’m an Infinite Regressor, But I’ve Got Stories to Tell

Here stands a man named Emit Schopenhauer. “......” Schopenhauer opened his eyes. He did not bother to muse, ‘What a strange ceiling,’ as might have been expected. To confess truthfully, this old German was the farthest removed from that time-honored tradition, passed down since the era of Evangelion. “Have I returned again?” His muttering was so familiar, it drifted into the ceiling, which had become so embedded in his memory that he could recite its concrete patterns by heart, like sharp exhaust fumes. The wall clock showed the time was 13:58:33. The building of the former Baekje Hospital. While his wife was set to attend some academic conference in Seoul for several days, remaining idle in a hotel grated on Schopenhauer's nerves―. Strangely enough, he felt he had lost ‘something’ in this neighborhood called Korea and was compelled by a peculiar urge to find that lost item somewhere. He was a man living on impulse. Despite his advancing age and reduced testosterone levels, endless strength training and Schopenhauer’s inherent energy gradually led him to the edge of the Korean Peninsula. Busan. “Ugh, I probably should’ve just stayed in Seoul.” Schopenhauer grumbled as he took out his smartphone. He adeptly dialed a number with his left hand, not even glancing at the keypad. There was no need. “Emit? What’s going on?” He had never counted numbers but was already accustomed to the motion thousands of times over. “I love you, Adele.” “Huh?” Modern smartphones were incredible. Wasn’t it amusing to think that the sound of his wife’s face twisting in disbelief could be transmitted in real time? Schopenhauer chuckled. An endlessly repeating life of roughly ten minutes. A lifetime turned into a circle, or rather, a diminutive hamster wheel. This was the only moment in this hell where he could mix a smile into his breath. “What? Can’t I say I love you?” “No, you’re not Emit, are you? A man who has never said such a thing in his life suddenly doing so? Have you found a French lover or something?” “The coffee here is terribly disgusting. As I was drinking, I suddenly wanted to make you a delicious cup.” “I do like your coffee, but... you know I prefer tea.” “Tea is healthier than coffee. Still, I can't quit caffeine. Yes, it tastes different when exercising.” These pointless stories. There was no epic saga, like the world would end, monsters would overrun, or both you and I would soon meet our ends. “I know you love exercising, but do it in moderation. You had inflammation in your wrist last time.” “Injuries are a badge of honor.” “Of course. If you collect any more honors, you might become incapacitated!” He liked it. It was enough for him. Glancing instinctively at the cafe's clock, Schopenhauer noticed. Maybe it's aligned with young people’s sensibilities these days—a raw, bright red electronic clock. ‘About ten seconds left.’ The red numbers informed him of the dawn until the moment the only being he loved on this earth reached her death. “I can’t do this.” “What can’t you do?” 13:59:52. “Next time, I’ll bring you to a fitness studio. Always cooped up in the study reading books is why you have a stiff neck.” “Dream on.” 13:59:59. “I hate exercising.” 14:00:00. “I love you, Adele.” “.......” The end. Schopenhauer closed his eyes. With a firm press, he ended the call, his left hand gripping the smartphone quivering slightly. That tremor was likely the last fervor left in a husband mourning his wife. ‘What theme should I talk about next time?’ He had already shared too many stories. However, there existed a counterpart where the subject of the story did not matter. The thing that nullifies all other existences. Love. Love, love. ‘Dear God.’ Absorbing all the scars, experiences, and judgments from a person's life ravenously like nutrients—humbly blooming toward the sun that had illuminated his valley, a single flower. A crimson red Lycoris. ‘Why have You bestowed such trials upon a mere mortal?’ Drying up beneath a barren valley, where nothing remained save for a single Lycoris. The old man was withering. ‘Will a day come when I tire of this love?’ He had never once felt his love was lacking. Indeed, she died. He was dying. He would die. For the sole minute of conversation with her, Emit Schopenhauer could give up everything. ‘Can this continue forever......?’ But the old man had seen far too much to recklessly speak of eternity. For him, the ‘conversation with his wife’ was akin to a resurrection rite. Because as a regressor, his death allowed his wife to come back to life. To converse with her once more. In this world teeming with an abundance of awakening abilities, laughably, [Revival] and [Time Machine] were nonexistent. The sole passage was [Death]. For a regressor, death was indeed the only ability capable of penetrating a world marked with an unbreakable adjudication. ‘That Undertaker still hasn’t given up, I suppose?’ He didn’t know. Endlessly holding the disconnected smartphone with his left hand, Schopenhauer sought a notepad. Recalling his companion. ‘Was it the 1,000th run? The 2,000th? Perhaps over the 3,000th. By ordinary reckoning.... That guy probably gave up too.’ Emit Schopenhauer was fearful. ‘He must have likely succumbed to the Udambara, relinquishing the authority of regression from his grasp.’ ‘Then, is this world merely reiterating June 17th endlessly with all the regressors gone?’ He feared confirming it. ‘Even in the world where he existed, ultimately, no way to save the world was found.’ He feared facing it. ‘How could I.... possibly do anything? In such a wretched world of monsters.’ Thus, he turned his back on the world. To resurrect his wife, to escape from the misfortune of confirming his companion’s demise, Emit Schopenhauer confined himself to a self-imprisoned ‘world of eternity-repeating ten minutes.’ ‘If this is humanity's end, oh God, why did you create the world in the first place?’ Schopenhauer began making café au lait. He clung to the faint possibility that his companion had not given up, yearning to believe that hope for salvation still lingered in the world. He offered coffee's aroma to death. ‘Why then.’ It was at that moment. -Brrrrr. He froze. Schopenhauer snapped his gaze to his left hand. With an expression of disbelief, his gray eyes focused on the smartphone screen. It was trembling. The smartphone, vibrating with a hum. [Adele] With a profile picture showing her bright smile. “......” Brrrr, brrr. The phone's vibration did not stop. Being so accustomed to making calls rather than receiving them, the old man’s hair stood on end at the sensation. ‘A call is coming in?’ From his wife, who would already be swept away by the void and dead. Could this be a call from the afterlife? “......” Should he answer it or not? Schopenhauer knew well enough that monsters sometimes played tricks like this. Though it was the first time such an event occurred in thousands of regressions, it was the nature of those monsters to mock humanity with ‘unpredictable pranks.’ It might be an attempt to toy with the heart of a man parted from his beloved. No doubt, it was a trick. “......” Yet. “…Hello?” He had no choice but to answer. The voice that slipped from Schopenhauer’s lips was so thin, it surprised even him. There was no pretense of wit for a pleasant conversation, nor a trace of the courage ingrained in him. His voice resembled that of a child failing at whistling. “Hey, you!” Even that voice paused for a moment. “Why did you hang up after calling out of the blue? Huh?” It was strange. He felt short of breath. “After spouting words you've never said in your life and abruptly ending the call—doesn't that make me worry?” “.......” “Hey, you’re not planning to die, are you?” At that question, Schopenhauer barely rediscovered his voice. “No. No, that’s not it.” “Then why did you?” “No......” Back when Emit and Adele were much younger, before they knew each other, both had separately attempted suicide. It wasn’t particularly unusual. For him, the universal language of humankind wasn't music but suicide, that silent scream. “No.” Thus, exposed to his wife's intuition, Schopenhauer had to reflect on himself. ‘It’s not that I’m specifically trying to commit suicide......’ It was true. “…….” Died. Was dying. Would die. The person closest to this tale would be you, yet somehow, it felt immensely difficult to convey this story to you. Something boiled in the center of his throat. The lingering warmth of life in his heart, beyond what he even imagined remained. “Where are you right now?” The one he loved possessed an ear for hearing these unspoken cries. “I’m in Busan right now.” “Busan? Hold on. That’s really far. Wait there.” “No……. You have your academic conference, right? Aren't you supposed to attend? Is Seoul alright?” “I don’t know. Feels like something big is happening, but whatever. Do I need a train ticket? Or a plane ticket? Where in Busan exactly are you?” Schopenhauer was afraid. Was this a dream? He had often thought of it long ago. In truth, neither he nor his wife ever came to Korea. They were still in their home in Germany. He'd wake up a bit late, walk to the living room, and oh, there's his wife, who was supposed to be in Korea for business, enjoying breakfast as if nothing happened. ―Adele, why are you here? Didn't you go to Korea? he would ask. ―No, I missed my flight. I thought I’d just leave in a few days instead, she would reply. Then he would hug her, tears streaming, and say, Thank goodness, Adele. Thank goodness you didn't go... Such thoughts. Such poignant delusions. When that imagination once again meddled with reality, Schopenhauer found it terribly difficult to continue speaking. He should have ended the call, pointing to the fact she’s a monster. But he couldn’t bring himself to disconnect. “Be careful coming.” In the end, that was all he could say. “Travel safely...... There will be many strange things. Don't help others, just... come straight to me. Okay?” “Okay. See you soon.” Click. The call ended. “…….” The time had come. Now the moment of death approached. 14:09:45. The clock, endlessly repeating the past. The baroque spiral that forever whispered someone’s afterword gradually closed in on the final line. The café au lait, placed on the table before him, was his attempt to mix human warmth into that endlessly cycling spiral. 14:09:55. It was time to die. Undertaker. If that regressor companion hadn’t given up yet, he could have completed the tutorial dungeon and arrived within ten minutes. The moment was ticking closer where it would be determined whether Schopenhauer was this world’s lone remaining regressor or if there were still two of them. “…….” He had to determine the future. “…….” With nothing left in his possession but this single phone in his aged hand. He had to determine the future. ‘Do I have the right to?’ A question already passed. ‘Do I have the strength for it.’ Yet another question already passed. ‘Is it something I want to do?’ Who did he wish to wait for? “…….” Schopenhauer waited for Adele. She said she would come. She was on her way, she would arrive. ‘Ah.’ Because he could wait for one person, Schopenhauer was finally able to embrace time. ‘Was I ever alive? Am I still?’ Tick. 14:10:00. The café door opened. A familiar silhouette of a man stood there. “…….” “…….” He seemed a little more steadfast and solid compared to how Schopenhauer remembered him. Although Schopenhauer couldn't quite pinpoint why, the man appeared a bit more at ease. Though Schopenhauer had considered the possibility of this day arriving, facing it now left him momentarily speechless. Perhaps the man felt the same. The man offered no greeting. Instead, he donned a barista apron behind the counter and began making coffee. His hands moved with skill. The action of heating the milk separately and the adept way he handled the tools were striking. The "him" Schopenhauer remembered had not been so proficient as a barista. Thud. The man set a cup of coffee on Schopenhauer's table. Café au lait. “Please enjoy, old man.” In German. “......” The person who had always required Schopenhauer to initiate conversations in Korean was now speaking to him in German, fluent as a native speaker. Time had no form. Yet, time was the barista’s uniform, the German pronunciation, and the aroma of a cup of café au lait. Though time was formless, it flowed, enveloping every piece of clothing, every voice, and every scent. The old Schopenhauer took a sip of the café au lait filled with time. "Ha." Laughter escaped him. The man was smiling too. “How is it?” “Damn, it's fucking delicious.” “I figured as much.” Listening to the laughter echoing like background music in the shop, Schopenhauer savored time once more. The coffee was exquisite. -The one who had been a companion. The End.