Editor 130

Introduction to History (3)

Regina immediately denied Jeongjin’s conclusion.

“□□, please. You know. You don’t have the power of imagination. You’re not someone who can just elevate yourself, create a world that’s only kind to you, and settle into it comfortably.”

He admitted himself that he lacked imagination, but when she asserted it in that gentle voice, ‘Jeongjin’ felt as if his insides were tightly constricted, as if set on fire.

“…Even if, by some chance, your existence isn’t just my delusion, I don’t think you and □□ were ever that close.”

“No. I knew you. For a very long time.”

At times like this, Regina’s speech created a gap from the way Minsan spoke in his memory. Regina spoke like a prophet delivering a revelation. Her tone, full of certainty and yearning, felt so unfamiliar.

‘On the contrary, that girl used to speak quietly, and she was shy around people.’

In the previous world, people who acted like that archbishop would hang an unlikely apocalypse like a flag and falsely claim to be a savior.

Kleio’s skeptical gaze didn’t dampen Regina’s momentum at all.

“You never add your imagination to the facts. You don’t devour the given facts as material to fill the hunger of your authorship. Because you lack such desire, I, as the editor of ∂≒〕▲↓… ∩Å∠….”

A part of Regina’s otherwise fluent speech became muddled. Usually, that was an issue of narrative intervention. Instead of dwelling on noise he couldn’t filter out, Jeongjin asked another question.

“Assume you’re not the author, nor just my delusion. Then how can you exist here, in that form? You still have the appearance you claim is your original self, but I’ve become a completely different being. How do you explain this difference?”

“The author knew me, but only ever read about you. Just weaving the web of plausibility to make a place for you here was already exhausting. Even a god isn’t omnipotent in their own world, so even less so for beings of a world not their own.”

“…What? God?”

“The god of this last world ?????? our world, but never fully experienced it.”

In the words crumbling incompletely, Kleio caught a familiar term.

The last world.

Even in the message that appeared when the ‘promise’ was first given, this place was called the “last world.” Until now, he had thought it was just a poetic expression from .

“The last world? All this is just a novel written by Musai, a made-up world. Does it mean something more than that?”

“You’re right. This is a world written by Musai. At the same time, it’s a world where history repeats.”

It was a vague answer. Kleio couldn’t hold back any longer and shot up from his seat.

“Explain in a way I can understand. Who brought you here? Isn’t it the same guy who brought me?”

“Ah, □□… calm down. As a natural result of ▲?? ∠‡?, I am here. I came here by order and fate, and the reason you came here originated from me.”

The most important words wouldn’t reach him, constantly interrupted. ‘Jeongjin’ gripped the back of his chair in frustration.

“So I’m here because of you? Were you the one who sent the ‘message’? Did you steal the author’s name?”

“Steal the name? Of course not. I too am a Musai, and it was me who sent the first ‘message.’ However, even if your being here is due to me, I have no authority in this story.”

Regina admitted she sent the email, but she wasn’t the author.

Jeongjin, who had never doubted that ‘Musai’ was the author, was shocked to have his most fundamental premise overturned.

“If you have no authority, how could you draw me in?”

Regina lowered her head sorrowfully.

“I already told you, but the meaning doesn’t reach you now.”

“Why?”

“Because your narrative intervention is still insufficient. The reason I only sent ambiguous sentences to your previous self is that your narrative intervention was extremely low then, so I had to use expressions you could find plausible.”

“…So, sending me the manuscript in the first place was part of the plan?”

“Yes. Everything only begins when you read the manuscript.”

“What if I just ignored it and didn’t read it?”

At this moment, Regina smiled with an inappropriately gentle expression.

“I knew you’d read it. Just because. You always did. You gave unreserved affection to what was written.”

Kleio ran his hand through his hair. The ends tangled more, making it even messier.

His breath came short and his cheeks flushed. Kleio’s body was overheating from mental overload.

But ‘Jeongjin’ couldn’t even feel that.

Regina hesitated before speaking.

Her tone was cautious, as if doubting whether she deserved to ask such a question.

“□□, still, doesn’t this world make you want to keep living? Is there anything here you find beautiful?”

It was a question that caught him off guard.

‘Jeongjin’ suddenly recalled the thoughts he had in the bedroom of the Aser mansion during the height of summer.

About the hierarchy between the real world, which didn’t need him, and the created world, which desperately wanted him.

He had already made his choice then—what to leave behind and what to abandon—even though he didn’t know who made this world or for what purpose.

Simply because he no longer wanted to suffer the pains of the previous world.

The heat that had risen subsided, and the stifling tightness around his chest eased.

Kleio stepped back and sat in his original chair. Only after a long while did he answer.

His response was faint and weak, but Regina heard it distinctly.

“…Maybe.”

Regina, understanding Jeongjin’s words, smiled again with ‘Minsan’s’ smile.

A smile that softened the coldness of her appearance like spring, a smile that no one could help but be captivated by.

With a feeling like being jabbed inside his ribcage, ‘Jeongjin’ clenched his teeth.

He steadied his voice and steered the conversation back on track.

“Anyway, if you sent the message and brought me here, you must have given me the ‘promise’ too.”

Regina nodded in affirmation.

Even though the secret of the graduation ring that transcended dimensions and the work messenger that couldn’t go offline had finally been revealed, ‘Jeongjin’ felt neither refreshed nor pleased.

“Then how am I supposed to trust the ‘appropriateness judgment’ this ‘promise’ gives? What if you’re the author, lying, and manipulating the outcome as you please?”

Regina tilted her head as if puzzled.

“Could you tell me what this appropriateness judgment is?”

“How can you not know the function of the ‘promise’ if you’re the one who gave it to me?”

She directed an innocent gaze to Jeongjin’s left hand.

“From the moment it left my hand and was put on yours, it’s a power that belongs entirely to you. It’s a promise containing all of me, a ring that connects two worlds. I don’t know what miracles it can create with you.”

“Then are you saying you’re not the one sending the messages this thing displays?!”

“That’s the original function of the annotation… I don’t have the authority to view the manuscript, so how could I know the content of the annotation? I am one of the nine Musai, but I can never intervene in the writing of this world.”

It was still a rambling story, but one thing was certain.

“…One of the Musai. Then are you really Clio?”

He realized even as he spoke that it sounded crazy. But Regina didn’t treat Kleio’s question as a joke.

“In terms of description, that is true. ‘Clio’ is the name that defined and named my existence.”

The woman proclaiming herself a muse still wore the face of someone Jeongjin knew.

It was a matter beyond the realm of fact-finding.

Whether he, thinking his college friend was a god, or she, acknowledging it, in the original world they’d both be considered crazy.

But what meaning did the common sense or rules of the original world have here?

“Then what is ‘Kleio’s’ identity? How could you, who aren’t the author, implant a character here bearing your name and imbued with your power?”

“You are my ?▲? ―. Thus, the god of this world gave you my name. ‘Kleio,’ the one worthy to possess my ‘promise.’ I cannot become more than myself, but you are one who can become more than yourself, so I pinned my hopes on you. After all those failed attempts, you ∂? ▲? ―∩∠‡….”

As if it was hard to speak, Regina gently pressed her furrowed brow and wrapped her slender neck.

Kleio poured water from the bottle on the table and handed it to her. Regina took the cup and sipped the water like a bird.

The afternoon grew late, and sunlight streamed deep into the room. Regina’s hair shone like silver in the light.

It was a hard moment to compose himself, but Kleio still had things he needed to know.

“Then what is Melchior’s identity? He, too, bears the stigmata of the muse and knows the truth of this world.”

“Nevertheless, he is a being thoroughly subordinate to the world, one who belonged here from the moment the last world was born.”

The answer was that Melchior was not a being transplanted from outside the work.

“How is that possible? He is even more certain of the existence of repetition than Arthur or Aslan.”

Perhaps still unable to speak even after drinking water, Regina beckoned Jeongjin closer. Her voice, hoarse and faint, was barely audible.

“Melchior is closer to me than to you. His past is a deep past, and even he, before experiencing the ?‰??? of the world… cough!”

Kleio reflexively embraced Regina’s convulsing back.

The two of them faced each other extremely close.

Close enough that even a missed breath would bring their lips together. If anyone saw this scene, they would mistake it for a lover’s secret meeting.

Regina’s breath ruffled Kleio’s hair. Their words scattered into the air, and she couldn’t convey anything to him.

So he wanted to ask if there were others, besides Erato and Clio, who were blessed by those sisters.

But Regina’s voice was submerged as if underwater, not even a comma reaching him.

Kleio’s heart thudded wildly. He couldn’t tell if it was from surprise or some other emotion.

Regina, continually stringing together words that couldn’t become sound, blinked slowly as if fighting off sleep.

‘Every time she tries to tell me something, she gets weaker.’

While repeating futile attempts, the already pale color vanished completely from Regina’s cheeks.

A faint smell of blood began to waft from somewhere.

Now it seemed not sleep, but death, was tightening its grip on her throat. After countless words that couldn’t be delivered, she finally closed her mouth.

Regina couldn’t even breathe properly, panting shortly. What pressed down on Regina felt less like ordinary sleep and more like a force trying to silence her.

Regina gripped her palms so tightly her nails dug in. With difficulty, she shook her head. Her bent head drooped, her back sank deep into the pillow. She seemed on the verge of falling asleep again at any moment.

Ghastly pale, Regina wore the face of the dying and smiled sadly.

A brief silence.

When she parted her lips again, it was finally with words Kleio could hear.

“Have you ever thought of it that way? What if this world isn’t imitating the manuscript, but the manuscript is imitating the world? What if it’s not that it exists because it’s written, but that it’s written because it exists?”