Drama Topic (1)

Nothing in this world lasts forever. That immutable truth applies even to nations that appear utterly indestructible.

Throughout history, countless kingdoms and empires had risen, flourished, and crumbled in an unending cycle, their legacies either claimed by those who followed or erased from the annals of time entirely. Wherever mortal beings gather, conflicts great and small inevitably take root; when those fissures widen beyond repair, collapse is merely a matter of time. This world was no different. Towering dynasties and vast realms had ruled the lands, only to vanish into the dust of forgotten eras.

While I had never harbored much interest in history back on Earth, being stranded in an entirely foreign world naturally sparked a flicker of curiosity.

Even if I had received a proper education, the ancient kingdoms I knew were Joseon, Goryeo, Goguryeo, Silla, and Baekje. Expanding my horizons just a little, there were the Mongols, Nazi Germany, Great Britain, and a handful of others. Pushing further back still might bring ancient Rome to mind, but that was where my reservoir ran dry. I had never been an academic enthusiast.

And most of what I do know came from aimlessly browsing internet forums anyway.

Certain historical nations attracted an unusual amount of online memes. Great Britain was the textbook example: the running joke held that whenever something atrocious happened anywhere across the globe, blaming Britain was almost guaranteed to hit the mark—the quintessential "Perfidious Albion" meme. Yet, while they had certainly committed their fair share of global mischief, another regime existed that made British imperialism look quaint by comparison: Nazi Germany, which turned wholesale slaughter into an efficient assembly-line industry. The undisputed pinnacle of modern madness.

And that was roughly the extent of my historical repertoire. When it came to the past of this fantasy realm, I was utterly clueless.

History buffs chimed in one after another in the comments section. To an outsider like me who possessed zero background knowledge, none of it registered with any weight. I considered searching the forum archives for context, but doing so meant risking losing track of the real-time conversation.

I don't even know who this Undying King fellow is supposed to be.

All I vaguely recalled was that Kadir, the Wizard King, had subjugated him. Beyond that solitary fact, I drew a complete blank—nor had I ever felt the slightest need to look deeper into it.

Thirty years was not a distant era. The scars left on this world were bound to run deep. On Earth, World War II had concluded nearly a century prior, and the Korean War—the bloodiest conflict in modern Korean history—occurred around seventy to eighty years ago. In practical terms, the living generation here had suffered directly under the Undying King's devastation. To the common populace, the name was likely still synonymous with raw, suffocating terror.

Still, none of it truly struck home. It sounded like campfire tales concerning distant, imaginary kingdoms. Perhaps being trapped inside the lethal confines of the Forest of the Four Seasons for so long had warped my sense of grounded reality—or perhaps it was simply because I was viewing everything through a digital interface. The words felt weightless on the screen. The Balkan Kingdom, the Undying King, ancient historical tragedies—none of it held any tangible meaning to me.

As I had reiterated time and again, keeping myself breathing was my paramount objective. I began flipping through the weathered pages, taking snapshots one by one. Photographing every leaf and binding and uploading the batch onto the Gallery would certainly consume time, which was precisely why I had rushed straight back to camp.

Should I just hand the physical books over to Allfather?

The thought crossed my mind, but in the end, I decided to post the images publicly. Brilliant as Allfather was, even an archmage might run into stumbling blocks when deciphering an extinct dialect. Throwing the material out into an open forum increased my chances of obtaining objective, crowdsourced knowledge. If someone provided breakthrough intelligence that significantly boosted my survival odds, parting with a single Adult Mandrake Root as compensation was a trade I would make in a heartbeat.

Of course, I'll filter out the fluid nicks.

A bizarre assortment of characters lurked in the forum, so paying heed to anonymous trolls was a recipe for disaster. Getting duped by fraudulent translations would only scramble my head. Even so, once the images were public, I still planned to deliver the actual physical copies to Allfather. Keeping them tucked in an Owlbear cave offered zero utility to me, and of all the academics on the forum, Allfather had proven himself the most reliable. Grand academic value and historical prestige meant nothing to me; pragmatic survival knowledge came first.

This guy was quite something, too. Clinging to life tooth and nail in a deathtrap like this, yet still keeping a daily journal.

I paused mid-turn and looked toward the burlap sack resting against the cave wall—the one cradling the skeleton. What kind of person had he been to survive in this nightmare of a forest against impossible odds, quietly penning his thoughts until the very end? Praying fervently that his notes held invaluable survival tips, I methodically photographed every inch of parchment. For ancient artifacts, they were remarkably well-preserved; barely a word was smudged or illegible.

Oh. What kind of plant is this?

While the opening volume consisted primarily of dense written script, the subsequent books contained hand-drawn illustrations. Several caught my eye as potentially vital for staying alive—sketches of peculiar flora and fauna, detailed drawings of specific terrain features, and regional landmarks. Because these visual aids directly addressed my current needs, I aligned each shot with extra precision.

"Aigoo. My neck."

Photographing the pages devoured most of the afternoon. Even so, the process moved comparatively fast because I didn't need to fumble with a handheld camera. All it took was turning a page and capturing it with my own eyes through the Gallery's integrated vision interface. My visual acuity was superhuman, which translated directly into pristine image resolution without motion blur. Superior eyesight equaled high-definition output.

Alright, time to dump these onto the Gallery.

I initiated the upload sequence. Some might wonder why I bothered with the hassle of posting them publicly instead of handing them straight to Allfather on a silver platter. They might not understand the value of crowdsourcing objective analysis, but to me, it felt like an instinctual necessity. A quiet hunch told me it had to be done this way.

I should make separate threads for each volume to keep things tidy.

The Gallery placed no hard ceiling on the number of photos one could upload in a single sitting. However, running the interface wasn't entirely free of magical energy, which imposed its own practical limitation. Every upload drained a miniscule trace of mana; larger batches of photos and high-resolution video clips exponentially increased the consumption rate.

After hitting publish on the initial thread, I proceeded to upload the remaining volumes one by one. Though it was tedious manual labor, completing the task brought a subtle sense of accomplishment. Once every snapshot was live on the forum, I opened the trade interface and initiated a transaction with Allfather.

Before three seconds had even ticked by, Allfather accepted the prompt.

He's always been an eccentric pervert. Let it slide.

If I let myself get flustered by his bizarre outbursts, I would only end up feeling like the odd man out.

I felt it was only right to know who he was. Having a name versus being an anonymous corpse made all the difference in the world. Fortunately, his identity had been penned across the opening page, and Allfather answered without missing a beat.

With the physical volumes transferred safely to Allfather, only one final duty remained on my checklist: giving the skeleton resting inside the sack a proper burial in a quiet, sunny spot.

Equipping myself with a shovel, a hammer, and the burlap bundle holding the remains, I stepped outside the camp.

A cross... no, a stone slab would be far better than a cross.

Erecting a Christian wooden cross alongside traditional ancestral rites felt like a bizarre, contradictory hybrid. It was far more appropriate to find a broad, flat stone and firmly anchor it into the ground.

Thwack! Shhk!

I drove the steel edge of the shovel into the loamy soil, digging a trench just long enough to accommodate the full length of a grown man's skeleton. Once the hole was cleared, laying the remains into the recess and heaping the dirt back over them would conclude the burial.

Strange how every single bone is still seamlessly connected.

Much like an anatomical specimen display in a science laboratory, the skeleton held its articulated shape without slipping apart. By all natural laws, decades of decomposition should have loosened every joint into a heap of disconnected bones, yet this frame remained completely intact. Lacking anatomical or magical expertise, I wondered if this was simply a peculiar property of bodies preserved in mana-dense environments, but it certainly made the handling process far less macabre. I gently lowered the skeleton into the grave and covered it with earth.

Thump! Pack! Thwack!

After packing the soil into a neat mound, I drove a broad stone marker into the earth at the head of the grave, tapping it firmly with the hammer to ensure wind and rain wouldn't topple it. The preparations were complete. Opening the auction house, I purchased a bottle of moderately priced liquor. I deliberately selected a brew from the Central Plains; an Eastern-style clear spirit felt far more respectful for an ancestral libation. Splashing ale or beer across a grave just felt fundamentally wrong.

Glug, glug, glug...

I poured the fragrant spirit in a steady stream over the headstone and the fresh earth, offering it to appease the lingering spirit. Dropping to my knees, I performed two deep, respectful bows. It was a rustic, cobbled-together funeral, but sincere reverence carried far more weight than rigid etiquette. Respect resided in the heart, not the ceremony. I truly believed that.

Ah. Right. The name.

I had nearly forgotten to carve his name onto the headstone—a careless blunder that almost rendered the marker meaningless. Gently ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠tipping the flat stone backward, I pulled up the auction house once more to purchase a simple pot of ink and a fine calligraphy brush. Naturally, I wrote the inscription in Korean Hangul. It was the only script I could wield with confidence.

The Last Scribe of the Balkan Kingdom. Lyse Kraone. Rests here.

That phrasing felt sufficient. Waiting until the black ink set into the porous surface, I drove the headstone back into the soil, anchoring it securely. My duty to the deceased was finished. As for burial goods... none were needed. The worn pendant that hung around the skeleton's neck had been left untouched, buried right alongside his chest. The solemn, makeshift funeral had officially concluded.

Just as I turned on my heel to head back to the warmth of the cave—

A raspy, ethereal whisper brushed against the back of my neck.

Instantly, an icy chill plunged down my spine, making every hair on my body stand on end. Startled out of my wits, I whirled around toward the fresh mound, my heart hammering against my ribs.

And yet...

"..."

Nothing moved. Not a single shadow shifted against the foliage, to the point where the ghostly utterance felt like an outright trick of the mind. Only the serene wilderness and the freshly carved stone greeted my gaze in silence.

...Am I finally losing it? Now I'm hearing phantom voices?

Rubbing my tired face with both palms, I trudged back toward the entrance of the cave camp. Despite gorging on nutrient-dense river eel earlier, my energy reserves felt mysteriously depleted.

I need a nap.

A thick, heavy exhaustion had settled deep within my bones, tugging my eyelids down before I even reached my bedding.

Meanwhile, as Grylls sank into deep slumber within his subterranean shelter...

An explosive revelation was beginning to unravel across the community.