The Tales of an Infinite Regressor

[Translator - Jjescus]

[Proofreader - Gun]

Chapter 134

──────

Eschatologist VI

"Huah! Uhhhhh!"

The Sword Demon lunged at me.

But compared to when he had once sliced my neck in a single stroke, his movements were as sluggish as an old slug.

His footwork had changed, in a bad way. To avoid the landmines (statues) I had planted all over the city, the Sword Demon was forced into an inefficient path.

Of course, it was hard to say that Old Scho, who had fallen into corruption, still retained the same strong political ideals he had in life.

In fact, most of the statues I made were of Adele—Old Scho's wife. There were even statues of his wife hidden behind the statues of Marx and Luxemburg.

Probably 90% of the reason the Sword Demon hesitated in destroying the statues was because of the wife statues.

You might wonder, "Then weren’t the communist statues unnecessary?" But such a question itself would be against the anti-communist ideology of the Korean Peninsula.

Why would I pass up the chance to legally mock and humiliate that senile old man? Especially when it's a once-in-a-millennium opportunity for some real fun?

As a regressor, you should enjoy it while you can.

Some of the wife statues were not just busts but half-figures, with the right arm raised in a "middle finger" pose.

Hundreds of middle fingers were proudly raised towards Old Scho.

In this desolate, barren city's ruins, the increasing exterior decorations finally made it somewhat worth sightseeing. This was true urban beautification.

"……! ……!"

The Sword Demon howled again, moved by my thorough and generous gift. It must have been out of gratitude for an old comrade’s heartfelt effort.

Though I couldn’t understand the language of this monstrosity, if translated to German, it was probably something like “Danke.”

Behind me, Koyori murmured, “This is interesting…”

Leaving the observer behind, our two weapons—more precisely, my cane sword and his iron pipe—clashed fiercely.

Even though my opponent was Old Scho, who had reached his maximum potential, fighting became manageable with his movement restricted.

"Grgrgrrr!"

The Sword Demon, frustrated, stepped on thin air and flew up.

He intended to avoid even the possibility of stepping on the statues!

But it was a move that knew one thing and missed two others. It seemed the old man had been on vacation too long and had forgotten what kind of person I was.

“Look- at- me!”

Sshraaak!

Without hesitation, I tore off my shirt. Behind me, Koyori chuckled, “Oh my, oh my.”

But my stripping wasn’t just for fan service. It wasn’t even a performance to taunt the enemy like a holy knight tank.

It was purely driven by my artistic desire to show Old Scho the portrait on my underwear.

A canvas-white undershirt.

On it was a portrait of Madame Adele.

"……!"

Old Scho suddenly froze in midair as if he’d crashed into a car.

The hand gripping his iron pipe trembled. His gaping mouth could only produce eerie sounds like "Uh- uh?"

From his perspective, it was like unexpectedly witnessing a masterpiece of the century, so of course, he had to revere it.

Moreover, not just my clothes, but my arms, hands, and feet were all tattooed with portraits of Madame Adele…!

The fully upgraded version of [Friend Shield], [Wife Shield], had descended upon this place.

"Go ahead and attack, old man. Try attacking? Where will you attack? The neck? Do you see the ADELE tattooed on my throat?”

“Uh, uhh… uh…?”

“Go ahead, try and cut it! You rotten old man!”

The Sword Demon was at a loss, stammering. Even Old Scho, who had abandoned friendship and fled, was helpless before "love."

Remember, this is the textbook way to deal with monsters.

There's a reason demons are so keen on hiding their true names. The moment their identity is known, their weaknesses are exposed, and once you grasp those weaknesses, the monster's stiff neck becomes as fragile as a chicken's.

From now on, it was my turn.

With my entire body wrapped in an anti-Old Scho exclusive AT Field, I charged forward.

“I’ve wanted to punch your face for a thousand years!”

"Uwaaaah!"

One strike. Another strike. And another.

Every time I swung my cane sword, the Sword Demon was barely able to dodge.

Even then, Old Scho's murky eyes roamed over my skin. He seemed to be checking for any gaps he could stab into while avoiding the portraits of Madame Adele.

But I did not make the same mistake as the goddess who tried to make a baby invincible but left his ankle as a weak spot.

As a Korean who grew up reading The Tale of the Baby Warrior Uturn and learned early on from bleak stories, I was even more inclined to avoid such petty mistakes.

“Huuuuh…!”

In the end, Old Scho could not find any weakness on my body. The Sword Demon couldn't maintain his position in the air and fell.

His only remaining option was to be beaten by me.

And the target of those beatings was both physical and mental. Because I wasn’t a dualist like Descartes, who treated mind and body separately.

“Emett, what’s going on with you?”

“……?!”

“I’m at a conference right now! My God, did you drink? Why are you acting like a child? Huh? Wait a minute, Emett. I’m hearing strange noises from the sky!”

The words flowing from my mouth.

They were a copy-paste of a 30-second phone call between Old Scho and his wife.

High-level plagiarism was indistinguishable from the original.

I not only mimicked the dialogue but also perfectly imitated the voice. By converting the vibrations of sound waves into aura, I succeeded in replicating "Madame Adele's voice."

This strategy was inspired by my battle against the fallen version of a Saintess, the Executor, in the 107th turn. Using a technique devised by one fallen one against another was truly an achievement of human intelligence.

“My brother’s name is Maximilian! Oh my God, Emett, what are you talking about all of a sudden?! This is crazy. Wait, hold on. We’ll discuss this in person later!”

“Uh, uh, uhhh…?”

Old Scho was defenseless against my "voice phishing" tactic.

The mental strength of a German was worn down in real-time by a Korean's K-fraud attack.

“Oh my, oh my…”

[Translator - Jjescus]

[Proofreader - Gun]

Koyori, watching our fight, had a blissful look on her face. How should I describe it? It was like the expression you make after buying a delicious-smelling bread at a bakery in the subway station, only to find out it’s actually as tasty as it smells. Just watching was satisfying.

The battle continued for a day, two days, three days, and even four days.

In this fierce struggle, I wasn’t just venting my thousand-year-old stress on Old Scho. That was only 85% of my purpose in the battle.

The remaining 15% was to observe and learn from the 'answer sheet,' as I had told Koyori.

“The monster before me is, after all, a manifestation of the talents Old Scho might have developed.”

Huuu-

I adjusted my breathing, letting the opponent’s aura flow past me. Then, I stared directly at the Sword Demon.

While it might have been closer to a sinister energy than pure intent, there was no doubt that the Sword Demon was one of the possible outcomes for a warrior named "Emett Schopenhauer."

My gaze sharpened.

‘I must remember as much as I can.’

The grip on the sword hilt.

The direction of his swings. The ratio and method of mixing feints into his attacks. The angle at which he applies weight through the sword and the speed at which he skillfully deflects. The way he utilizes aura in his swordsmanship.

This was a swordsmanship that Schopenhauer would have eventually mastered if he hadn’t quit the game after the 23rd turn.

‘I’ll observe, remember, and pass it on.’

For when old Schopenhauer returns someday.

Thus, I prolonged the fight, which I could have ended much sooner, as much as possible.

I introduced numerous scenarios. How would he react to an attack from the left?

How does he defend against a sudden aura strike while feinting a sword slash?

What if I respond like this? And in this situation? Oh, how about this?

I threw countless questions at my opponent.

“Ughhhhh!”

And countless exclamations were my comrade's response.

If the countless question marks are hammered into one's own exclamation points, that becomes the path a warrior walks.

Even if a human falls into monstrosity, their blade does not bend.

‘I don’t know what kind of profound meaning is hidden here.’

I’ll admit it honestly. Just like the old man said, my martial talent is hopeless.

I hoped in vain, but my senses were not particularly moved by the brilliant display of swordsmanship and footwork unfolding before my eyes.

There was no sudden epiphany, no breakthrough in levels as often described in martial arts novels; such fortuitous events were clearly not destined for me.

As a warrior, I was below average.

‘But still, if I accurately imitate the appearance and demonstrate it, the old man will figure out the hidden meaning on his own.’

However, as a supporter, I was exceptionally talented.

There have been few moments where I’ve been more grateful for my [Perfect Memory] ability than now.

I was always true to the role given to me as a regressor in this world. I helped my comrades. I assisted them. I connected them with one another.

I became a bridge across the absolute barriers given to mortals—time and death—and connected them like a single thread.

“Old man. You are not fighting me, nor are you fighting to defeat me.”

The dark aura and the midnight-blue aura clashed.

“Urgh! Hrrrgh, huuuuugh!”

“You are fighting against the version of yourself who will become a slightly better person in the future. It’s quite an ironic thing, don’t you think? After all, every battle is essentially a duel with oneself, isn’t it?”

“...!”

“I’ll make a prediction. Someday, you will lose your life by your own blade.”

The fight that had lasted through four sleepless nights was slowly coming to an end.

I thought of it as a long letter from the Schopenhauer of today to his future self.

People used to record their moves on paper and exchange them to play Go over long distances.

So it wouldn’t be strange if two warriors exchanged martial arts manuals across a bit of time.

"... Ugh... Uh..."

The Sword Demon was utterly exhausted.

Even a killing machine that operated solely on the principle of "love for his wife" had its limits.

Due to the inherent limitations of being based on a human body, the Sword Demon's muscles were weary from endless minor wounds, and his heart groaned under the constant fatigue.

His aura was not infinite either.

In a battlefield meticulously designed to favor me, it was Schopenhauer whose engine ran out of fuel first.

Pat, pat-pat—pat—

The once overwhelming aura of the Sword Demon, which had stained broad daylight with the colors of the night sky, had diminished to the point of being barely visible.

It was like a malfunctioning TV occasionally displaying noise on the screen—Schopenhauer's midnight-blue aura flickered on and off around his shoulders.

If that monstrosity was Schopenhauer’s fall,

then this sight was the downfall of that monstrosity.

Yes, though it may be ironic for a regressor like me to say, every incident has an end.

It was nearly time to bury the small time capsule in my mind.

“Ugh, ugh… uh…”

As I took a step back, the Sword Demon instinctively swung a metal pipe.

Stagger—

The strike was so feeble that it only sliced through the empty air.

The Sword Demon tried to pursue me, but his steps faltered, and he collapsed. His ankles were marred by numerous wounds, like the stumps of trees that a clumsy lumberjack had failed to fell.

The Sword Demon tried to crawl toward me, even using his hands if necessary.

But due to his crude aura manipulation, all of his fingernails were shattered.

Whenever he flailed about, blood burst out from between his ten broken fingernails.

His blood was so dark that it smelled like coal.

A trail of ash followed him.

“...”

I raised Doha.

I had resolved to deliver the final blow to Schopenhauer, to his remnants, to his bad ending.

If Schopenhauer were to die, I had long believed that I was the only one qualified to give him a proper burial.

But I couldn’t bring myself to strike down just yet.

The destination Schopenhauer was crawling toward, whether it was on his feet, arms, hands, fingers, or even his fingernails, was not me, who had fought with him for the past four days.

“...Ah...”

It was a bit further back.

“...Dell...e...a…”

He was heading toward Koyori.

[Translator - Jjescus]

[Proofreader - Gun]