Chapter: 1
Chapter Title: Companion I
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Infinite Regressor.
Such a genre exists.
Infinite regression.
It's called infinite regression when the protagonist, upon experiencing death, returns to a state before death and endlessly challenges hardships.
Naturally, no matter how perilous the obstacles, the protagonist overcomes them somehow. Because they just keep challenging until they do.
A fate that should end in a bad ending turns into a happy one, or the protagonist miraculously saves a sub-heroine doomed to die from an incurable disease—.
Infinite regression is no different from a cheat key that concludes all tragedies.
But as someone who's experienced it firsthand, I can say that the infinite regressions depicted in various novels are nothing but lowbrow propaganda.
Like how cram schools only hang up banners with the names of students who got into prestigious universities.
"Fuck. This isn't working."
I set down my sword cane.
1183rd regression.
The world had perished again. Tough luck. Some make it, some don't. I was one of those who didn't. No matter how hard I struggled, I finally had to admit I couldn't prevent the world's destruction.
This isn't a story of success. It's a story of failure.
It's merely the aftermath of someone who, despite possessing infinite regression ability, ultimately couldn't stop the destruction and let go of himself.
First, the key point to note is that human mental strength—our sanity—always has an expiration date.
No matter how outwardly fine a person seems, as regressions repeat, something invisible inevitably breaks.
The old man Schopenhauer, whom I'm about to talk about, is a prime example.
"My direct ancestor was a very famous philosopher."
'Old Man Show' often bragged about his family tree.
I'd heard the name Schopenhauer before, of course. But honestly, unlike his ancestor, Old Man Show was a long way from being a philosopher.
"What's with those muscles of yours? Get some exercise, boy. Exercise."
Despite being a 60-year-old, his body was all muscle.
More intimate with iron itself than philosophy, Old Man Show always preached the importance of exercise.
"But... it all disappears when we regress anyway..."
"Weight training is a habit. Habits don't disappear."
Old Man Show said solemnly.
Now I have the ability to preserve my muscles and internal energy even after regressing—a skill called [Continue]—but back then, I was just a greenhorn who'd only gone through about 10 cycles. So it was hard to empathize with his philosophy.
We were opposites in nationality, generation, tastes, beliefs, political leanings—everything. We had zero in common.
Yet the reason we stuck together was simple.
"Tch. This cycle's a bust too."
"Yeah."
Infinite regression.
That's right. Old Man Show and I were both regressors with the same ability.
Somehow, in the world I lived in, there weren't one, but two regressors. Considering most stories grant infinite regression to only one person, it was pretty unusual.
"Argh, wiped out. Wiped. Can't kill that monster."
"Then what do we do?"
"I'll go first, so you come later. While I hold it off, you run and struggle to the end. Then maybe next cycle we'll figure something out?"
"Fuck. Old man always dumps the hard parts on me..."
"Hey! Language! Respect your elders, you punk!"
Pronouncing "respect your elders" perfectly in Korean, Old Man Show was hilariously German.
I first met him in the 6th regression. Back then, the only Korean he knew was "Hello."
But the moment he learned another infinite regressor existed, he dove into studying Korean.
By the 7th, 8th cycles, as regressions progressed, his Korean improved by leaps and bounds. By the 10th, he spoke it better than me.
To the point where he read the [Analects] in Korean, not German.
"Old timer, your passion's impressive."
"You punk! It's not passion, it's habit! You wouldn't learn German, so I had to! Ugh. A guy who's mastered perfect memory—why don't you study? 'Learning without thinking is labor in vain,' they say. How can a young whippersnapper like you be so lazy about it? Tsk tsk..."
"..."
He might've learned it too well.
Anyway, thanks to Old Man Show equipping his brain with K-boomer energy and Korean, our communication became much smoother.
With two infinite regressors—already a cheat even with one—?
Sometimes I'd sacrifice, sometimes he'd sacrifice, and we steadily built a攻略 guide for this world.
"We did it! We fucking did it!"
When we finally defeated the monster 'Ten Tribes' that no one had beaten in 10 whole cycles, we both cheered.
After slicing off that hateful mop-tentacle head, Old Man Show threw his sword aside and tackled me in a hug.
"Ow! Doc! Thank you! It's all thanks to you! I couldn't have made it this far alone!"
Old Man Show grinned like a kid.
Truth be told, from the 6th to 10th cycles, though we'd formed a partnership, we'd each harbored some wariness deep down. In a world on the brink of destruction, trusting someone was tough.
Neither I nor Old Man Show. We'd seen too much to trust easily.
But the moment that white-haired German boomer grinned and hugged me, I felt that last barrier between us melt away completely.
I looked into Old Man Show's gray eyes. I could tell he felt the same.
That's right. We were pilots who crash-landed in the apocalypse. Not born on the same soil, but comrades leaping with frail parachutes toward the same landing zone.
After that day, many things stopped mattering between us. Nationality, generation, tastes, beliefs, politics—they all lost their gravity.
In that low-gravity atmosphere, we became much lighter.
"Truth is, getting used to this regression thing is really hard."
Old Man Show openly showed me his human side—the part called a 'weakness' in a destroyed world.
We'd fill a thermos with coffee in the morning, or grab soju bottles, and head to an empty cafe (plenty of shops abandoned after baristas fled the apocalypse) for casual chats.
"Why's that?"
"When we regress, we wake up on June 17th, right? But a minute after, my wife dies."
"Huh?"
Here's what Old Man Show said.
June 17th, 13:59. That's when our regressions start. But around 14:00 that same day, a gate opens in Seoul, Korea, and everything south of the Han River vanishes.
Unlike us, who survived in Busan, his wife was at a conference in Seoul.
"One minute. Just one minute."
Old Man Show downed his soju.
"My wife's on stage at the auditorium. Bunch of famous scientists there."
"Even if you warn about the gate... she can't escape."
"Yeah."
Seoul turned into scorched earth in an instant. Even if Old Man Show called right after regressing to evacuate, physics made it impossible.
"She wouldn't pick up anyway. During important events, she silences her phone... Had to call three times in a row."
"..."
"No time. I barely say 'I love you,' then boom from the sky, call drops. Ten seconds. That's all the time I get to hear her voice..."
"What about other family?"
"None. Just my wife."
Old Man Show muttered.
Real name: Emmett Schopenhauer. Alias: Swordmaster.
I could see why he obsessed over gaining overwhelming power.
As cycles passed, his tolerance grew. In the 9th cycle, he'd say soju 'isn't booze' after one bottle; by the 19th, he'd down three right there.
"Even if I drink myself to death, regression resets my liver—profit, right? Heh heh..."
But his face wasn't bright.
By then, we'd endured about 120 years combined.
Yet his talks with his wife totaled maybe 120 seconds.
The old man's journey across the desert for a sip of water grew harsher.
"There has to be a teleporter out there."
At some point, Old Man Show's goal shifted.
"Huh?"
"Teleporter. Find him, and I can rush to my wife right at regression start."
"But old timer... even if there's a teleporter somewhere, how do you meet in one minute? Even you and I take 30 minutes to rendezvous after regressing."
"..."
Old Man Show fell silent.
I could tell it wasn't agreement.
After 100 years fighting destruction with me, my comrade sank into strange thoughts. He muttered nonstop.
"If I find resurrection magic, I could revive the dead, right?"
"If I copy others' abilities—teleport and telepathy—surely I could solve everything in a minute."
"I can do it. I definitely can."
It was like a crumbling sandcastle.
The collapse peaked in the 23rd cycle.
I followed the usual route right after regressing: cleared the dungeon-ified Busan Station in 30 minutes, then headed to our pre-set rendezvous—our old hideout.
"Huh? Old timer? Old timer, you here?"
The underground training center was empty. No signs of anyone entering.
"..."
Feeling an ominous premonition, I moved immediately.
My start: Busan Station. His: old Baekje Hospital building.
Passing a half-destroyed elementary school from monster rampage, I entered the old hospital. Everyone had evacuated; it was deserted.
Old Man Show was dead on the rooftop.
"..."
Not murdered.
At the starting point, nothing could kill him—monster, human, not even me.
Only he could.
Old Man Show's body was intact, head missing. His left hand clutched a smartphone tightly.
"Crazy."
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