The Filth Jar's Cloned World

The Filth Jar 098. A public notice was posted throughout the seahorse city of Al-Alsa-da, and a large-scale recruitment of Ghost Shamans began. Rumors spread that this would be the first major achievement since their migration to the Equator, drawing in a flood of seahorse applicants.

“Good heavens, we already have over 150 applicants.”

“At that rate, isn’t it basically everyone?”

“Yes. In truth, every seahorse except those holding high offices like the Seahorse King has applied. Many are idle because positions are being reorganized after the migration.”

I frowned. An event—especially the final event of a stage—was never something to take lightly. Incompetent participants would only add to the body count.

“Re-announce that we’re only selecting one. Filter out anyone unverified from the documents.”

“Just one? Wouldn’t it be better to bring more if we’re going anyway? One seems far too few.”

“We’re taking them as informants, not combatants. Seahorses are only so strong, no matter what.”

“That’s true…”

A thorough verification process followed. After three full days of tests and interviews, we finally selected a suitable candidate. Along the way, we also uncovered a deeply troubling culture surrounding Ghost Shamans.

“The ranks are completely arbitrary.”

“Indeed. There were quite a few cases where anyone with noble blood was simply granted the title of high-ranking Ghost Shaman. Corruption exists everywhere, but this level is excessive.”

“Send a notice to the Seahorse King. Have the Ghost Shamans divided into upper, middle, and lower grades, and re-register them by skill level before the event ends. If things aren’t cleaned up by the time we return, we’ll have to replace the king.”

“Understood.”

Park Seona nodded vigorously. Patel, who had been listening to our conversation, smiled faintly. She was the high-ranking Ghost Shaman chosen to accompany ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠us on the event.

“I’m relieved that Al-Alsa-da—rather, the Gray Castle—finally seems to be moving in the right direction.”

I chuckled. “That’s not the sort of thing one expects to hear from a princess.”

“It is an excessive title. Before the master of the Equator, my status means nothing. Patel is sufficient.”

High-ranking Ghost Shaman Patel was the Seahorse King’s second daughter—a beautiful seahorse with twelve pairs of arms. Despite being born into the direct line of the supreme ruler, she had never been extravagant. Instead, she had studied relentlessly and earned her position through sheer ability alone.

‘Hmm… a beauty, is she?’

Noble seahorses typically possessed three-meter bodies covered in dozens of arms, closer to giant cockroaches of the sea than anything else. Yet I found that preferable. After all, a Ghost Shaman with a round face and cute eyes would be absurd. This appearance was necessary to overwhelm enemies with sheer presence.

‘Looking strong is what matters most.’

While I observed the jewel-adorned seahorse maiden, Park Seona suddenly leapt to her feet with a cheer.

“The notice has been sent! Let’s depart.”

“Right. Let’s go.”

We headed toward the grand cathedral where the Filth Jar was enshrined. As a high-grade item, the jar should have been stored deep within a warehouse. However, because the seahorses could not cease their “bad memory” rituals, a new Gray Castle Cathedral had to be built.

*Cough, cough.*

Though the cathedral had only recently been completed, its interior looked as though it had gone centuries without maintenance—the side effect of the Filth Jar. The artifact freely mixed the surrounding energies and time periods.

Inside stood rows of statues and paintings depicting great Ghost Shamans, though their clothing and physiques varied wildly since no accurate records of their appearances existed.

‘Something about this feels off.’

Without delay, we approached the earthenware vessel radiating an ominous aura. Standing 3.5 meters tall, it dominated the center of the cathedral.

“Let’s go in.”

I took Baengnae’s hand. Once everyone else had linked up as well, I placed my palm on the jar. A chilling sensation. The feeling that this was the source of the event washed over me strongly.

The moment we needed to witness was when the world branched. There were two possibilities: either just before I entered Stage 5, or immediately after this world met its end.

Selection: [YES].

The world flickered heavily once. Darkness and light. Then, in the silence, Park Seona called my name.

“Huh…? Nanggun-nim.”

“I see it too.”

We were inside the Gray Castle Cathedral where the Filth Jar had been kept. Baengnae and Patel stood beside us. In other words, the background had not changed.

“Did we fail? The Gray Castle Cathedral was built on the Equator. If we traveled back in time, this place shouldn’t exist…”

The Gray Castle Cathedral had never existed in the past. If we had succeeded, we should not have been here. Yet my instincts told me we had already experienced the Cloned World. That cold sensation unique to the event had swept through my entire body, leaving behind an unpleasant chill.

‘It feels like I’m missing something.’

Events always worked this way. No matter how carefully I analyzed them, they mocked me with the feeling of “close, but wrong.”

Let’s reorganize. Was this the Cloned World? No. Yet when we came to our senses, we were staring at the jar in the same place and time.

‘But when did I lower my arm?’

I had clearly placed my hand on the jar and selected [YES] to activate it. A shiver crawled up my spine.

“Damn it…”

“What’s wrong?”

“Park Seona. Check the number of leopards. Are they the same as before we left?”

“The leopards? Why—huh? Huh?!”

“What happened?”

Park Seona answered in a flustered voice, her expression one of complete bewilderment.

“Five are missing. How…? Can stored summons disappear?”

I, too, had lost two zombies. It was impossible for summons to vanish simply from touching the jar. That left only one conclusion.

“Bad memories.”

“What do you mean?”

“We entered the other side of the world and experienced bad memories there. According to the jar’s rules, those bad memories were sealed inside.”

Silence fell.

“So… you’re saying we mustn’t experience any bad memories while clearing this event?”

“Maybe… It seems we’ve stumbled upon yet another strange rule. Or perhaps it was inevitable.”

“So the version with ghosts was the hopeful one…”

We sat in a circle on the cathedral pews. We had found the Cloned World. From now on, we needed to explore ways to conquer the world of ghosts without experiencing bad memories. Let’s examine the clues we had.

Though we didn’t know how much progress we had made on our first entry, the damage was minimal—five leopards and two zombies. Since the lost ones were all low-grade entities, the military strength of that place likely wasn’t very high. The problem was that this had been our first entry. We had no way of gauging how much progress we had actually made.

No—correction. Was this truly our first entry?

The scope of “bad memories” was unknown. At the very least, reaching the Gray Castle Cathedral after discovering the Cloned World had not been a bad memory. But after that? Could even my current thoughts be dismissed as bad memories?

‘A form that erases memories and returns us…’

Having finished organizing my thoughts, I became certain that the previous attempt had indeed been our first entry. The evidence was clear: I could still open the Shop right now.

After purchasing paper and a pencil, I wrote the following:

[1st attempt. 5 leopards, 2 zombies lost.]

Would my past self really have failed to think of recording information this way? Of course not. If this hadn’t been our first return, there should have been a note from me somewhere in the cathedral.

‘Let’s make it absolutely certain.’

I went outside, tore down a signboard, and planted it in the center of the cathedral.

*Crack—*

It stood in a position impossible to miss. From now on, this would be our bulletin board.

“Park Seona. Record our current status here. The number and condition of the leopards, items, consumables—everything that can change.”

Understanding my plan, she took out paper and writing tools and began recording at once.

“A method of recording changes every time we return with erased memories. This space isn’t affected, after all.”

“Exactly.”

I summoned the Witch. The moment she appeared, she glared at the Filth Jar.

“That… ominous magical power…”

“Witch, guard this bulletin board. Anyone who approaches without permission is an enemy.”

“Yes… Master…”

The Witch deployed a protective barrier around the board. The highest level of security. I wrapped myself in a shield to test its performance.

*Thrum— Thud—*

“Good.”

After attaching Park Seona’s and Patel’s records to the board as well, we stood before the Filth Jar once more. Tension hung in everyone’s eyes. I spoke quietly.

“Second entry. Let’s go.”

A sensation of my mind being sucked into the jar washed over me as the world flickered rapidly. Black. White. Black. White. Then the cathedral appeared before us—but it was not the Gray Castle Cathedral we had built. It was gloomier, darker. A vast cavity filled with ominous malice.

Patel recited the information.

“The form matches Al-Alsa-da’s cathedral. But judging by the surrounding style… it appears to be from the distant past.”

That settled it. We had arrived not at ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the moment I entered Stage 5, but in the world immediately after its destruction.

“Patel, can you determine a more precise time period?”

“No, I’m sorry. We would need to go outside the cathedral for that. The decorations here haven’t changed in hundreds of years, making it difficult to distinguish.”

We had probably had this conversation once before.

‘Let’s head outside for now. If we investigate slowly…’

Then an all-too-familiar structure caught my eye. A shape completely different from the surrounding style. It had been here as well. A bulletin board crudely driven into the cathedral floor, arbitrarily defacing this damp place.

‘Ah, of course. It makes sense.’

If the me outside could think of it, then the me who had entered here would have thought of the same thing. The Cloned World contained the bulletin board I had left behind.

I approached and read it.

The first sentence contained a small amount of White Stone, ensuring those letters at least remained uncontaminated. I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠read the next lines.

‘What a ridiculous trick…’

The original bulletin board had probably contained only the necessary information. But the event had intervened and altered it. My past self, foreseeing this, had written the first sentence with White Stone to prepare for the worst.

This was a kind of Neapolitan ghost story—subtly twisting words to provide false information and induce the observer’s mistake. It was commonly called a rulebook mystery.

‘Then let’s verify number four first.’

[4. Trust no one except zombies. If you are reading this, your companions have already been replaced.]

I revised number two.

[2. This is our 2nd / 3rd / 4th / 5th visit.]

Then I called Park Seona and Patel.

“Everyone, look at this. I found the rulebook. It seems this is our fifth entry.”

If they were the real Park Seona and Patel, they would know this was only our second entry.

Well then. Answer me.

Which one of you is the ghost?