WeTried Translations

Translator: ZERO_SUGAR

Editor: LiteraryGirl

Discord: https://dsc.gg/wetried

◈ I'm an Infinite Regressor, But I've Got Stories to Tell

Chapter 344

──────

The Inviter I

The Great Witch of Samcheon World.

My guild master.

Let’s talk about Dang Seo-rin.

A regressor and an Undertaker. The sole survivor of the Busan Station tutorial dungeon.

That was the honor bestowed upon me in my 4th run. A bloodstained name.

It must have been raining that day.

Oh Dok-seo still needed thousands of years before she would Awaken as the Book Possessor.

Sim Ah-ryeon would later be reborn as the savior of the North.

At that point, Lee Jae-hee was still active as a frontline swordsman in the Regressor’s party.

Uehara Shino personally risked her life to taste-test and concoct tonics out of the Void vegetation that grew in the tutorial dungeon.

Seo Gyu, I didn’t get a chance to learn his name before his head burst open.

Lee Baek always stirred up trouble in the tutorial dungeon.

I couldn’t share any genuine bonds, create any real memories, or live any real life with them. All of them died too soon, to a world fallen to ruin. In a season of drought where any harvest was slow to yield, only death ripened prematurely.

I had nothing in those days.

Nothing but anger and hatred.

Even if the sky poured down rain, the flames devouring the wick of my soul would never go out, burning on endlessly.

"Those eyes of yours are just dripping with poison, huh?"

Footsteps.

You stepped forward, trailing your shadow behind you. The boundary your black leather boots stepped upon lay at the edge of a single pyeong radius where the sound of my burning heartbeat reached.[1]

“So you're the one they talk about, right?”

I couldn’t recall your voice or expression of that moment, nor the hue of the thunderclouds raining down, nor the angle at which you offered me your umbrella.

For me, a regressor who needed to remember everything, another death was still required.

“The one who survived from Busan Station—almost the only one. Word is it had the highest difficulty among the tutorial-stage Gates. Some hellscape you made it through... Your name?”

My mouth opened, then halted. Something tried to jump out of my throat but got stuck in my vocal cords. I tried coughing out a few breaths, but my voice, having tripped once, couldn’t get back up.

I truly had nothing.

Not even a name.

“...Undertaker. It’s an alias.”

“So, someone who buries people?”

You liked to assign meaning to everything.

You called emptiness—where no crops could ever be harvested—“the open sky” and rose into that sky on a broom that only swept up dust.

You called the scrap metal that could no longer run anywhere “a train” and made it your home.

Because there wasn’t enough water to wash one’s hair, people stubbornly took to wearing hats all the time, and you adopted those battered hats as your guild’s symbol.

Since there wasn’t enough water to wash clothes, people grew accustomed to covering themselves fully, and you called those ragged coats “capes” and loved them.

You were alive.

“Not bad. A person is only as deep as the number of corpses they’ve buried in their heart.”

Only later did I learn that the corpses buried in your heart were your parents and three younger siblings.

“So what do you say? Wanna join my guild?”

In the cold rain, your breath bloomed pale and white.

To my eyes, it looked just like a signal of smoke, drifting in the hope that some other survivor out there might see it.

If there was white smoke in this world that even rain could not wash away, it would be human breath.

“...What’s your guild called?”

“Samcheon World. Samcheon for short.”

I sometimes wonder what conversation passed between us then.

Now and then, I’m curious, yet not terribly lonely. At the time, my timeline hadn’t been completely devoured by the whirlpool of regression. The better half of me—or perhaps just the soles of my feet—still barely stood on the same plane of time as other people.

So even the fact that I forgot you sometimes, as well as the memories I held of you, were proof that we once shared that era together.

“Undertaker. Help me... I need your strength.”

You bowed at the waist and held out your hand.

Even if every word and sentence were erased, the color known as “you” still remained, and within that dark sky, we sought the feeling of one another like castaways sent adrift from each other.

Can I entrust my life to you?

Yes, I’ll keep it safe.

I grasped your hand. You set aside your umbrella and helped me up.

We were too powerless to lessen the rain falling endlessly on this world, not even by a drop. But I could promise that my heart would be submerged in the same rainfall soaking you.

My last was memory this:

Two tendrils of smoke lit up in the dark sky. Two silhouettes overlapping in a rain puddle.

“Then, let’s go.”

“...Where?”

“Home!”

It rained.

Yesterday, today, and tomorrow.

The rain was still cold.

But not so cold as to freeze two people’s worth of body heat.

Today’s episode is a bit special.

“Saintess.”

[Yes?]

“I have a favor to ask.”

[What is it?]

In this story, I didn’t go out to hunt any Anomalies or subdue any Void. I didn’t observe or save anyone.

It was just a story of me heading off to meet someone. That was all.

Perhaps, this story might not strictly meet the standard narrative conventions that Infinite Metagame obsesses over. But the treaty of surrender already featured the line I wrote that says, “Sign here! The Admin of the Infinite Metagame is... just a slightly more powerful laptop.” Why care about that when it’s already been undone by that big distortion?

“For one day, please refrain from using your Clairvoyance on me.”

[...]

“Not just on me, but please do not share the viewpoint of anyone I meet as well.”

I sensed hesitation in her silence.

Given our lack of real trust, it was hardly surprising. We’d only formed our alliance right after clearing the tutorial with the Saintess, just yesterday.

[Of course, I respect your wishes, Mr. Undertaker.]

[But I’d feel better if you shared why you need to hide something from me.]

“It’s nothing serious. I’m about to meet someone from a past life, and it would be embarrassing if you were watching.”

[Ah. If it’s that sort of thing,] the Saintess replied calmly. [All right. So I just have to stop observing for 24 hours, correct?]

“That would be enough. Thank you.”

[No need to thank me.]

[See you in 24 hours, Mr. Undertaker.]

A soft click signaled the end of our transmission.

Of course, since the Saintess’s Telepathy isn’t like a walkie-talkie, there’s no real “end-call” tone.

That little click was made by the Saintess herself tapping her tongue on the roof of her mouth.

It was like a small code between us, whenever we sensed our conversation nearing an end, one of us would make that clicking sound with the tongue.

If, by any chance, you Awaken to telepathic powers someday, this tiny life tip might prove useful... but let’s move on.

“Hmm.”

I finished showering and stood before the mirror. I ran my fingers through my still-damp hair in light strokes.

“Time to begin.”

“Hey, you’re so dull.”

“What?”

“Undertaker. I’m talking about you. You’re so dull.”

“...”

“Why don’t you cut your hair? Are you trying to grow it out? Do you realize unkempt long hair is practically a capital offense?”

“True. I’m part of an organization now, so going around like this doesn’t look good. I’ll cut it. I was being short-sighted.”

“Yes, good thinking. There’s a barbershop at that intersection that our guild members often use. The owner’s pretty nice.”

...

“No!”

“...?”

“Now it’s way too short?!”

“...Is there a problem?”

“Of course there’s a problem! My gosh! That’s practically a shaved head! I never told you to cut your hair shorter just because your vision of the future is short-sighted!”

“Long hair is an issue, short hair is an issue. I have no idea which tune I’m supposed to dance to.”

“Listen, there’s something called moderation in everything. With a face like yours, you should at least keep your hair so it doesn’t get in the way!”

“Self-care... in this day and age? That’s quite extravagant to—”

“If I say do it, do it. I can’t stand seeing a guild member of mine roaming around looking like a beggar. And plus... come to think of it, you. There’s something else short about you besides your thinking and your hair, isn’t there?”

“What else could that be?”

“Your speech.”

“...”

“Formal speech.”

“...”

“Do you want to wear a pointy hat?”

“I’m sorry, Guild Leader.”

“Hmph. Next time, let’s cut your hair with moderation, okay?”

“...Yes.”

That happened once.

“Great.”

I looked into the mirror. In it stood a man with quickly trimmed hair and neatly shaped eyebrows, standing upright.

Just as a dog that watches a school for three years can recite poetry, after hundreds of regressions, I could style my own hair perfectly.

I turned my head this way, then that way.

“Mm.”

Looks good.

After finishing with my hair, I applied a light sheen of lotion all over. Basic makeup had already been finished off by washing my face earlier.

The perfume came a little later.

On to the next step.

With a rattle, I opened my closet. Inside were various barista uniforms I’d gathered from (closed-down) cafés in Seoul and Busan, all hung up by type.

I stared at roughly sixteen different barista outfits, then paused.

Barista uniforms are more diverse than you might think, unlike the more standardized butler attire. The single most crucial element is the apron.

Do I go with a style that includes an apron or something closer to a bartender’s vest? And if I do pick the apron, what sort of style should it be?

This is a very important matter. You could say there’s no issue more pressing than this.

If Rodin had known about barista uniforms, he would surely have put an apron on his sculptures.[2]

‘But no. Today, I’ll go with...’

Decision made.

I reached into the closet.

“Undertaker. What do you do?”

“...”

“I said, what do you do, huh?”

“What is it this time? More— I mean... Guild Leader? We have a meeting soon with the people from Cheong-un Guild, remember?”

“Were you about to call it nonsense— No, bullshit? Huh?”

“No, absolutely not.”

“Pointy hat.”

“Yes, that’s correct. I’m sorry.”

...

“Ugh.”

“Look, all our guild members are required to wear witch hats and carry brooms, but you’re the only one wandering around dressed like a Muggle.”

“Yes, I am a Muggle. I can’t use magic, I’m lower than a Squib. I am truly grateful that the Great Witch of Samcheon World, with a heart more cunning than Slytherin and more brilliant than Ravenclaw, would kindly look upon me.”

“Heh heh.”

...

“Argh, no, that’s not what I meant! Honestly. Listening to your flattery can be hypnotizing, you cunning Tongue Grand Wizard!”

“...What exactly is it, then? We really do have to go soon. The meeting time is approaching.”

“Undertaker. You’re a guild officer, but dressing like a Muggle doesn’t set a good example for the others.”

“Mm.”

“Just yesterday, an owl delivered a Howler.”

“A Howler... you mean the wooden owl figurine containing the guild members’ petition, yes?”

“Yeah. They complained about how ‘Lord Undertaker’ roams around freely while they have to wear witch outfits every day. My goodness! Reading that letter made me feel faint. I, Dang Seo-rin, the master of Samcheon World, shall address this matter sternly.”

“...”

“...”

“Even so, witch cos— witch outfits are a bit...”

“You were about to say ‘costumes,’ weren’t you?”

“Certainly not. It’s a misunderstanding, Great Witch.”

“You wanna die?”

“Yesterday, I managed to find a Ford Anglia while roaming a haunted mansion. The moment I saw it, I realized only the majestic presence of our Great Witch of Samcheon World could handle such a remarkable car. Please accept it as my tribute.”

“Undertaker. I name you an honorary witch.”

“It is an honor spanning three lifetimes—”

“No, that’s not it at all!”

“...”

“Ugh, seriously. Fine, if you can’t wear a witch hat, I’ll graciously forgive you! But at least pick some uniform that’d make the others go all approving when they see it.”

“A suit is also a uniform.”

“Guess what? A school uniform is a uniform, too.”

“...”

“Want me to just stick you in my sibling’s uniform?”

“Pardon me, but which sibling’s uniform do you mean—your younger brother’s or your younger sisters’?”

“Here.”

“...?”

“Roll the dice.”

“...”

“If it lands on one or two, my younger brother’s. Anything else is my younger sisters’ uniforms. Oh, don’t worry about sizing. I’ll hand it off to a tailor.”

“...I promise I’ll find a suitable uniform that sets a proper example. Soon.”

“All right.”

That happened too.

Okay.

“You’ve been chosen.”

A thick, white, cotton dress shirt.

Bright white, but not too glaring, with thick cotton so the folds of the shirt crease nicely. To offset the plainness of the color with the folds, I rolled the sleeves up to my forearms.

There was another reason for this choice: It naturally showed off my arm muscles.

Let us remember, in fashion, a touch of exposed skin is a bonus.

‘And I’ll match it with simple black pants and a black apron.’

A barista apron can easily slip into tackiness, but that didn’t matter. I wanted to be seen not as a fashionably balanced passerby, but as a “barista who just stepped out of the café” for a moment. In other words, to give the impression of a man stepping out from work rather than going out to play.

Poetically, not the image of someone “lost with nowhere to go,” but rather “lost though there was somewhere he should return.”

Hence, rolling up my sleeves to bare my forearms was crucial. It relaxed the rigid impression of a uniform.

A wristwatch is enough for accessories. And not a metal watch, but one with a leather strap. Small in size.

‘She actually prefers a pocket watch much more, but...’

This was only the first meeting. If I showed up perfect from the start, it’d be off-putting.

We were both people who had lost our way, whose paths just so happened to intersect. We didn’t have to be perfect.

We weren’t players competing to determine a winner or loser.

We were simply an inviter and a visitor.

Hiss.

Finally, I chose a perfume and lightly spritzed some behind my ears—done.

In the mirror stood the person you used to like.

‘Well.’

Were you nervous? I know I was.

Time only truly becomes life when it’s accompanied by the sound of one’s heartbeat—that’s what you taught me.

‘All right, off we go...’

Come to think of it...

I’ve mentioned countless stories shared with Dang Seo-rin, yet never once have I described the exact moment I first crossed paths with her.

Why hide it?

Until the distortion of Infinite Metagame was severed, I’d maintained my silence about this moment.

I, too, learned a thing or two about waiting from her.

‘Time to go... get lost.’

I’m on my way to see you now.

Footnotes:

[1] Translator’s Note: 1 pyeong ≈ 3.3 square meters. A Korean unit of area.

[2] François Auguste René Rodin was a French sculptor generally considered the founder of modern sculpture.

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