Chapter 7
Chapter 7
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 7
Chapter Title: S0. Modern Civilization Tour -4
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Looking down below.
Steep stairs, so densely packed that one slip would cause serious injury.
Old walls covered in random graffiti.
Cigarette butts and trash scattered messily.
Looking up above.
The uncomfortable, filthy view of the ground from moments ago was nowhere to be seen.
Stars gathered together, hand in hand, singing songs,
and a warm moon illuminating the darkness hung in the sky.
I lived in a shantytown.
Poor people don't have many forms of entertainment.
Hopping along the lines crudely painted in the parking lot.
Kicking around a threadbare soccer ball that had lost all its bounce.
If even that seemed impossible, they'd just look up at the sky.
That was why my childhood memories were filled with that night sky.
I was frail and couldn't play with the other kids. There wasn't much to do inside the house, either.
The science textbook handed out by the social worker had been read until the pages were worn thin.
I read the newspapers, too—even though half the words were too difficult to understand, I read them over and over.
So I stared up at the sky.
Gazing at the sky, I dreamed.
The black night sky was a canvas meant just for me.
With imagination as my paint, I could create anything without spending a dime.
What if I'd been born rich?
What if, like Taemin from my class, I could've showered everyone with Choco Pies during the class president election?
What if I stumbled upon a discarded magic lamp on the street...
My childhood fantasies always ended unfinished.
The scene of becoming rich. The scene of tossing chicken instead of Choco Pies at the election.
The scene of picking up a magic lamp from a cat's food bowl while wandering the shantytown.
I could never picture what came next.
The version of me in those fantasies, clutching unimaginable luck, had no idea what to do with it and simply gave up.
Imitation is the mother of creation, or so they say. Just as someone who's never seen a dinosaur couldn't imagine one, I—who'd never truly possessed it—couldn't imagine happiness.
All I could vaguely sketch was a smiling face.
Why do people hate other people? I obsessed over that question back in middle school.
It wasn't some philosophical musing.
I just wondered because my so-called "friends" in class beat me up every single day.
Sometimes it was because I had no money. Sometimes no supplies. Sometimes because I had no mom.
They'd spout some reason every time they swung their fists, but we both knew it was a lie.
So I couldn't help but wonder about the real reason.
What on earth was it that made them torment a quiet kid like me?
And if it was truly baseless bullying, why could people hate others for no reason at all?
Around that time, villains started appearing in my imaginations.
A monster who stole my shoes and tossed them into the bushes. A monster who secretly jabbed thumbtacks into my back during class.
A monster who stole the supplies I'd scraped together to buy and flushed them down the toilet.
The imagined me, cornered and chased by monsters, would get rich or hurl chicken or pick up a magic lamp.
But there was still no happy ending. Even if I pushed the monsters far away, they'd always come back eventually.
I lost in reality. I lost in my moonlit dreams. Days of losing around the clock.
One day, it hurt too much.
I thought it was my body aching, but no.
There were plenty of bruises, but they didn't even hurt anymore.
It was my heart that hurt.
Like a cavity, the pain starts when the decay reaches the nerve.
Something vital inside my heart had been chipped away at, bit by bit, until it finally touched the core.
I cried out of fear and sorrow.
Once that precious core was chipped away, I wouldn't be myself anymore.
The moment I stopped being me, all the anger I'd gritted my teeth through would burst free. I'd hurl curses and grab something sharp to charge at those rotten "friends."
I wasn't afraid of becoming a criminal.
I was afraid of losing my humanity.
The first time is always the hardest. The second is bearable. By the third, it's habit.
The instant violence overtook my anger, I'd become just like those imaginary monsters.
No—worse than monsters.
They had the money to attend school without worry, both parents alive, and a pack of friends to run with. I had none of that.
If I lost my humanity too, I'd truly have nothing left.
I had to protect my heart. At the very least, that precious heart of mine.
I tried.
Observe deeply, and you'll learn a great deal.
People are the same. Some aspects are incredibly complex, but others are so simple you can diagram them.
I classified human types and studied what actions worked on which.
People surprisingly don't appreciate unconditional devotion all that much.
You have to give, then pull back occasionally to remind them of gratitude. People cling harder to what's about to be taken away than what they already possess.
People are extremely sensitive to social scrutiny. You have to weaponize others' gazes.
Even the most vicious thugs lose their edge under the stares of a massive crowd.
So for those who hated me...
It was more effective to make a faceless multitude hate them instead of me doing it myself.
Rather than living by my heart, I calculated everything with my head.
I smiled through sadness and cried through joy. I catered to those around me while maneuvering them to act on my behalf. The "real me" trapped in a corner of my mind felt suffocated, but it was still better than getting beaten.
That's how I lived my mechanical college life.
I joined a club, figuring it was a good environment for building connections.
I even dated a girlfriend to bolster my social standing. She wasn't my type at all, but rejecting her confession would've spelled trouble—I could already see it.
She'd spread vicious rumors about me with those venomous eyes. How dare he reject my confession?
Then, on an utterly ordinary day...
"Wanna try TRPG? I saw it on YouTube, and I bet I could run it better."
my girlfriend said.
I had zero interest but didn't refuse.
She told me to create a character.
Without giving any background, she just tossed it at me: It's fantasy, so figure it out.
Back home, I spread out a blank sheet of paper and pondered for ages.
What kind of character? Fantasy has so many genres. Do I have to act it out? What's an opportunity attack? And so on.
After racking my brain, something clicked, and I scribbled with my pen.
I wrote four letters on the white paper: Barbarian.
My first TRPG character, that barbarian, embodied my deepest wishes.
What if... I hadn't been frail? What if I'd been brimming with courage?
What if I'd been the kind of man who cleaved the heads of every rude bastard in two?
Wasn't that a fun fantasy?
Looking back, I might've wanted to rewrite my unhappy childhood.
In hindsight, it was a poor attitude. As I said before, character and player must be kept separate.
A hack GM met a hack player, so the session's fate was obvious from the start.
My barbarian character? Split heads first, ask questions later whenever enemies appeared.
Even if NPCs pleaded for help or spun some pitiful backstory, I'd just roll the dice.
The GM threw in way too many suspiciously overpowered NPCs.
Why were imperial princes and northern grand dukes showing up in a remote mountain village mine investigation?
My character was powerless. Those pretty boys swept away the continent's threats, leaving me to clean up scraps.
And it blew up.
As expected.
My first TRPG was a total mess, but... it left a strange feeling.
Maybe I liked moving with my heart instead of my head.
Or maybe...
The story I could never paint on that shantytown night sky,
I thought I might finally complete it through this thing called TRPG.
So.
That's why I came to love TRPG.
In that tiny play unfolding on paper, I wanted to find a story.
A thrilling, badass tale that repaid every ounce of misfortune in my life.
"...What kind of story do you think it is?"
"Romance first, of course. Sessions with love are always more fun."
"And?"
"Trials and tribulations are essential. The protagonist has to overcome hardship and grow."
"More?"
"Humor's a must. It catches two rabbits at once—it's entertaining on its own, and when paired with tragedy, it adds real depth."
"If I have this right, GM is the one running the game, player is the one enjoying it... So which do you want to be?"
"GM. Because the thirsty one has to dig the well."
"So you created a world."
"Yeah."
"Alright, I'll help. I'm... looking for a story too. You'll make a world for me later, right? After hogging all those support funds, if you have any conscience..."
"I got it, okay?"
Atop the shantytown railing where the bright moon shone clearly,
the Magic Tower Master and I hooked pinkies.
The fatal flaw of spilling your family history to someone: You snap out of it and realize how embarrassing it is.
I avoided eye contact with the Magic Tower Master for about three days.