Chapter 62
Chapter 62
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 62
Chapter Title: Puppeteer V
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Shin Noah
9
There’s a slightly long epilogue.
To be honest, my entire story is one long epilogue in itself.
If I confess truthfully, I originally planned to title this memoir something like "The Regressor’s Epilogue."
“Hah? Mister, are you insane?”
If the web novel otaku O Dok-seo hadn’t interfered, I really would have done it.
“Why? Isn’t it good?”
“Good my ass. These days, even the lurkers on SG Net’s serialization board wouldn’t bite on a title like that.”
“Hmm… Then how about ‘Infinite Regressor’s Daily Cafe’?”
“What?”
O Dok-seo made a face like she’d heard something she couldn’t believe.
“What did you just say?”
“My hobby is being a barista, right? I make a caffe latte every time I go to see Old Man Show’s corpse. So, using the word cafe…”
“You’re seriously crazy? You’ve gone completely off the rails?”
I could feel the sincerity in O Dok-seo’s words.
Of course, I knew an otaku’s sincerity didn’t guarantee truth, but surprisingly, this time I even detected the ‘truth.’
Hmm. Is it that bad…?
“How to Fail with Infinite Regression?”
“Your Excellency.”
“I’m a regressor.”
“Your Excellency.”
“The Regressor Gives Up on Salvation.”
“Bullshit.”
“The Regressor’s Epilogue.”
“Get lost!”
“Chronicles of the Regressor.”
“Argh, please! Mister! Come on!”
“…”
For some reason.
Is this a generation gap? No, that can’t be. My aesthetic sense, honed over thousands of years, had long surpassed human limits, reaching a realm where I could greet Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo, and Goethe with a casual “Yo, long time no see.”
I poured out every title idea I’d come up with over the past 20 minutes, but O Dok-seo shot them all down without mercy.
Even if my personality was on the level of Gautama Siddhartha, this was excessive tyranny.
In a fit of anger, I blurted out.
“If you’re so great, come up with one yourself.”
“Fine! But no matter what title I pick, you don’t interfere at all! Later, really later, after I read every single thing you’ve written and judge it comprehensively, that’s when I’ll decide the title!”
“Deal. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
“Call!”
“Call.”
Looking back now, I never should have made such a foolish bet.
What on earth did I trust in O Dok-seo to leave the titling to her?
A 50,000-won cap? Jeans riddled with holes? Gum that you can never blow bubbles with? I’d trust Normal Country’s patriotism more.
In the end, I still don’t know what title ended up on my story. Just calling it ‘story’ should give you a hint.
What an irony. Like a son who can’t call his father ‘father’… No. He didn’t even know the name to begin with. Oedipus failing to recognize his father as father fits better.
I don’t know how it is from your perspective. If you’re seeing not just my story but the title too, at least know that it wasn’t one I came up with myself, Undertaker.
Anyway.
Let’s return to the epilogue of the puppeteer, Lee Ha-yul.
10
Jeong Sang-guk died.
The former Busan mayor died. The current Prime Minister of the Republic of Korea’s Second Provisional Government died. The Fukuoka Korean Association president died. The Busan representative died.
No title fit. Jeong Sang-guk didn’t die for any such reason.
To add precision to the death certificate considering the cause of death, the most fitting label for this funeral’s casket was.
Lee Ha-yul’s biological father died.
Though I didn’t agree with Freudian psychoanalysis, I enjoyed using its terminology.
The child killed the father. But Lee Ha-yul wasn’t Electra. Nor Oedipus.
A parent’s death is not an epilogue for the child, but rather a prologue.
It was cruel.
Now, I planned to do something cruel.
“Lee Ha-yul.”
“Yeah.”
Lee Ha-yul answered. Not the decapitated Jeong Sang-guk, but by moving the housekeeper’s lips.
“Don’t do that.”
Lee Ha-yul tilted her head.
“What do you mean? This guy’s dead. Brain death. Can’t be saved.”
“I wasn’t telling you not to kill Jeong Sang-guk. I meant don’t kill yourself.”
“…”
She froze. The red circle in Lee Ha-yul’s eyes grew larger.
No further conversation was needed. Every breath from Lee Ha-yul was language. The girl was flustered.
“How?”
“You killed your parent, so it’s done. Why follow him in death? You have talent. The talent to kill people is the same as the talent to save them. If you’re resolved to kill yourself, turn that blade’s edge and stab the anomalies instead.”
“…”
“This world needs awakeners. Humanity’s survival is at stake. Korean or Japanese makes no difference. Whether Jeong Sang-guk dies here or not, everyone you’ve known will die by anomalies’ hands.”
“…”
“Help us. I’ll help you do that.”
Silence followed. Half the silence flowed from Jeong Sang-guk’s gaping mouth rolling on the concrete floor.
Was it my imagination? The dolls packed densely in the basement all seemed to be staring at me.
“What if I follow you?”
“…”
“Can you stop it? The world, ending.”
“No, I can’t promise that.”
“What did you say your alias was? Sorry.”
“Undertaker.”
“Undertaker.”
I’d introduced myself several times already, but only now did Lee Ha-yul’s brain seem to properly register my alias.
She probably hadn’t considered it before. Someone facing death had no need to remember new encounters.
Lee Ha-yul murmured.
“Ten Tribes subjugation battle. Swordmaster’s comrade.”
“Yeah.”
“Dang Seo-rin’s boyfriend.”
“That’s fake news.”
“Really? Radio says it, every day.”
“Fake news. I’ll swear on anything. Except Jeong Sang-guk’s patriotism.”
“…”
Silence again.
Lee Ha-yul raised her index finger.
“Condition.”
“Go ahead. I’ll accommodate as much as possible.”
“No lies. Hate it.”
“That sounds like ‘don’t act like your father.’ That, I can definitely promise. Believe it or not, I’m a non-marriage advocate.”
“…?”
“No plans to have kids. So I’ll never be anyone’s father. Perfect solution to fulfilling your condition.”
“…”
Lee Ha-yul smiled faintly.
No sound came.
It was an expression I’d never seen before.
“I’ll follow you.”
11
In countless regressions after the 19th turn, Lee Ha-yul often ended up as my subordinate.
Even after Old Man Show went on ‘vacation’ and Fight Academy effectively shut down, her fate didn’t change.
Lee Ha-yul met cruel deaths countless times on the front lines and in the rear, by anomalies.
The only promise I could make to Lee Ha-yul was that I’d die a little sooner, a little more cruelly.
Of course, things did change in many ways.
“Oh. Ha-yul.”
“…”
“Want some coffee? You like con panna, right?”
“…”
“Yeah. Just wait a bit.”
I learned sign language first. Now, even without her controlling a doll, I could instantly understand what Lee Ha-yul was saying.
Just now, Lee Ha-yul woke up on the guild safehouse sofa, letting out a silent yawn—‘Hwaaaaaahm—’. She stretched languidly.
She looked around with sleepy eyes, spotted the housekeeper. Snap. With a light finger flick, the housekeeper doll activated.
“Where’s the wheelchair?”
“I left it with No Do-ha Workshop Master yesterday.”
“Ah.”
“Bear with it today, even if it’s uncomfortable.”
“Okay.”
I’d originally planned to leave her with the Saintess instead of my guild safehouse. Both expressionless. Both hikikomori. Both support types. Don’t they seem alike?
But after a brief cohabitation in the 20th turn, the Saintess requested a return.
“Our personalities are too different.”
“Huh?”
“To put it simply… Lee Ha-yul is an extrovert.”
“Huh?”
“She’s a different type from me. Undertaker. More than that, just because we’re both rear support with flat expressions, don’t assume we’ll ‘get along like sisters.’ My fish tanks—two of them—got smashed.”
“…”
“I like being alone.”
For some unknowable reason, they’d clashed on an MBTI level.
What could I do? Like Sim A-ryeon, Lee Ha-yul became a dedicated member of my guild. Her potential as an awakener was indisputably A-rank anyway.
Above all, Lee Ha-yul’s talent, as seen in "The House of Dolls," was specialized for building safehouses. Thanks to Ha-yul, I could construct impregnable safehouses too.
That’s a story for another episode.
12
Lee Ha-yul’s daily life hit a turning point around the 54th turn.
The 54th turn was the monumental one where I brought No Do-ha into the National Highway Management Corps.
In short, it’s when No Do-ha and I truly got close.
“No Do-ha Workshop Master. Long time no see. This brown-haired kid went to Japan and came back—could you make her some prosthetics?”
“Sorry, who might you be…?”
“…”
“Kidding. Undertaker awakener. Just seeing you makes me jump. Honestly, you startle me, so unless it’s an emergency, don’t just blink into my view…”
“…”
“But is there a rule that Koreans get expedited hospital slots after traveling abroad? My workshop is swamped…”
“Ah.”
“I’ll book you starting now, come back in a month. Gotta deal with the neighborhood grandpas today too. Damn this Busan—why are the roads so bumpy…”
Yeah. Truth is, No Do-ha and I weren’t personally close.
No one was emotionally close to No Do-ha to begin with. She only gave me a one-month slot because I’m Korean; other awakeners would wait at least three.
A month later, No Do-ha examined Lee Ha-yul.
“Your legs were mangled beautifully. Whew. Not just physically torn—not treatable, constant poisoning, hallucinations, all three curses stacked. Real thorough. If it’s not rude, where’d you lose both legs…?”
“Didn’t have them to begin with.”
The housekeeper answered. Despite the unfamiliarity, No Do-ha didn’t twitch an eyebrow.
“Hmm. Just coincidentally cursed then. Heard Japan’s full of that. Do phantom pains hit at least every three days…?”
“Yeah. How’d you know?”
“I know all about it. Brutal. Pretty brutal. Hmm…”
As she spoke, No Do-ha ceaselessly measured Lee Ha-yul’s body lengths with a tape.
The odd part: she measured the lengths of the ‘missing legs’ too.
“…?”
Lee Ha-yul looked confused, unsure if she was being insulted.
But No Do-ha had no intent to demean.
Sure, she loved teasing people like a ghost whenever the chance arose—that was her wicked nature.
But I’d never once witnessed her teasing a patient in my entire regression life.
“Could you shake your body a bit, like trying to move your legs…?”
“Okay.”
“Good. Very good. Now, like walking in place. Ah, try jumping a little? Just lift your hips. Hm. You’re doing well…”
In No Do-ha’s eyes, Lee Ha-yul’s legs truly appeared.
Not just muscles, but bones, joints, nerves—all visible. That ‘vision’ was part of No Do-ha’s ability.
No Do-ha’s awakened skill: [Ability to observe and replicate a target’s lost body parts].
An astonishing power, but it had no official name. No Do-ha’s choice.
No, she rejected even having an alias.
-A puny civil servant flashing their name is useless anyway.
Her philosophy.
That’s why I dragged such a person in as the Management Corps Leader of the National Highway Management Corps. Me.
Anyway, her ability was roughly called [Prosthetic Creation]. Even [Loss Restoration] would’ve been fancy enough.
“Yes, measurements done…”
No Do-ha scribbled complex numbers in her notebook.
“Prosthetics usually take a week to two. Is this lanky guy the guardian…?”
“Yeah.”
“Any preference between wood or metal…?”
“What’s the difference?”
“Wood needs frequent replacement, so regular visits to our workshop. Metal lasts longer but creaks when walking. Rusts too. Lots of patients hate that.”
“…”
“Well, bring your own material if not wood or metal. Prosthetics are for life anyway. Get good stuff later—no need to scramble now…”
Lee Ha-yul pondered.
I could feel her expertise as a doll master.
“Then metal.”
“Hate springs…?”
“No.”
“Hearing a clock tick drives you mad, hair stands on end, overwhelming urge to smash it…?”
“No.”
“You prefer stealth, often on assassination missions…?”
“No.”
“Good. I’ll make it as fast as possible, but it might take over 15 days. I’ll send someone to your lodging when done…”
Despite that, it took less than five days for No Do-ha to call us back.
She was the type who padded deadlines for others with her own pessimism—her self-distrust level over 200%.
“Here’s your prosthetics, Lee Ha-yul…”
“…”
No Do-ha handed over the box with hollow eyes. The long wooden box was plain yet neat and tidy.
One corner engraved with a chisel: ‘Lee Ha-yul, YYYY.MM.DD’. The date changed per turn.
Her personality: always repackaging the finished product in a box before delivery.
Now you can see why no thug messes with No Do-ha.
Countless awakeners would grab clubs and form an execution squad if anyone touched her.
“First time at our workshop, so try them on here? I’ll adjust if needed…”
“Yeah. Please.”
“Then Undertaker awakener, turn around…”
I obeyed the prosthetic craftsman’s instruction.
From over my shoulder came faint clanks, clicks, clatters.
Between the metal clashes: “Do it like this” “If it doesn’t work, don’t get mad, stay calm and try again”—No Do-ha’s instructions.
Finally.
“All done…”
I turned around.
“Try standing…?”
“…”
Lee Ha-yul fidgeted in the wheelchair.
Even returning from Japan to Korea, she’d been hypersensitive to the cushion angle, puffing, etc.—wheelchair setup.
Like suddenly evicted from a lifelong rental, Lee Ha-yul felt dazed, worried, with a hint of expectation.
“…!”
Muffled sound—battle cry? Cheer? To the world? Self-suggestion? Unclear.
And she stood on two feet.
For the first time since infancy.
“…”
“How is it? Pain? Nerve pricks? Muscles throbbing? Any symptoms…?”
“None.”
None carried heavy mechanical tone.
“How. This. Feels. Completely. None.”
“Huh.”
No Do-ha tapped the ‘legs’ with a stick. Thud, thud. Metal rang.
But material didn’t matter.
“Feels like real legs, right…?”
“Yeah. Toes moving. Feels. Real. Walking. My feet are walking.”
“Yes, real deal. See, I added a spring here. No engineering purpose. Just cool. Faster you run, watch the clock hand spin whoosh—just for style, zero utility. Could make vocal cords too, but tricky. So. To your taste…?”
“Yeah.”
Lee Ha-yul cried. Wiped tears with handback.
Tears kept flowing, mouth clogged, but with a mouth not her own, she spoke fluidly.
“Thank you.”
“Hmm.”
No Do-ha smiled faintly.
“Then glad…”
A smile some might call sinister or lewd.
But I could unhesitatingly call it purely kind.
Just replacing lost bodies for patients, satisfied with that life—her biggest ambition ever, paving a direct one-lane road from the most inconvenient elderly patient’s house to her workshop—and I dragged her into the red dust of the world, making her National Highway Management Corps Leader.
About that, I always feel a twinge of guilt.
“Thank you.”
Lee Ha-yul turned to me.
“Thank you, big bro.”
Afterward, Lee Ha-yul still used the wheelchair often. Too accustomed to controlling via doll thread, loved the push from the housekeeper behind.
But I saw it.
“…”
One summer. Night sky raining meteors like a shower.
Lee Ha-yul in the wheelchair stood on her feet, reaching for the starlight.
Staring blankly, golden eyes shining like the stars, at a thought unknowable twinkling little star.
Ultimately, everyone at birth must accept as heart and flesh something not theirs, someone else’s.
We’re all born as dolls.
But Lee Ha-yul, some puppeteer, would die human each time, through hundreds, thousands of deaths.
While listening to the starlight lullaby.
- Puppeteer. End.