Me? (1)
The year he turned twenty-four, Lee Han-ol was possessed.
He hadn't asked for it. Not even a little.
Possessed!
Some people might have celebrated. A new body, a new life, even a new family handed to you on a silver platter—what's not to like?
But not Lee Han-ol.
Self-preservation. Safety first. Those two phrases summed up his entire existence. His own life, health, and stability mattered above all else. Even if things got a little hard, he wanted to live carefully, quietly, without taking risks. He avoided injustice when he saw it. He never courted danger if he could help it.
When everyone ordered Chinese food together, he always ate the sweet-and-sour pork first. Membership points were mandatory on every purchase. Gukbap absolutely required chives and kkakdugi. Even in summer, he took scalding-hot showers that practically boiled him alive.
A total soft man.
But the finishing touch was that he would never, ever admit he was a soft man.
And now—possessed!
First he denied it. Then he got angry. Then he bargained. Then he accepted.
He had become Evan Alcarte, the early Act Two boss of the medieval fantasy RPG he'd always loved, New Episode.
It had taken him nine months to get that far. Not because he was soft—because the body he'd possessed was simply too weak.
Evan Alcarte. The weakest boss to appear in the Act Two episodes. The narrative and concept weren't bad: a rare class called Alchemist, a junkie addicted to his own concoctions, and the constraint of a terminal illness.
Evan Alcarte is the second son of a ducal house. Once the child of the duke's most beloved concubine, he was cast aside after her death when the duke lost interest.
He learned alchemy in hopes of reviving his mother—but he was too hasty, and the price of committing a Taboo was both his eyes.
In the end, he became a madman who fused human with human.
A vivid backstory that almost made you feel sorry for him.
Sure. From a third-person perspective, that was true enough.
But living it himself? Unspeakably awful.
Nickname: Glass Cannon. Difficulty: Absolute Bottom. He fainted and threw up at the drop of a hat. Weakness incarnate.
So he took extreme measures to survive.
Survival Rule Number One: Never step forward!
It wasn't because he was scared. It was entirely for safety. Surviving mattered, after all.
Evan's alchemy included golem crafting. He made golems before potions and quietly controlled them from his room. The goal was to gather materials with the golems and brew an elixir that would heal his body. Fortunately, he already knew the recipe.
Three months of that confident routine later—one year into the possession—Evan realized something.
This wasn't going to work.
To secure materials, the main story absolutely had to progress. But by then? The world would already be hurtling toward catastrophe. The player's entire purpose was to stop the world's destruction, after all.
Could Evan advance the main story himself right now? Impossible. And even if he could, he didn't want to.
Was this just any ordinary world? One wrong step and you could die. Poison could kill you. Assassins could kill you. Monsters could tear you apart. A brutal place. Throwing yourself into that kind of danger was not the act of a real man!
So… was there someone he could make do it instead?
Fortunately, the world wasn't completely without options. One dramatic method had occurred to him.
The main supporting characters who played major roles in advancing New Episode's story. Why not dump it on them?
The main allies weren't absolute good—but they didn't want the world to end, either. That was exactly why he hadn't considered the more powerful "villains" as candidates. No need to struggle through reforming bad guys. As for the allies' flaws and weaknesses, Evan could fix those well enough himself. The odds looked solid.
The only snag was that he hadn't played the DLC. Well, that should be fine. The DLC was side-story material. The developers had announced it wouldn't meaningfully affect the main plot if you skipped it. So he didn't need to worry about it.
He chose the Saintess as his first target. The reasons were many: lowest persuasion difficulty, the continent's finest healing power, and a social butterfly with connections everywhere. Once he reeled in the Saintess, the other allies would be easy. She was just that well-connected. And in a pinch, she might even save his life.
Ten days later, Evan finally finished. The letter and potions he would send to the Saintess.
"Young Master! It's time to wake up!"
Evan slowly opened his eyes. An expensive wooden ceiling and a familiar room. Evan Alcarte's chambers—he was used to them by now.
Ugh. Anemia.
His vision washed white. A sensation he'd long since grown accustomed to. Pressing a hand to his throbbing head, Evan sat up and greeted his servant.
"Good morning, Dolf."
"Y-Young Master, good morning to you as well…!"
The servant, Dolf, sniffled, overcome with emotion at a simple morning greeting. Even that was enormous progress. In the old days, a single use of polite speech had sent him into full hysterics.
Crybaby servant Dolf. Currently the person closest to Evan and the one he trusted most.
So why keep using formal speech with him?
Ahem. If I slip up, he might put poison in my food.
Before the possession, Evan had been quite the scoundrel. The politeness was an attempt—however slight—to improve their relationship and his reputation. It didn't seem to be working very well.
"Dolf. Would you bring me some stationery and a fountain pen?"
"Yes, Young Master! Who will you be writing to?"
"To the Saintess."
"Yes! The Saintess… wait, what?!"
Dolf's face said, What on earth are you talking about? Evan averted his eyes slightly and began scribbling across the paper. Fortunately, he'd long since gotten used to writing. The ornate penmanship he'd practiced so hard filled him with pride.
Once I add this line, it's a guaranteed hit.
She might not even open the letter, so he wrote the key phrase right on the outside.
"Until the day the moon sets, we are the firebird that does not cry, the sacred horse that leaves no footprints."
He had no idea what it meant, but that single phrase could push the Saintess's affection past ninety. It was one of the reasons he'd chosen her as his first target—her affection route had the lowest difficulty.
"Send this letter to the temple along with the crimson potion on my desk."
"But Young Master… yes… I understand…"
Dolf tried to stop him through tears, then finally gave up. He must have decided Evan's illness had simply grown that severe.
That's not it, though…
No matter how wretched Evan looked, he was still an alchemist. He could at least brew potions that eased his own condition a little.
Next I should write to the other main allies, too.
Of course he was still sick—but he'd adapted by now, so it was fi—
"Cough!"
A violent cough tore out of him. Blood sprayed across his hand and the white bedsheets. The reaction came from his body—no, from his very soul. He seized the bell by the bed and rang it like a madman.
Ding-a-ling-a-ling!
"Physician! Where are youuuu?!"
"The Young Master is coughing up blood! Physician! Priest! Someone, anyone, get in here now!"
There's a man coughing up blood over hereeee!
Mount Sol, said to be the mountain closest to the sun. At its peak stood the Grand Temple of the Sun Church.
The captain of the Holy Knights found the Saintess alone in the vast prayer hall and held out a letter.
"Saintess. A letter has arrived."
"Thank you, Captain."
"Not at all. Serving you is my destiny."
The captain smiled benevolently—and as he watched the Saintess accept the letter, a small doubt stirred.
Why did she accept it?
The sender was the second son of the Alcarte ducal house. The family itself wasn't bad. They donated steadily and maintained good relations with the imperial court. Rumors of ties to the underworld? Trivial.
The problem was the second son himself. He was rather famous—mostly in the worst ways.
A junkie and a scoundrel, wasn't he?
Rumor had it that as an alchemist, he'd even gotten into manufacturing drugs.
An alchemist…
A rare profession on the continent. Not an impressive one. All they really did was brew potions and the like. He felt neither respect nor pity. For the past year the boy had been quiet, as if he'd repented. But a year was nothing. How much could a person really change in that time? Certainly not enough to warrant the Saintess's attention…
And then—
"…Heh. Heh heh."
The Saintess, reading the letter, let out a soft laugh. A smile formed—beautiful, and deeply unsettling.
"…Saintess?"
"Would you leave me for a moment?"
"Yes, Saintess."
The captain withdrew. Alone, the Saintess stared through the letter as if she could burn a hole in it.
The contents barely mattered. What mattered was the phrase written on the outside of the stationery.
"Until the day the moon sets, we are the firebird that does not cry, the sacred horse that leaves no footprints."
How does he know words that only I and my God should know?
It was a phrase that a disregarded second son like Evan Alcarte could never have known. Had the Sun created a new apostle? No—impossible. The only apostle the Sun had personally chosen was Adrianne herself.
Which meant—
He knows all of my plans?
Someone who had seen through every last scheme had appeared.
Adrianne Saint, Saintess of the Sun. Famous for her benevolent nature and devout character. None of that was wrong—except for the one truth she kept hidden.
How does he know my plan to summon my Sun into this world?
The descent of the Sun. For that purpose she had quietly laid her plans and steered the Sun Church from the shadows. The black curtain controlling the temple from behind the scenes—that was the true face of Adrianne Saint, hidden behind the mask of the pious Saintess.
And even a cure for the illness I could never treat…
The murky crimson potion enclosed with the letter. A medicine that could, if only fractionally, treat the curse the Saintess had suffered for so long.
"Heh. Heh heh. How amusing."
Cold sweat beaded on the forehead of the Saintess as she forced herself to look unbothered.
A warning? Or mockery? Is he saying my plans are that transparent?
She could see no good intention in it. Sending only a letter instead of meeting her in person. Blatantly inscribing that precious phrase right on the outside. Wasn't it as if he were sneering at how pitiful her schemes looked?
Crumple—
The letter in her hand crushed into a ball. It matched the crumpling of the Saintess's pride.
…I need to find out.
Adrianne the Saintess made her resolve. Whether this was coincidence—or if not, how much Evan truly knew. Whether Evan was the real mastermind, sitting above their heads and pulling every string—
One way or another, she would find out.