The Tales of an Infinite Regressor

Chapter 1 – Companion I

[Translator – Peptobismol]

Chapter 1 – Companion Ⅰ

1

Infinite Regression.

There’s a genre with such a name.

When the protagonist experiences death, returns to a state prior to death, and continues to challenge obstacles, it’s called “infinite regression”.

Naturally, no matter how difficult the obstacles the protagonist faces, they somehow overcome them. Because if they just keep challenging, they’ll eventually overcome.

Originally destined for a bad ending, turning into a happy ending, or the protagonist miraculously saving a sub-heroine who should’ve died from an incurable disease—.

Infinite regression is nothing more than a cheat code that resolves all tragedies.

But speaking as someone who has experienced it firsthand, the infinite regression depicted in various novels is nothing but insidious propaganda.

It’s like an academy that only puts up banners with the names of students who passed the prestigious university entrance exams.

“Fuck. This won’t work, will it?”

I put down my staff sword.

The 1183rd regression.

The world has once again collapsed. It’s supposed to. It won’t work. I was one of those who couldn’t make it. No matter how much I resist, I have to admit that I can’t prevent the destruction of the world.

This is not a story of success, but the postscript of failure.

Having the ability of infinite regression yet ultimately unable to prevent the destruction, I am nothing more than a footnote in someone else’s tale who ultimately let himself go.

2

The first thing to be mindful of is the human mind, that is, the psyche always has an expiration date.

No matter how seemingly intact a person may be on the outside, with repeated regression, something invisible inevitably breaks down.

Grandpa Schopenhauer, who I will be talking about from now on, is the prime example.

“My direct ancestor was a very famous philosopher.”

“Old Scho” often boasted about his family tree.

I, too, had heard of the Schopenhauer name before. But honestly, unlike his ancestor, Old Scho was a great man, but he was the farthest man from a philosopher.

“What are those muscles? Do some exercise, exercise.”

Even though he was a 60-year-old man, his whole body was muscular.

Rather than philosophy, Schopenhauer was more intimate with iron itself. He always emphasized the importance of exercise.

“But, if I regress, all my muscles will disappear anyway…”

“Weight training is a habit. Habits don’t disappear.”

Schopenhauer said solemnly.

At that time, I possessed the ability to preserve my muscles and martial arts skills even when regressing to the past, with the [Continue] skill. But back then, I was just a beginner who had only experienced regression about ten times. So, it was quite difficult for me to empathize with Schopenhauer’s philosophy.

Nationality, generation, taste, beliefs, political inclinations—Schopenhauer and I were opposites in every aspect. We had absolutely no common ground.

Yet, despite everything, there was one reason why we stuck together.

“Tsk. This run is doomed too.”

“I guess so.”

Infinite regression.

That’s right. Old Scho and I were both regressors with the same ability.

Inexplicably, in the world I lived in, there were not one but two regressors. Considering that in most works of fiction, infinite regression is granted only to one person, it was quite peculiar.

“Agh, damn it. Damn it. We can’t kill that monster.”

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“What should we do then?”

“I’ll go first, and you follow later. While I distract that thing, you run away and keep resisting until the end. Then, won’t we see progress in the next run?”

“Damn it. Old man, you always leave the tough part to me…”

“Hey! That’s slander, you bastard!”

Funnily enough, Old Scho, who accurately pronounced “slander” in Korean, was German.

I first met Old Scho during the 6th regression. At that time, he only knew a few words in Korean, like ‘hello’.

But as soon as he found out that there was another infinite regressor just like himself, Old Scho immersed himself in learning Korean.

With each regression from the 7th to the 8th, his Korean language skills improved by leaps and bounds. By the time it was the 10th regression, he spoke Korean better than me.

To the extent that he could read “The Analects” better in Korean, rather than German.

“Mister, your passion is really admirable.”

“You bastard! It’s not passion, it’s a habit! I learned it because you didn’t bother to learn German! Oh, it’s so frustrating. Even though you have the ability to memorize everything, why are you so lazy to study? It’s a waste of talent. How could someone so much younger than me be so lazy to learn? Argh! Tsk…”

“…”

It seemed like he learned a bit too well.

Anyway, thanks to Old Scho equipping his brain with Korean and K-Drama-style remarks, our communication became much smoother.

Nevermind one, but with two infinite regressors, wasn’t it a straight cheat code?

Sometimes I sacrificed myself, sometimes Old Scho sacrificed himself, we gradually compiled a strategy guide for this world.

“Ha, I did it! We did it!”

When we defeated the monster ‘Ten Legs’ that no one had been able to defeat for the past ten runs, we both cheered.

After blowing off its head with loathsome mop-like tentacles, Schopenhauer threw down his sword and lunged at me.

“My god! Kid! Thank you! It’s all thanks to you! I couldn’t have come this far alone!”

Schopenhauer smiled like a child.

In fact, although we had formed a cooperative relationship from the 6th to the 10th regressions, somewhere deep inside, we were still guarded against each other. It was difficult to trust another person in a world where destruction was imminent.

Both I and Schopenhauer. We had witnessed too much to easily trust anyone.

But in the moment when this white-haired German grump embraced me with a bright smile, I felt the last trace of caution between us melting away.

I looked into Schopenhauer’s gray eyes. He also felt the same emotions as me.

Yes. We were pilots who crash-landed at the end of the century, and although we couldn’t claim to have been born on the same land, we were comrades who leaped out with a fragile parachute towards the same landing point.

Since that day, many things between us became unimportant. No longer did nationality, generation, taste, beliefs, or political inclinations hold their inherent gravity.

In an atmosphere where gravity had faded, we felt much lighter.

“In fact, getting used to this regression thing is really tough.”

Old Scho showed me his human aspect, or what’s called ‘weakness,’ without any hesitation.

In the morning, we filled our thermos with coffee or maybe some soju, and headed to an empty cafe (there were a lot of them abandoned since the world went to ruins) to have some casual talks.

“Why’s that?”

“When we regress, don’t we wake up on June 17th? But just a minute into the regression, my wife dies.”

“Really?”

Old Scho’s words went like this:

June 17th, 13:59. That’s the point we regress to. But around 14:00 on June 17th, gates open up in Seoul, South Korea, and everything south of the Han River disappears.

Unlike the two of us who were in Busan that day and escaped the disaster, Old Scho’s wife was attending an academic conference in Seoul.

“Just a minute. Just one minute.”

Old Scho took a sip of his soju.

“My wife was in the auditorium at that time. It was a gathering of renowned scientists.”

“Even if you warned her about the gates opening… there’s no way to avoid it.”

“Yeah.”

The catastrophe that befell the entire Seoul region was inevitable. Even if Old Scho called her immediately after regressing and told her to evacuate immediately, it was physically impossible to escape the tragedy.

“Even if I called, she wouldn’t pick up right away. She always sets her phone to silent mode when there’s an important event… I had to call her three times in a row just to get her to pick up.”

“…”

“Then there’s no time. As soon as I can barely manage to say ‘I love you’, there’s a loud thud from the sky, and the call ends. Only 10 seconds. I could only hear my wife’s voice for just 10 seconds…”

“What about your other family members?”

“There aren’t any. I only have my wife.”

Old Scho murmured.

Real name, Emit Schopenhauer. Alias, Swordmaster.

I felt like I knew why he was so obsessed with gaining immense power.

As the regressions continued, Old Scho’s alcohol tolerance increased. In the 9th run, he would just sip his soju and say, “This isn’t alcohol.” But by the 19th run, he drank three bottles of soju right there.

“Even if I drink myself to death, my liver resets when we regress, so isn’t it worth it? Hehe…”

Although he said that, Old Scho’s expression wasn’t bright.

At this point, he had been enduring approximately 120 years of time from all the regressions combined.

Meanwhile, the time Old Scho spent talking to his wife amounted to only about 120 seconds.

The journey of an old man crossing the desert just to take a sip of water was becoming increasingly harsh.

“Surely, there must be a teleporter.”

At some point, Old Scho’s goals began to change.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean a person with the ability to teleport. If we find them, I can rush to my wife as soon as we regress.”

“But… Even if there is a teleporter somewhere in the world, how could you meet them within a minute? Even when you and I regress, it takes at least 30 minutes to reunite.”

“….”

Old Scho fell silent.

I could sense that this silence wasn’t one of affirmation.

Over the course of 100 years, my companion, who had been trying to prevent destruction alongside me, began to entertain increasingly strange thoughts. He muttered incessantly.

“What if we find a resurrection spell? Couldn’t we bring back the dead?”

“If I could copy other people’s abilities, and obtain teleportation and telepathy, then surely I could solve all my problems within a minute.”

“I can do it. I definitely can.”

It felt like watching a crumbling sandcastle.

As we approached the 23rd run, Old Scho’s pinnacle of collapse arrived.

As soon as I started the regression, I followed the same route as usual. After dealing with Busan Station, which had turned into a dungeon within 30 minutes, I moved to our predetermined meeting place. It was an old hideout we had discovered in a previous run.

“Huh? Mister? Mister, are you not here?”

There was no one in the underground training center. There was no trace of anyone entering or leaving.

“….”

Sensing some ominous feeling, I immediately moved.

My starting point was Busan Station. Old Scho’s was the old Baekje Hospital building.

Passing by the elementary school that had been half-destroyed due to the monster’s rampage, I entered the old hospital building. Everyone had evacuated, leaving no one behind.

Old Scho was dead on the rooftop.

“….”

It wasn’t murder.

There were no threats that could kill Old Scho at the starting point. Not a monster. Not a human. Not even me.

The only one who could kill him was himself.

Old Scho’s body was missing its head. But the body was intact. He was clutching a smartphone in his left hand.

“Insane.”

[Translator – Peptobismol]