Chapter 21
Chapter 21
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 21
Chapter Title: Reader I: Shin Noah
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Reader I
Shin Noah
1
After touching on some rather serious topics, it was time to lighten the mood again.
In the very early stages of my regressions—before the 20th cycle—I was far too serious. That was because I truly believed, "If I just get my act together and put in the effort, I can definitely save the world."
I'm not trying to downplay that effort. But it was a bit arrogant. Who was I to equate the weight of the world with my own?
Infinite regression? That's just an awakening ability.
People need to know how to let go of themselves. Only then do they create the spare capacity to accept others.
Anyway, my way of "letting go" is through hobbies.
I can confidently say no other regressor has as wide a variety of hobbies as I do.
In a regressor's life, the most important thing is mental management, and hobbies are like the housekeeping staff that keeps the mansion of the mind spotless.
A regressor's mental world is a super-luxurious mega-palace spanning thousands of square feet, reserved for the highest nobility. Naturally, it requires a lot of maids for cleaning.
Here are the positions of the maids I've hired—or in other words, the types of my hobbies:
[Games, SG Net browsing, barista work, weightlifting, teasing fairies, bullying Seo-gyu, cooking, walks, listening to music, making music, stealing Dang Seo-rin's tall pointed hat and hiding it under the bed, etc., bullying Seo-gyu, violin, piano, painting, sculpting, pottery, radio collecting, stealing Old Man Show's phone recordings and listening to them, running a ranch, bullying Seo-gyu, picking any job and living it out for a while...]
But I have no intention of listing every single one of them. Nothing is more boring than rambling about hobbies others can't relate to.
So, the maid I've selected for today is named "reading."
More specifically, "reading web novels."
2
Originally, I knew nothing about web novels.
As a kid, I'd read a few martial arts novels, but I only discovered the web novel genre around the 555th cycle.
It was thanks to a person I met in that very 555th cycle that I got into them.
This person was an awakener named O Dok-seo. I'll have a chance to talk about her in the next episode.
The important thing right now is that I gained a new hobby and became happier because of it.
What I loved most about web novels was how massive the volume of each work was. Reading is the food for the soul, as they say. And I'm the type who prioritizes quantity over quality when it comes to meals.
At least in this web novel genre's buffet, I didn't have to worry about running out of feed.
Of course, that was a dog-brained misconception.
"No... novels... left?"
I was shocked.
I'd gorged myself on feasts for only up to the 556th cycle. In other words, after just 1-2 cycles, all my feed was gone. Web novels were a relatively new culture, and surprisingly scarce in quantity.
"Yeah... hmm. Time to branch into other genres...?"
When you're thirsty, you don't care if it's a well.
Starting with just fantasy novels, I devoured anything written in King Sejong's invention—academies, horror, romance, martial arts, isekai, professional stories, parodies, gender-benders, yuri, you name it. Hell, even that wasn't enough, so I started on English and Japanese too.
A new world opened up.
I was happy.
The 558th cycle ended.
The new world perished.
"No... novels... left?"
I was shocked again.
I'd scraped the absolute bottom, and there was nothing left to eat.
My tastes weren't picky at all.
I happily ate postmodern novels that boldly swapped double quotes (“”) for reversed ones (“”).
I ate minimalist masterpieces that omitted periods in dialogue.
I ate avant-garde phonetic masterpieces that used tildes (~) for characters' distinctive voices or ellipses (...) for their silences.
I even ate satirical novels where an ori-char popped up in parodies, hogging all the protagonist's destined opportunities, then tilting its head at the protagonist: "That guy... why's he so weak compared to the original? (tilt)." It viciously criticized modern selfishness.
And novels by epidemiologists where every character's laughter was fixed as "hoho," infecting everyone with hoho syndrome.
In short...
"Hmm~ That's weird... Was the protagonist always... that weak? Ho! Ho! Ho!"
I even accepted sentences like that as my daily bread.
Ahh—
From now on, feel free to call me not Awakener Undertaker, but the deep-sea diver of web novels. Because that's the truth.
This was my bottom, my deep sea, my Mariana Trench. Dive any deeper, and forget finding food—you couldn't even breathe.
A hardened regressor like me couldn't guarantee survival in that demonic realm!
So I could confidently declare:
"No... novels... left."
Countless other readers would eventually face the exact same situation.
At that point, a reader's options usually split into two paths: take a break from web novels for a while, or become a writer and produce their own feed.
By sheer coincidence, I wasn't a "normal" reader.
I was an infinite regressor.
Regressors had a third path.
"I should kidnap all the writers and turn them into novel-writing machines."
I puffed out my chest.
A path no one had taken.
But a path every reader has dreamed of at least once.
I, Undertaker, boldly stepped onto that path.
3
For one cycle, I collected personal info on web novel writers, then as soon as the next cycle started, I traveled the country collecting the writers themselves.
Of course, writers aren't monsters caught by throwing a Poké Ball of red and white, so each one required manual collection.
Anyone sensitive to writers' sensibilities might nitpick, "Isn't that kidnapping, not collecting?"
But by around the 560th cycle, I was pretty strong. Wouldn't being bred under a regressor's protection be happier than surviving that harsh world?
Finally, I succeeded in collecting over three hundred writers. I ascended to writer-mon master. They probably had no idea who dragged them where or why.
"Where are we?"
"Over there... could it be..."
"Huh, Penforce Poser-nim? Is that you, Penforce Poser-nim?"
"Oh, it's you, Writing Slave-nim. We met briefly at that wedding last time, right?"
"Yuri Intruder Kid! You're here too!"
"Eek, Harem Pure Love Bro!"
Murmur murmur—
Putting hundreds of writers in a hotel lobby at once, naturally many recognized each other. They tried to grasp the situation while failing to hide their fear.
"But why exactly were we brought here?"
"Anyone hear an explanation?"
"Sorry, I blacked out and woke up here too... It's been three days already."
"Three days?"
"Oh, four for me."
"Wow, that must've been tough."
"Huh? No? They serve balanced meals for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, the beds are comfy, no daily updates required—it's great."
"......?"
"......?"
Time to explain.
"Ahem. Can you hear me—?"
I grabbed the mic and climbed onto the check-in counter. Hundreds of eyes turned my way.
I was actually just amplifying my voice with a megaphone spell—the mic was for show. But standing before the writers, it felt right to be polite.
These 335 kidnapped to this hotel were the cream of the crop, handpicked repeatedly. Genre didn't matter, age or gender didn't matter—only writers who'd made my heart race even once were gathered here.
"Hello. I am an awakener known by the moniker Undertaker. Some of you may have guessed already, but everyone here is a web novel writer."
Rustle rustle.
"Writers only?"
"Where are we?"
"If it's just writers, this must be hell."
"You with the mic—who are you?!"
I spoke gravely.
"As I said, I'm the awakener known as Undertaker. This is a hotel near Incheon. With the chaos in Seoul, the original staff all fled, but don't worry. I've already hired new staff, and they're all highly trained professionals."
I pointed to the far side of the lobby.
Twenty fairies in Che Guevara T-shirts snapped to attention with salutes. I returned the salute.
Once, I'd been at odds with the fairies, but by the 560th cycle, I had excellent relations with the [Fairy Revolution Club]. I knew exactly what they were.
"Given the circumstances, please rest assured."
"Crazy! Those are fairies?!"
"Eeeeek! Help, someone save me!"
The writers weren't reassured.
A bit of commotion ensued, but we subdued it without issue. 99% of these writers were too insignificant in the macro world to cause physical events.
I grabbed the mic again.
"Ahem. Mic test. Regrettably, you can't escape. The hotel front doors are sealed. You can open the room windows and look out, but you can't cross. Just like our lives."
"Let us go!"
"You can't be freed. Highly trained Fairy Revolution Corps members will monitor you 24/7."
"Crazy......"
"Who's that guy? Scary......"
"First question: even if you could be freed, do you really want to leave?"
Question marks seemed to float over the writers' heads. I decided to resolve their doubts right away.
"You've seen the news—the world is cheerfully ending. Monsters appearing worldwide, gates spawning. Yes, you're thoroughly screwed."
"Uh......"
"Your novel platforms are barely accessible. Even if they are, readers can't buy your work. Banks are crashing. Internet networks will start cutting out soon. In this situation, your writing skills are useless."
Truth gets through.
The writers' faces genuinely paled. Many here had started writing thinking, "No physical labor, just write alone and make money? Sweet gig." The sweet gig was gone.
"Even if you keep writing and publishing, it's a problem. Now, readers have a 0.06% chance of encountering a [Reincarnation Truck] per novel read. In this era, novels are weapons themselves."
"Reincarnation Truck...?"
"Guy's a bit nuts."
Thinking I'd spouted nonsense, the writers whispered.
No. The "Reincarnation Truck" is a real anomaly.
First spotted in the 119th cycle, sightings exploded after.
Whatever. The barriers I'd set on this hotel wouldn't let thousands of trucks through anyway.
"So...... why did you bring us here...?"
"Because I'm your avid fan."
I pointed at one writer in the front row.
"You there."
"Y-Yes?"
"You're Bad Ending Lover-nim, right? Always writing yuri on Novel Campus."
The pointed-out writer jumped.
"H-How do you... know me...?"
"Didn't I say I'm a fan?"
"No, I mean, thanks, but... there's no way you read my stuff... My best work has only 2,000 favorites, latest chapter views barely 100..."
"Your debut short had a protagonist suffering every conceivable unfair backlash in a bleak story. But from the next work, you blended no-romance elements, and lately you've balanced bleak charm with no-romance solidity. Sure, the far epilogue suddenly has a side character speedrunning into a couple with the protagonist for a pure love ending, but that clumsiness is part of your charm, I think."
"You really read it...?"
The writers were stunned.
I pointed out the next ones in turn.
"Yeocheonma Is True Martial Arts-nim. In this era, you quietly write authentic martial arts with a serious style. When Heavenly Demon became cheap jokes, your discussions of righteousness and loyalty always moved me."
"Nurungi Table-nim. In a romance market where all premises are exhausted, you always try new things..."
"Word Warrior Lover-nim. I know your great contributions expanding the horizons of parallel world stories, once called a dead genre. Protagonist born a Hungarian noble in a WWI backdrop, becoming the last cavalry commander praised as loyal to the Habsburgs. Incredibly rare yet flawlessly fun..."
By the time I'd named about thirty...
The writers I'd specifically mentioned wore touched expressions. Though their faces flushed intensely each time their pen name was called—whatever. No one in the lobby doubted my sincerity anymore.
"Hold on."
But suspicion veered in a weird direction.
The writers whispered. Mosquito-soft, but my superhuman hearing caught it all.
"So this reader eats yuri, gender-benders, pure love, harems, true martial arts, fusion martial arts, bleak, light bleak, vanilla, Mary Sue, and even genres too embarrassing to name...?"
"Eek, monster...!"
"In the world. What kind of bottomless pit-mouth is that?"
"Not Kim Reader, but Kim Glutton..."
Hey now. These writers slandering a precious reader.
I'd just avoided snacks to maintain mental fortitude as a regressor. My tastes were perfectly wholesome.
"I'd love to express my feelings to everyone here, but time's short, so I'll skip for today."
"Today 'only'...?"
"Plus, some writers here might not want their genres exposed publicly."
A few writers flinched.
"I'll meet those privately someday. Anyway, writers. Think carefully. Yes, I'm the one who kidnapped and imprisoned you here. But the world outside the blanket is dangerous. Confident you can survive a real-time crumbling world?"
The lobby fell silent.
In cycles where I didn't bring them, half died within six months. The other half within a year. Only about two lasted relatively long.
"No need to worry about survival here. Food, clothing, shelter—I'll provide everything. Even the fairies you fear are just staff in this hotel. You have one job: write novels."
"......"
"Continue your ongoing series or start new ones. Just write. I'll handle everything else."
The writers stirred.
"Makes sense. Country really seems doomed."
"I was gonna flee overseas, but heard it's the same everywhere. Language barrier too..."
"Food's always buffet-style. Not bad here!"
"Thinking of writers who didn't make it... maybe we're the lucky ones..."
"Yeah. Wonder how the others are."
Positive momentum.
Then someone muttered like to themselves.
"No, fuck. This is just canning them, right...?"
Hm. Quick one there. But with the tide set, nothing changed.
From that day, filming began on the 335-writer communal retreat saga.