Chapter 101
Chapter 101
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 101
Chapter Title: Sharer II: Shin Noah 3
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The world was an endless hell.
The reason I attached the word "Avici" to the first Extraterrestrial God-level monster I encountered was that the character had been labeled in my subconscious as the true name of this world.
“Hoe! In this stage, there were 31 deaths!”
“…….”
“Not a bad number, but compared to other dungeons, it’s a poor performance……. I’m demanding a bit more effort! With results like this, the rewards I can give you all become quite meager……. Hoe.”
“…This is.”
“Honey scrap porridge! I heard it’s what the residents often ate during the war here!”
Few people immediately realized that the war referred to the Korean War.
There were no survivors who knew what honey scrap porridge was—food boiled straight from cans of discarded American scraps, mixed indiscriminately with cigarette butts and garbage.
“The smell is awful, but I’ve already removed any toxins lethal to the human body……. The rules say I absolutely shouldn’t show this kind of favoritism and bias, but it’s my small consideration after watching your efforts and struggles……!”
“…….”
“Anyway, food supplies for two days! I hope you enjoy a delicious meal!”
The fairy vanished. In the restaurant at Busan Station’s sixth basement floor—where one shouldn’t even exist—56 survivors and 56 bowls of honey scrap porridge remained.
Even those who recoiled at the porridge’s stench slowly began to move their hands. There were no spoons. But since the 56 people all reeked the same wretched body odor anyway, swallowing food with a similar aroma into their bodies wasn’t so difficult.
Sobs leaked out here and there.
Eating cannot be a sin.
If eating is a sin, then life itself is divine punishment.
Those words appeared in a Kyunghyang Shinmun article dated May 20, 1964. The columnist’s name was Shin Young-gak. It was a piece titled “A Starving Crowd.”
The 56 starving souls vented two days’ worth of hunger ravenously.
Whether for historical accuracy, the porridge bowls weren’t proper bowls but aluminum tuna cans. Clink, clink—the sounds of fingers scraping, rubbing, and polishing the cheap aluminum echoed.
Eating cannot be a sin….
If eating is a sin, then life itself is divine punishment….
The place where sinners under divine punishment lived was hell, so the world was hell.
Occasional retching sounds briefly echoed in the restaurant—not revulsion at the food, but at life itself. Something a human couldn’t swallow or digest slid down a human throat.
The “Mom” or “Fuck” that followed was probably just burps.
Ting-a-ling.
A bell rang. Those who had finished eating turned this way.
It was the sound I made. I didn’t remember if I’d used aura to amplify the bell’s ring widely before the fifth regression, but anyway.
This silver bell was an item I farmed in every regression, even vacation regressions.
The farming spot was burned into my mind even with eyes closed: souvenir shop in the concourse. Turn left at the entrance, seventh shelf, fourth slot from the top.
Even if looters stripped the shop bare, this useless bell—actually a cursed item that only attracted monsters with its jangling noise—always remained.
I needed it.
“It’s the Undertaker…….”
“Where’s Jung So-hee? Why’s he alone…….”
“Shh, don’t look.”
“Or the Grim Reaper’ll drag you off.”
The people in the restaurant area whispered. Among them were faces still etched in my memory and others now gone from reality.
The soccer player Kim Ju-cheol, time-sealed in the fourth regression, was probably there too.
I continued threading memories. If this were the third regression, the stage’s survivors would’ve been 11, not 56, and Lee Baek would’ve been among them.
“Hey, Undertaker! Pestilence!”
Then Lee Baek would’ve stood and shouted something like that.
“Came begging for honey scrap porridge? Sorry, but we don’t have scraps to spare for plague rats like you! Everyone! Don’t share your food with that guy. We don’t have the luxury to coddle some hotshot solo player!”
Probably in that tone. Probably those lines.
Like restoring a newspaper from decades ago, piecing together the novel O Dok-seo read from her decoding: Lee Baek had spat those words at me to “concentrate his power over the survivors” by “selecting an outsider to ostracize,” “making even eating honey scrap porridge a privilege,” and “giving the impression he bore harsh words on others’ behalf.”
My response had been curt.
“Does anyone here wish to escape this hell?”
“…….”
“Does anyone wish to find eternal peace? Anyone at all?”
The restaurant fell silent.
Even Lee Baek, for a moment.
I scanned the room. Lightly enough not to intimidate. Thoroughly enough not to miss a single face.
“Quit your bullshit and get lost!”
If it were Lee Baek, he’d have raged at his own hesitation and swung a wooden plank.
“Um, I…….”
In other regressions, someone might’ve timidly raised a hand.
“Me too…….”
Fewer hands in the fifth than fourth, fourth than third, third than first.
Hands that scooped honey scrap porridge, killed monsters, murdered other humans.
An old woman realized the hand she’d stroked her grandson and family with now had none of them left.
“Young man. Do it for me. A funeral, right? That.”
“My ability makes you fall into an eternal dream, and everyone forgets you. No one will remember you.”
“Don’t care.”
The old woman muttered.
“Don’t care about that crap.”
A translucent gravestone rose.
At Busan Station and beyond, gravestones marked my every step. I couldn’t recall exactly, but at least 500,000 had been raised for sure.
Even when regressions restarted, the gravestones didn’t vanish.
Each new regression, hundreds of thousands evaporated “in an instant.” No one knew of their disappearance.
Except one.
The world was hell, and there always echoed a bell’s chime.
I was the lifer who’d killed the most humans in that hell.
4
Thousands of years later.
“Mister. I can confidently say I’m your one and only true confidant.”
A brat boldly declared this.
Hairstyle? Red bob cut. Weapon? Baseball bat. Fashion? Rapper’s cap, jumper, baggy jeans dripping like candle wax (three holes included).
Signature pose: Chew regular gum like bubblegum, inflate it, pop—splattering her mouth with gum residue.
O Dok-seo.
In a word, a moron.
This girl, who clearly needed urgent psychological therapy just looking at her, brazenly claimed:
“I devoured the novel [All-Knowing Regressor’s Perspective] that chronicles your entire saga. I read your innermost thoughts and monologues, all laid bare. It’s no exaggeration to say I know you better than you know yourself.”
“I see. So now I just sue for invasion of privacy?”
“Huh? No……. So save me, please. My shield’s almost gone—I’ll die.”
Thwack-thwack-thwack-thwack!
O Dok-seo huddled. A transparent barrier formed around her as three goblins gleefully bashed it with clubs.
-Ukik! Kik!
-Kiiiik, kuek! Kehek!
Regulars in the Tutorial Dungeon.
3-on-1. A textbook mugging. Uehara Shino, our party member, stomped anxiously.
“Um, Jang-sang. Even so, shouldn’t we help……?”
“No. It’s necessary training.”
“Ugh. Dokseo chaaang—! Ganbareee—!”
“Forget ganbare—help me! Come on!”
Thwack-bam-thwack-bam!
At first, the goblins curiously poked the transparent barrel, but now they treated it like a drum. Thwack! Bam! Thwack! Their Dionysian rhythm turned the place into a rock festival site instantly.
For reference, Dionysus’s followers had a tradition of ripping humans apart and sharing them post-festival. Judging by the goblins’ eyes on O Dok-seo, this festival’s sacrifice was decided.
-Kihihihik!
“Eek?! M-Mister! Save me for real?! Shield’s got 30 seconds left!”
Absolute Defense.
She called it [AT Field]. A barrier nullifying enemy attacks.
One of O Dok-seo’s abilities.
In my view, it reflected her psyche of seeing herself as “a reader fallen into the novel’s world,” completely separating herself from this reality—manifested as a skill.
Cheat-level, but fatal flaws: once per day, 1-minute limit.
“Dokseo. I’ve told you over and over. No matter how cheat your skills, without self-training, they’re worthless.”
“But I’ve already killed 11 today! I’m tired! Exhausted! I’ve been walking 6 hours straight since dawn—help me already! Hic? It cracked—I heard it crack, it’s really breaking!”
“Drama queen.”
Pashh—the barrier faded, goblins’ clubs surging. O Dok-seo shrieked oddly, swinging her bat.
“HyaAAaah!”
Red aura coated the bat. Splut! A goblin’s head exploded. Foul.
-Keek?
-Kuik?
The goblins, expecting KBO-level swings, panicked at the MLB swing.
Regardless, O Dok-seo executed a pull hit from my recent bongseul lessons.
“Hraaah! Die! Die, you monster bitch, get smashed!”
-Kuiyehek?
Foul. Foul. 2 strikes, 0 pitchers on enemy team. Enemy forfeit—O Dok-seo wins.
O Dok-seo slumped, bat drooping, panting raggedly.
“Hiek, huuk—huek, huaak…….”
“See? You did it. These days’ kids lack grit—whining before even trying…….”
“I’ll smash youuu!”
O Dok-seo swung vigorously at me, but such a slow swing wouldn’t hit.
Whiff, strike three. Out.
For daring to attack her sky-like master, I gave her a knuckle rap. My silver aura echoed perfectly painful through her skull.
“Perfectly painful” meant, well, for a guy, like a kick to the balls?
“Hwabyaaaaah!”
O Dok-seo tossed her bat (batting after an out? Sportsmanship zero) and rolled on the ground.
“Die! I’m dying! It’s cracked! My head’s cracked! Waaah! Dying!”
“You’re not dying. Not cracked. Get up and eat. Shinohara? Spread the mat. Lunch time.”
“Ah. Hai.”
Porter Uehara Shino deftly unrolled the mat—now skilled.
Very different from fourth regression. No luxury for mats back then.
We cooked retort foods pilfered from a convenience store deliciously. No fire needed— aura heated, grilled, blanched. World’s most luxurious method, guaranteed.
Uehara twirled pasta on her fork, face melting.
“Waa. So good…….”
“Noodles perfectly al dente, right? Saw you like slightly undercooked.”
“Ah, yes. Exactly my taste. Your cooking’s better than any restaurant!”
“Thanks.”
Then, peeking from behind a pillar: the fairy.
“Hoe. Good smeeell…….”
“Hm? You want some?”
“Eek. I’m a fair judge. Can’t accept bribes from test subjects…….”
“Not a bribe—a token of appreciation. A gift from the people to the vanguard toiling sleeplessly for world revolution.”
“Hoe! Food of the people’s blood and sweat……. Refusing it would be bourgeois— as a staunch revolutionary, I can’t…….”
“Here. Salmon steak I made.”
“Hoeek! Truly revolutionary flavor!”
Laughter bloomed haha-ho-ho on the mat from Japanese and fairy. True harmony between historic foes and modern rivals.
“Uguuu…….”
Only the chuunibyou otaku groaned sprawled beside.
“Me toooo……. Feed me. Hungry…….”
“No hands? No feet? Mat’s there—eat yourself.”
“Why’re you cold only to me?”
O Dok-seo wailed pathetically.
“Only I fight monsters! Only I train aura! What’d I do wrong?”
“That’s how much I expect from you, kiddo.”
“Sniff. I’m so hurt I can’t live. So sad……. Fuck, why’s retort pasta this good?”
“Ah, Dokseo-jjang, that’s mine…….”
“Hoe. This BLT rye sandwich is revolutionary too! Cooking hero medal-worthy!”
Menu balance perfect. Lunch—too lavish for Tutorial newbies—ended.
Fourth regression turned luxury tour, but whatever. Not my problem; let the kids indulge while they can.
Bellies greased just right—not too full, not hungry—we rose.
“One more floor to boss room. Beat boss, Tutorial Dungeon done.”
“Yeah. You’ll do it, right, Mister?”
“Nah? Vets can’t steal newbie XP. You clear solo, Dokseo.”
“……?”
“……?”
As we descended to basement 13 in cheery mood—
Presence strongly from opposite passage.
“Hold. Everyone stop.”
Party, about to descend stairs, looked at me. Funny including Fairy No. 264, but my mouth didn’t smile.
“People coming.”
“Coming? How many?”
“117.”
“…….”
“All survivors except us. Prepare. Dokseo to my side, Uehara-san to back.”
I took corridor center.
“We brace here.”
Saying that, something weird happened. My right hand unconsciously went to my waist.
As if, on the empty belt, weapons like a fire axe should’ve dangled.
Fingers groped air.
“…….”
Eerie déjà vu crashed.
Déjà vu.
Long ago. Millennia past in a distant past, I’d surely lived this exact scene.