Editor 129

Introduction to History (2)

The priest looked back a couple of times, seemingly worried about Archbishop Istoria’s condition, but did not defy her order.

Once the quietly moving old priest closed the door, an unnatural silence remained.

It was the long-awaited private meeting with the Archbishop. His body stiffened with tension.

‘Even her voice… it’s exactly like Minsan’s. This feels awful.’

Only when he caught the Archbishop’s gaze did Clio approach her.

Her expression and impression were completely different from Minsan’s, but her voice and face were exactly the same.

Even the shape of her slightly upturned nose and the way her lower lip seemed gently pressed in the center.

It was a creepy level of reproduction.

Clio, as the priest had instructed earlier, lightly took the hand that Archbishop Istoria offered. Then, awkwardly, he mimed kissing the back of her hand.

The Archbishop’s slender hand was smooth but lacked warmth, not feeling like that of a living person.

Just as Clio was about to politely step back after the greeting, the Archbishop suddenly grabbed his left hand.

Clio was startled, but couldn’t pull away for fear of hurting the frail Archbishop.

“What are you doing?”

“Stay still.”

The Archbishop, holding onto Clio who couldn’t do anything, placed her thumb on the index finger where the “Promise” resided.

A cold sweat ran down Clio’s back.

‘The Archbishop was said to have once possessed immense divine power. Even if faded, could she possibly have sensed something about the “Promise”?’

The Archbishop, toying with the “Promise” with her fingertips—visible to no one else—suddenly stopped. At that moment, the cold, composed face of the Archbishop took on a human expression.

The severe high priest’s appearance suddenly became the face of “Minsan” as “Jeongjin” had known her.

“It’s a relief you still have your graduation ring.”

“?!”

Clio—no, “Jeongjin’s”—eyes grew as wide as they possibly could.

His mouth went dry, and his heart started pounding uncontrollably.

Still holding Clio’s hand, the Archbishop looked at “Jeongjin” with a faint, longing, wistful smile.

“□□, have you been well? No matter what form you take, you’re still the same. I could recognize you right away. When you’re nervous, you tilt your chin a little and clench your mouth.”

Even though Regina’s lips moved, like on mute, the first two syllables didn’t make a sound.

Regina, watching his reaction, moved her lips several times, but even her lip movements blurred and distorted, and the word she wanted to convey never reached Clio.

“It’s so hard to say your name, even once.”

The Archbishop pulled Clio’s hand closer. Then, turning over his left hand with the “Promise,” she bowed her head over his palm.

Silky, abundant silver hair spread across Clio’s sleeve like threads of silk.

The moment her soft, cold lips touched his palm, “Jeongjin” felt as if struck by lightning. As if trying to convey something, she repeated the same lip movements over and over.

There was no sound, but it was speech.

The movements were unclear, but the sensation was vivid. He couldn’t figure out what the silent word she wanted to convey meant.

But Regina’s attempt was so desperate that Clio couldn’t pull his hand away.

A strange premonition began to creep in.

A single word, two syllables.

The oldest proper noun to “Jeongjin.”

“Jeongjin.”

She was calling him in a silent language, her lips moving in a way entirely different from the language they originally knew.

A shocking realization hit “Jeongjin.” Regina gently released Clio’s now-trembling hand.

“□□, can you believe now that I’m □□?”

“…I don’t know what you mean, Your Holiness.”

“Jeongjin” did not let go of his doubt.

Just hinting at his real name from the other world was not proof that she was Minsan. In fact, he couldn’t even be sure she’d actually spoken that name.

He had taken over someone else’s body and settled in this world.

Since this world was modeled on the original, she too could simply be someone else borrowing Minsan’s face.

“I know what you’re doubting. You can’t be sure I’m the one you knew, right?”

Clio tried hard to hide his expression as he met Regina’s eyes. He couldn’t tell if she was really Minsan, but he could see this Regina was quick-witted.

“What should I say to convince you?”

At Clio’s guarded response, Regina lowered her lips as if disappointed. Even that movement was so identical to Minsan’s it was chilling.

“Do you remember the day we met in front of the department office during the summer break of third year, when I said you looked cool in that all-white uniform? It was an unusually dry day, and you smelled strongly of the sea. You were tall, the kind of person who stood out from a distance.”

Even the last fragment of composure remaining on “Jeongjin’s” face was shaken and shattered.

Of course he remembered.

He’d dropped by the department office during leave to get some documents.

He’d happened to meet Minsan, who was taking summer classes.

He’d replayed those words in his mind countless times.

It was a casual compliment, probably meant nothing.

But it was the only moment when he’d felt proud of his summer whites, which he usually just thought were a pain to keep clean.

That day, there was no one in front of the department office since it was the holidays.

“And I took a long leave, so we graduated the same semester. After the midterm party that last semester, you walked me home. Do you remember when I asked you in front of my house if you’d get a graduation ring with me?”

That memory wasn’t faint, it was too vivid to forget.

The white apartment complex behind the low row of shops stretching out from Dongjak Bridge. The low buildings among overgrown trees were quiet, as old as they were peaceful.

That day, Minsan wasn’t feeling well, so “Jeongjin,” who lived nearby in Sadang-dong, walked her home.

That gentle autumn night.

Tall metasequoia branches swayed, and the neat, block-shaped buildings stretched endlessly.

On that night, walking a step away from Minsan, the old apartment complex felt like a maze garden.

Even though it was a crowded complex, somehow it felt like they were alone when crossing the wooded path smelling of river breeze.

Just like when she asked about the graduation ring, Minsan looked up at “Jeongjin.”

Even with white hair and purple eyes now, the way she made expressions was exactly like the Minsan in his memory.

“I thought you’d changed your mind since you didn’t apply by the deadline, but after class you found me and told me behind the main library that you’d get the graduation ring.”

That’s right.

Even after graduation, he didn’t live in abundance, but during school “Jeongjin’s” circumstances were miserable, counting every 1,000 or 2,000 won.

Because of that, it was hard to afford the graduation ring. He finally managed to apply for it after working part-time all weekend.

Someone who knew all those trivial, insignificant conversations couldn’t be anyone but her.

“Jeongjin” called her in a much softer tone.

“Are you really □□…?”

“Jeongjin” was flustered.

He’d definitely called her name. His vocal cords vibrated and his lips moved, but no sound came out. It was as if his voice had been forcibly taken.

He immediately understood what had happened when Regina called his name.

“Did you get dragged into this world, like me?”

Regina shook her head faintly.

That left few possibilities. “Jeongjin’s” voice trembled badly.

“If you weren’t dragged in, then… are you the author of this story?”

This time, Regina shook her head more vigorously. A strong denial.

“No. That’s not it, either. I am not the one who rewrites the world, nor do I have the power to rewrite it. That is not my authority.”

“Jeongjin” looked at Minsan, or Regina.

He’d never really known her well, but now he truly felt she was an unknown existence.

Without hesitation, “Jeongjin” called up the “Promise’s” function.

「Appropriateness Judgment」

That was all he could hope for now.

[? Using 「Appropriateness Judgment」.

?Can determine the truth or falsity of the matter and the appropriateness of the element.

*Caution: Using this function temporarily consumes 95% of the ether in your body.]

Shuuuu.

As 「Appropriateness Judgment」 activated, a massive amount of ether drained out, leaving him empty. The familiar dizziness was followed by a sense of hollowness as if the ground dropped out.

Trying not to show ether depletion, “Jeongjin” chose his words.

“Please answer clearly. Are you really not the author who created this world?”

“I am not the author who created this world.”

As Regina’s answer echoed through the space, the dazzling light of the “Promise” swirled between “Jeongjin” and her.

The glare made “Jeongjin” frown. Meanwhile, Minsan, as if she couldn’t see the light, showed no change in expression.

In the spot where the halo faded, the judgment appeared.

[―According to 「Appropriateness Judgment」, this answer is judged to be true.]

He got an answer, but “Jeongjin’s” confusion only deepened. Instead of a clear conclusion, only new doubts swelled.

‘In the first place, is this person really Minsan? It makes no sense.’

He’d heard nothing about Minsan after graduation.

She didn’t even use social media, and only rare, unverifiable rumors about her floated around.

Some said she went abroad, or was doing research in some European city after finishing her degree. Of course, he’d never tried to verify it.

That Minsan would remember trivial conversations with a classmate she wasn’t even close to years later seemed implausible.

It would only have been significant to “Jeongjin.”

He muttered to himself.

“Yeah, if you’re not the author, it must be me. Maybe I really did imagine all of this myself.”

As Clio staggered back, drained, Regina tried to gently grasp his collar.

“Absolutely not.”

Clio, with an expressionless face, looked down at Regina’s hand, floating weakly in the air.

“If you were really her, you couldn’t act so familiar with me. Yeah, it was weird from the start.”

“□□, please listen to me. I always wanted to be kind to you, but you always took that kindness as an insult.”

Regina’s face, looking up at him desperately with trembling eyes, was one “Jeongjin” did not know.

The Minsan he’d known in the previous world was someone who, never once in her life desperate, wore human kindness and indifference like a crown.

He’d admired her for that. Even if just seeing her was painful for “Jeongjin.”

There was never anything that would make Minsan desperate for “Jeongjin.”

This was a petty and sordid fantasy.

A sacred being with Minsan’s face clinging to him was a contrivance.

“So this is an element the author inserted to sway me? Since they brought me here, maybe they rummaged through my head, too. What do they take me for.”