WeTried Translations
Translator/Editor: ZERO_SUGAR
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◈ SSS-Class Revival Hunter ◈
Chapter 393: The Time He Waited, The Time He Walked (6)
──────
[Our sect is orthodox.]
VI.
His master began the conversation with these words.
[What is the orthodox path? How would you answer?]
Pondering over his master's question, he delved into thought. 'Righteous' means just and upright.
He answered as he thought.
[I believe it means to pursue what is correct.]
[What is correct?]
He contemplated before responding.
[It means something that is not wrong.]
[What is the difference between what is not wrong and what is wrong?]
He thought over it but could not find an answer.
His master lifted their bandaged hand and pointed in a certain direction.
[What does 'that' look like to you?]
He looked where his master pointed. Fleecy clouds drifted across a spring sky so intensely blue it seemed ready to split.
[It looks like clouds.]
[Right. They are clouds.]
The master nodded and asked again.
[How do 'they' appear to you?]
This question plunged him into deep thought again.
It was after some time that he responded.
[They look pitiable.]
[Why so?]
[Because they occupy such a vast sky all alone.]
[Hmmm.]
A horizontal slit opened across the master's featureless face. It was a smile.
The master settled into a hunched crouch and said,
[What you first described is 'righteous.' ]
Calling a cloud a cloud is not wrong, said his master.
[Seeing all things in heaven and earth for what they are. Accepting them as they are. Mountains are mountains, clouds are clouds, wind is wind, and water is water. This is the mindset of the orthodox path.]
Pffft.
The reed held between lips devoid of eyes and nose moved like a smoking pipe.
[What you said next was 'wayward.']
Imposing one's feelings onto a cloud is incorrect, the master stated.
[Why is the sky so clear? Because it does not understand my feelings. Why does the cloud drift alone? Because it sympathizes with my plight... Through such a gaze, such an interpretation, mountains cannot be mountains and water cannot be water. This is the mindset of the demonic path.]
Chewing on the reed, the master elaborated.
[In other words, the orthodox path empties the self to contain the world, while the demonic path uses the self as a rope to bind itself to the world.]
[.......]
[Both have clear limitations. In the world of the orthodox path, a mountain is only a mountain and cannot be bound to me. Conversely, in the world of the demonic path, all creation cannot exist apart from me.]
While listening to the master’s explanation, he thought about those who had forged him and those he had slain.
The master showed their bandaged fist.
[I hit your head, because it was part of our sect's initiation process. Why do you think such a procedure exists?]
[To empty the mind.]
He answered and, with a respectful posture, added,
[Because only when empty can it be filled.]
[That is correct.]
The master nodded.
[It’s difficult for a person to see a mountain simply as a mountain due to the contexts ingrained in their minds. It’s necessary to cut off these contexts at least once. You, being of special origin, needed to be hit more.]
[I thought it was because my head was hard.]
[That was part of the reason, too.]
Silence lingered for a moment.
The master chuckled and then removed the reed from their mouth, holding it between their index and middle finger.
[Thus, I have emptied you, my disciple. But do not misunderstand. Both righteousness and sorcery have their values, as much as they have their limits. In other words, both are dangerous if taken to extremes.]
[By dangerous, you mean…]
[Imagine a renowned orthodox martial artist. This illustrious martial artist has all but reached the realm of an immortal and can see human beings as nothing more than human beings. A person mourning a long-awaited child lost to an untimely death and a person born into wealth who has never known deprivation are, in their eyes, merely two identical human beings.]
The master sighed.
[As one becomes accustomed to seeing the world as it is, they eventually come to regard everything as non-entities. Truly, one who sees all as equal is incapable of empathy and becomes a monster detached from humanity.]
After clearly stating this, the master looked at him intently.
[Do not become such.]
[.......]
[I took you as my disciple. I emptied you. You were forged in the very heart of the demonic path, and I will teach you how to see the world as it is. But, my disciple! That 'world' includes the hearts of those who forged you and even the feelings you hold toward them.]
With their sword serving as a cane, the master spoke.
[The loneliness you’ve harbored until now is also part of this world. It need not be overvalued nor discarded. Accept its weight as it is.]
The master's sword pointed towards the cloud drifting across the sky.
[Accept it!]
He saw it.
[Accept the world, accept yourself!]
He did so.
[AAAAAAARGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!]
He stood up abruptly and took a deep breath. He opened his mouth and screamed.
A roar filled with a spring-killing fervor echoed far and wide.
It did not show on his face. Even as he screamed with all his might, only his brows drew together slightly. No tears fell, and so there were no sobs.
But it was his scream.
[Yes.]
The master nodded.
[Spit it out. Cry. Do not discard what you inherited, but make room for other things to enter. After that, I will teach you...]
The master spoke with renewed vigor.
[How to smile.]
The master kept their promise.
6.
[Key formation complete.]
This time, the tower's declaration came swiftly, echoing immediately as they stepped onto the 96th floor.
[The number of works depicting your life, the number of people who have seen these works, and among them, the number of people whose lives have been changed due to these works, meet the required criteria.]
[The 96th floor stage has been cleared!]
Thus, the staircase leading to the 97th floor appeared.
However, the one who heard the tower's declaration did not step toward the staircase. Instead, they quietly followed the Earth Spirit cartoonist.
The Earth Spirit cartoonist was holed up in their workshop, lamenting their fate.
"Fuck. I may be broke, but that doesn't mean I have no pride, does it? No. Fine. In this world, if you have no money, you lose your pride too. I know that. I do, but still, I really... Ah, should I just climb the tower? Learn martial arts and become an adventurer?"
Just as beasts wear a game trail through the places they frequent, repeated lamentations acquire a polish of their own. The cartoonist's complaints were well practiced and flowed smoothly even without alcohol.
"Why did I choose a pen instead of a sword? Why did I smear ink instead of blood?"
Their gaze shifted from their own manuscript to the comic magazine released this month. The cover featured a character from the comic by Kim Seul-Lam or Park Seul-Lam, who supposedly built a building in Paradise.
Their self-pity quickly turned to resentment towards others.
"Envious… damn bastard. I wish others would just like what I enjoy drawing too. Damn it. Everyone else lives as they please, so why do I have to suffer like this…"
Jealousy weighs down the heart. After grinding their teeth, the Earth Spirit cartoonist finally exhausted themself and slumped over their worktable. Through their head, now as heavy as waterlogged cotton, passed God Gong-Ja, the Black Dragon Master laughing hohoho, and the Tower Master repeatedly changing from a hypercube into a bearded old man and back into a hypercube. Then they faded away.
Snores filled the small workshop.
[You may enter the 97th floor at any time.]
Someone quietly observed the cartoonist, now lost in sleep.
The cartoonist couldn’t feel that gaze. Not because they were asleep, but because no one in this world could feel that gaze.
Yet, the gaze was undoubtedly fixed on the cartoonist. Its owner was clearly present in the same room as the cartoonist.
-.......
In this world, an intangible hand touched the cartoonist's shoulder.
It moved up and down.
As if comforting, the hand gently soothed the sleeping cartoonist.
-.......
The lips of the hand's owner moved slightly.
The voice did not reach the cartoonist. Nor could the touch have reached them. Existing on different planes, that comfort could never be conveyed and should therefore have been meaningless, destined to fade without leaving a trace.
-.......
But that wasn’t the case.
-......, ......, ..............
No concrete message descended like a divine revelation. The cartoonist did not suddenly awaken a skill, nor did their mind travel back in time carrying ideas for comics destined to become hits.
Instead, each time the hand caressed their shoulder, the cartoonist's breath became more peaceful.
Jealousy subsided, and resentment faded.
-.......
That night, the cartoonist had a dream.
It was a disjointed dream... There was a man... a human man... shut inside a cubbyhole even smaller than the cartoonist's workshop, pouring out his complaints and lamentations about the world... everything outside the tower was unfair... everything inside the tower was absurd... it seemed there was nowhere the man belonged....
Suddenly, this inconsequential man received a skill.
A skill that suited him perfectly… as if someone had watched him for a long time and crafted it specifically for him, it fit so well it was hard to believe it wasn’t made just for him… if there was anything special about the skill, it was only because it was created solely for him… the skill encapsulated his life….
Perhaps the man was not alone.
Even while kneeling in lamentation, even while spewing resentment towards the world, the man was not alone. Someone was with him. The man didn’t feel it at the time, but now, he knew it. Clearly, without a doubt.
-For you.
The man, while comforting the cartoonist, slightly parted his lips.
-May fortune be with you.
The cartoonist sprang up.
As if they had seen a ghost, they looked around. Inside the darkened workshop, they were alone. At least, that’s how they perceived it.
"......."
Pondering over the dream they just had, the cartoonist thought for a long time. Like the sigh of an old woman dissolving into the winter wind, they desperately clung to and pieced together the fleeting contents of the dream, imagining a story.
Initially, they weren’t sure, but the images gradually became bold and vivid.
The cartoonist nodded, then made a phone call.
“Hello, editor?”
“Author?”
The irritable voice of the Elf, just awoken from sleep, came through.
“What’s this about at this hour?”
“Ah."
The cartoonist's face flushed. It was dawn.
“Sorry… should I call back later?”
A groan came from the other end.
“No, it’s not the first time… just go ahead. What is it, author?”
The cartoonist's face turned red for a different reason before they cleared their throat.
“It’s about the comic…”
“Ah, yes. Hmm. I’ve thought about it too, but what if instead of a beautiful boy Tower Master, we have a cute mascot animal with a jewel on its forehead...”
“Can I redraw it?”
Silence echoed.
The cartoonist waited anxiously for the response, which came after a while.
“Redraw?”
The tone was unreadable over the phone. From that response, the cartoonist couldn’t tell if the editor was angry, shocked, or simply curious.
Feeling somewhat defensive, the cartoonist explained,
“Yes… I think I can draw something better than what I showed you…”
Silence again.
The cartoonist hurriedly added,
“No, it’s just… I really think I can do much better than yesterday’s…”
“Are you sure?”
This time, the cartoonist was silent.
The editor pressed,
“So, are you certain?”
The cartoonist thought deeply. Was they sure? Was they confident in this path?
Was they sure of this premise?
It was uncertain. Confidence? They had never been confident about choosing the path of an artist. Whether those who design their lives with clear vision truly exist in this world is something the cartoonist didn’t know.
But still…
Despite that…
“I can take responsibility.”
The cartoonist answered with their head bowed.
A long silence.
Finally, the voice on the other end let out a sigh.
“You should be making some money by now…”
The cartoonist understood that tone. With a voice half embarrassed and half excited, they said,
“I will make money. I should be able to... probably.”
“Probably? What does that mean…”
“Please help me.”
The cartoonist said.
“Just help me a little.”
Silence flowed between them over the phone.
In the end, as history often records, the Elf conceded first.
“Sigh, really.”
The editor lamented.
“Alright. I’ll wait.”
Joy bloomed on the cartoonist's face.
“Thank you!”
“If you’re really thankful, make it a hit. Let me finally get some bonuses.”
“I’ll do my best…”
“Yeah. I’m hanging up.”
The call ended.
Placing down the phone, the cartoonist nodded. They neatly folded the manuscript they had drawn last time, stored it away in a drawer, and picked up their pen. Their fingers, more excited than their heart, tapped the blank manuscript paper with the pen.
They still wasn’t sure, but this time, the feeling was good. Really good.
-.......
A similar feeling was shared by another.
He watched the cartoonist begin their work. The pen raced across the paper so swiftly it seemed not one but six pens were at work, and the expressions of the characters, unconsciously mimicked by the cartoonist's face, felt not singular but triple. Engrossed in their work as if possessed, the cartoonist's dedication was a true reflection of their race's name, Asura.
Perhaps the cartoonist won't earn as much as they hoped.
They might be disappointed by the reaction of the people, and despair over their own capabilities.
But after overcoming all those hardships, they should be able to produce a work they feels they did their best on.
The cartoonist themself didn’t know this. Nor did the editor.
But the one accompanying them knew it well.
-.......
Like a cloud drifting across the spring sky, the warm gaze swept over the cartoonist once and turned away.
[You are entering the 97th floor.]
The end was nearing.
here...
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