WeTried Translations

Translator: ZEROSUGAR

Editor: Abstract

Discord: https://dsc.gg/wetried

Chapter 339: The past (Complete)

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Zetter couldn't find a trace of the President. That Michael Zetter couldn't find him meant there was no trace anywhere online, no public appearances, and not a single witness. He had already combed through airport databases and reviewed every scrap of minor news.

"..."

The one clue he could find was that world leaders had all headed to China at the same time. Their stated reasons differed, and their scheduled stays differed too, but it was obvious that they were all gathered in China now, and once they'd actually arrived, their movements went dark.

At this point it was clear. Some group of leaders had gathered and was doing something in China. Probably trying to use the Book of Truth.

China was an unusually strange presence among the countries registered with the Player Association. Relative to its population, the players registered with the Association were uniformly weak, and their numbers were relatively low too. The most likely guess was that the government was directly cultivating promising players on its own, but nothing had been confirmed.

Probably, they were climbing the Tower as their own organized teams. There had been testimony of unfamiliar Asian players spotted on Floor 26, so it was likely true.

Either way, China was a country where the Association's reach carried no weight, and there was nothing Zetter could do. He could probably find what he needed by storming in and smashing things up. Threaten a few people, kill a few, torture some, extract the information, and it would be possible. He even thought it might be the efficient way to do it. He didn't know what the President was planning. Did the lives of a few innocent Chinese citizens really matter more?

"Investigate more thoroughly."

But that had been the old Zetter's way of thinking. Now, he tried as hard as he could to find the President through the most peaceful means possible.

"Any word?"

"...Nothing."

Of course, despite all his effort, the President could not be found.

-I would like to meet.

And in the middle of all this, the regressor called for him.

"Zetter. Do you know why we asked to meet?"

"I've heard the gist of it. It's about Miss Su-hee, isn't it."

He couldn't tell them the truth about Dok Su-hee. Not yet. He wasn't ready to reveal the whole truth.

"You had no intention of hurting us?"

"None whatsoever. If anything, I'd say I've been acting on your behalf all along."

"Is it true that you have nothing to do with what Su-hee did on Floor 26?"

"I can't say I have nothing to do with it. But I never gave her any order to do it."

This was... covering one lie with another. Judging by their resolute expressions, they'd probably prepared some kind of notebook that could tell truth from lies. But now that Zetter knew about it, there was no way he'd get caught. The Adaptation trait picked out, with perfect efficiency, exactly what words would let him slip past this moment.

But was this right? Was this really the right path? Deceiving them, lying to them, to the very end, and, and...

"I'm rooting for both of you. I'll take my leave now."

When he came back to himself, Zetter was already back in his office.

"..."

He hadn't told the truth. He hadn't confessed everything to them.

Right. Once Zetter finished cleaning everything up. Once he reconciled with Dok Su-hee, found the President, and successfully persuaded him not to use the Book of Truth. Then, he would tell them everything, openly, proudly. That such and such had happened.

Yes... that would be enough.

Zetter didn't realize it.

"...This is right."

That this, of all things, was the very height of inefficiency.

* * *

Some time passed. Zetter's search made no progress, the world buzzed with speculation as heads of state everywhere went dark all at once, and the mood inside America grew worse by the day.

"Aren't you in the middle of a war?"

"I've found some breathing room."

Emotionally exhausted, Michael Zetter went to see Kim Jun-ho and unburdened himself.

"To be honest with you. I've given up on seeing the Tower's summit myself. I'm not qualified. A leader who doubts himself shouldn't be leading anyone. I've lost faith in myself."

"...Mr. Zetter."

"I ask myself every day: would things be fine without me? I think they probably would be. Just having that proof is enough for me."

After confessing, rather bluntly, to the regressor: I'm not the one who can do this. You have to be the one.

Around the time the regressor finally struck down the Heavenly Demon and headed for Floor 29. The first day he reached the base where the Hero was staying.

"Preparations are complete."

In China, in an underground warehouse, the President of the United States nodded. Naturally, it was a warehouse the Chairman had provided.

The Chairman had believed, from the moment the President first brought up "the regressor," that the regressor should not be left alone. If he could be used, he should be used, no question. Why leave him be?

To begin with, that man had started with nothing. No talent, no money, nothing at all, and just because he happened to stumble into a good ability by sheer luck, did that mean he deserved respect? To the Chairman, who had clawed his way up through a brutal life to reach his current position, the regressor looked like nothing more than a monkey who'd gotten lucky and picked up a jewel. That was, without question, a "waste."

"This much, really..."

"Astonishing."

Setting the Chairman's personal opinion aside. Right now, this underground warehouse held a truly staggering amount of wealth. Gold, the most fundamental of it, of course, along with items, and all manner of other metals holding their own value. All of it, a sacrifice meant for the Book of Truth.

In truth, offering material to the Book of Truth could be done remotely, but some leaders couldn't make it to this location in person, and since this warehouse had originally been built to store China's own wealth, this whole spectacle had come together here. Whatever the reason, most of the leaders present lost their words entirely at the overwhelming sight before them, jaws hanging open.

"Mr. President."

"..."

"Mr. President?"

"Ah. What is it."

The President, who had been silently gazing at the warehouse, finally answered his secretary. He answered with a smile, certainly, but for some reason, the secretary swallowed hard at the sight of that smile.

The glistening look in his eyes, the grotesque twist at the corner of his mouth, there was something overwhelming about him.

Yes. The President really had lost himself in it. Only three words existed inside his head now. The regressor.

At first, it had simply been curiosity.

Simple curiosity, that something like this was possible, that the existence of a regressor could even be known. The reckless thrill of being able to use the Book of Truth, which offered infinite information. That's all it had been, really. In fact, the President had let go of the thought once. Regressor or not, America mattered more, he'd told himself.

Then Zetter drew up his plan, got swept up in it, and once the regressor's existence was confirmed for real... of course every ounce of his attention had locked onto it. A power this immense, it would be strange not to pay attention. Time travel was a power that could rewrite everything. Watching the owner of a power like that closely was inevitable. Any ruler worth the title would do the same.

But now.

"Preparations are complete, correct?"

The President had become obsessed with the regressor. If anyone had watched him closely, they would probably have said, "He's lost his mind."

He had reached his limit. He had done everything he could to adapt to a changing world, but an aging politician couldn't move mechanically the way Zetter did.

With an old man's stamina, he ran the country on three hours of sleep a night. A wave of superhumans had appeared, and he'd had to study them, control them, and use them, all at once. His body had been screaming, but he'd endured it until now.

Assassination attempts that modern science couldn't prevent had grown more frequent. Thanks to the players Zetter had dispatched, his life had been saved so far, but he couldn't even go to the bathroom in the White House freely anymore. Every single moment, his life was under threat.

The crime rate had exploded. Police manpower had hit its limit, public anger fell squarely on the President, and the gap in public safety was being patched over by the goodwill of players. At the same time, resentment toward the government kept growing, and the President had to solve all of it within a limited budget.

On top of all that, the entire country, the Association included, groaned that they needed more money, and the Fed Chair clung to his pant leg, warning that printing more money now would turn the dollar into scrap paper. And on top of everything else, he had to worry about the regressor too. The President's mind had already been pushed to its absolute limit. There was simply too much to consider, too much to worry about.

Still, there had been hope. He'd believed that someday, the regressor and Michael Zetter would bring an end to it all. That the players, at the very least, would solve the extinction of mankind, and that afterward, his own efforts would finally be repaid. He'd believed history would remember him as "the great President who worked to protect order."

"Heh heh..."

Who would have thought that Michael Zetter, the partner he trusted most, the steady guardian he believed in, was an insane psychopath. Who would have thought that with every American already offered up, his own afterlife had been stripped away. That ten percent of his remaining life had been taken from him.

Because he wasn't a fool. Because his sense of responsibility ran deep. Because he'd wanted to build a better society. Because he'd believed he had to be the one. Because he knew too much. Because, in the middle of all that, he'd glimpsed hope.

The President broke.

The delusion that Zetter would drive a wedge between them. The delusion that the regressor would fall for Zetter's sweet talk. The delusion that he himself would exit the stage in disgrace. The desperate urgency to do something, anything.

By now, all that remained in him was the wish to end it. Even though he himself had no power to end anything.

"Book of Truth."

The regressor would do it. He would solve everything. Conquer the Tower, stabilize society, wipe out all crime. Because he was the regressor. Because he was the regressor, it had to be possible. That was what he believed.

"I will offer everything here. Regressor, Kim Jun-ho, tell me the fastest way for him to climb the Tower. Tell me how he can become the strongest."

Finding out how the regressor could grow stronger. That was the only action left that the President could take.

"There is no response."

"...I see."

Of course. The Book of Truth didn't answer. And it wasn't only America. China, France, Korea, Germany, Russia, the UK, India, countless nations scraped together every resource they had and offered it up, and still the Book of Truth didn't answer. The value of a question about the regressor was worth more than all these nations combined.

Of course, the President had more or less expected this much. Why else would Zetter have offered up American citizens in the first place? How else did people think the trace left in the Book of Truth had been carved?

"Let's offer up the criminals."

"Sir?"

"Criminals. Let's offer them to the Book of Truth. Starting with death row inmates."

The leaders who had hesitated soon agreed. (The President, notably, didn't bring up the risks of offering human beings.)

"...Still no answer."

Even after offering all this wealth plus the death row inmates, the Book of Truth still didn't answer.

"Then let's offer the serious offenders."

Still, the Book of Truth didn't answer.

"Those serving twenty years or more."

Still.

"Ten years or more."

Still.

"Those currently incarcerated."

By this point, even the assembled leaders had begun to hesitate.

"Wouldn't this turn the regressor against us instead?"

"Isn't this going a bit too far?"

"Are you certain time actually resets? Because this... there'd be no cleaning this up afterward."

The President didn't know the conditions for regression. All he knew was that Kim Jun-ho wasn't home right now. He didn't even know whether the regressor could undo any of this.

"Yes. It resets."

But he believed it. He believed the regressor could do it. It was a thoroughly blind belief, a fanatical belief. There was no real reason behind it. He simply believed.

"I-Is that so."

"Understood..."

But that unshakable conviction, ironically, gave the other leaders confidence. When someone at the level of the President of the United States spoke like that, they assumed he must know something they didn't.

Because it was the President who had built up trust by making use of the Book of Truth all along. Because it was the President who had first revealed the regressor's existence. Because it was the President who had carried the role of world leader well, up to this point. So the other leaders followed his lead. They interpreted what he was doing now as part of the promise he'd made in an earlier meeting, that he would inform everyone before taking action.

Yes, if anyone in the room could be called a regressor expert, it was the American President. Better to trust him than anyone else, since this was completely uncharted territory, and so the other leaders agreed.

And so the definition of "criminal" kept expanding, further and further, and in the end, on top of every person who had ever received a sentence of ten years or more, China offered up its own "citizens the state didn't need," and the tally of sacrifices was finally, barely enough.

The Book of Truth finally answered.

□The more people who depend on the regressor, the stronger he becomes.□

"...Depend?"

"He gets stronger the more we depend on him?"

"Then we know what to do."

The President smiled.

"Let's make a video and spread it. About the regressor."

Footnotes:

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