As his vision cleared, he rubbed his eyes and slowly rose from the swivel chair.
The room—white, quiet, unchanged—was just as he remembered.
The workspace.
He stepped forward, eyes falling to the desk where the same sheet of paper and the familiar fountain pen lay undisturbed.
Then—hissss.
A sharp puff of steam broke the silence, making him flinch slightly. From behind the desk, white vapor drifted upward, revealing the source: a small machine made of copper, brass, and streaks of dull iron.
It whirred softly, gears along its sides turning with mechanical precision as another cloud of steam escaped its exhaust.
A steam-powered cleaner.
Rolling slowly on small wheels beneath its body, the machine drifted across the transparent glass floor—beneath which, as always, was a sea of clouds stretching endlessly below.
"A steampunk machine?" I muttered, eyeing the strange device as it released bursts of steam with every small movement.
"It's a cleaner I assembled," a familiar voice echoed across the room.
Startled, I turned—and there he was again. The same hooded stranger, draped in pristine white cloth, standing silently behind me.
As he moved, starlight spilled behind him like a trail of glowing dust, faint and surreal.
"How are you... Park Seo-jun?" he asked, his tone calm, nearly weightless.
I stared at him, eyes narrowing slightly—not at the hood, but at what was beneath it. The starlight wasn't just trailing behind him. It was coming from something... fluttering.
Tentacles.
My body tensed slightly as I caught sight of them slithering beneath his cloak. Smooth, fluid, and impossible to miss now that I knew what to look for.
It was the first time I had seen even a hint of my giver's true nature—even though this was the second time I had stood before him.
"I assume you've died again?" he said, turning slowly to face me. With a flick of his finger, the room began to shift.
The white workspace melted away—morphing, expanding, reshaping into something much larger.
A grand library.
Books lined every shelf, stacked high and perfectly arranged. The space was warm, calm, filled with golden light streaming through a towering arched window. Sunlight pooled across polished wooden floors, casting long, gentle shadows between shelves that seemed to stretch all the way to the sky.
The library breathed with silence. Not an empty silence, but one of deep focus—like the world had slowed just enough for you to notice every detail.
The columns and carved railings were elegant, almost regal, their craftsmanship a quiet nod to something older than time. Dust danced lazily in the sunbeams, floating like memories too soft to be remembered clearly.
It felt peaceful.
And somehow... magical.
"Worst day I've ever had," I muttered as I followed him.
The tentacles beneath his cloak slithered with a quiet, unsettling grace as he floated ahead.
"I can hear that in your tone," he said, letting out a light chuckle.
As we moved past the towering shelves, I caught sight of small steam-driven machines gliding along the aisles. Some cleaned the shelves with tiny brushes, others stacked books with delicate metallic arms, and a few swept the floor in slow, methodical passes. The soft hisses and puffs of steam echoed faintly, blending into the quiet hum of the library. This place—wherever it was—felt like a realm suspended between time and some steampunk dream.
"Is there something you wanted to ask?" he said without turning, like he already knew the question had formed in my head.
But before I could answer, I stopped.
One of the machines wheeled gently in front of me, releasing a small puff of steam every five seconds—steady, rhythmic, like a heartbeat made of metal.
"I do, actually," I said, watching him.
"Go on... tell me," he replied calmly.
I huffed a little, raising one brow. "You can literally read my mind," I said, mildly annoyed.
He let out another soft chuckle. "Distortions in the story weren't caused by me," he said. "Nor were they the result of any mistake I made while writing."
"What...? Then why is the plot full of distortions and holes?" I asked as we continued walking.
"Park Seo-jun," he said, pausing slightly, "are you aware of Outer Beings...?"
Outer Beings.
I thought about it for a moment before replying.
They were creatures I'd read about in fictional novels—cosmic entities that exist beyond time, slipping through cracks in reality. Beings that shouldn't exist... yet do.
"Aren't they some kind of cosmic beings?" I asked.
"That is correct," he said.
"As you know, universes are made of stories—stacked and layered, one after another. From living beings to inanimate objects, everything has a story to tell," he continued. "A rock doesn't just exist out of nowhere—it has its own story of how it came to be."
"A tree... it has a story as well. From the moment it falls from another tree as a seed, it grows into a sapling... then a young tree... and eventually, an elder tree."
"The same goes for the universe. The same goes for us," he said as I glanced toward a small machine dusting one of the shelves.
"However, Outer Beings tend to steal those stories, attempting to rewrite them to fit their own desires. Once a story is fully corrupted..." he paused.
"It will be devoured."
"That is how... they eat."
"Once they are fully eaten, the very being they've corrupted will no longer be a part of the world it was once part of. It will no longer be a character," he added. "And that is how... a Transcendent is born."
"So these... Outer Beings, in simple terms, they're plagiarists?" I asked.
"In simple terms, yes. Although, they rarely do the work themselves. Their incarnations do it for them. Transcendents are their instruments for twisting a story... allowing the corruption to spread," he answered.
"Before I died... I met a regressor. She... distorted the main storyline as well. Is she also—" I asked, but he didn't let me finish.
"Ahh... regressors. No, no, they are not," he said, waving his hand lightly. "Although they are often used as tools, they actually don't realize what they're doing to the main plot. They still remain characters."
"Do you have any other questions?" he asked again.
"Why... did you pick me, when you can—"
I was cut off as a message suddenly appeared before me:
[Minor wounds are tended successfully]
[Exiting workspace]
[Resurrecting...]
"Wait—hold on, there's still more I need to ask!" I said, voice rising as I began to fade, my body unraveling into sheets of paper from the bottom up.
"Park Seo-jun..." he called, his voice already growing distant and muffled,
"I need you to fetch me something..."
"Collect the seven shards of broken fate... and ascend to—"
The last part vanished with him, swallowed by silence. My vision, too, was consumed—until all that remained was a blinding white.
For a few moments, my vision was blurred—then it cleared again. I was back.
Before returning, I had already retconned the events that led to my death. I rewrote everything—fixed the distortions, reverted the three entities back into Cerberus, and adjusted the sub-events that had unfolded. I even rewrote my own death, crafting it so I was struck down brutally by the legendary beast—defeated in full spectacle.
Since I'd told Hwang Jae Min that I'm a regressor, he's probably fine with seeing me die like that. He knows I'll come back.
You might be wondering, why do that?
Why not just write in a way that lets me avoid dying altogether?
Well, guess what—
I love dying in front of people.
Seeing their funny faces when I come back to life...
It's a bit entertaining, to say the least.
When I rose from the ground of the dungeon, the first thing I saw was the beast—Cerberus—lying motionless in the center of the cavern. All three of its heads had been severed. There were no signs of life left in its monstrous body.
Blood was everywhere—splattered across the stone floor. Corpses, too. Some from the hunters. Some... not. They'd cleared the dungeon already. The mission was over.
Now, there was no one here but me—and the dead.
I swatted my coat, brushing off dust and dirt, then turned my back to the dead bodies and started walking toward the exit.
My hands slid into the pockets of my trench coat as I walked down the dim corridor of the dungeon—the same path that served as both entrance and exit. My footsteps echoed quietly, the aftermath of chaos still clinging to the cold stone.
When I finally reached the end, I passed through the Hell's Gate.
A blinding light greeted me, forcing my eyes to squint until my vision slowly cleared.
Outside, cavalry jeeps were parked in formation. Medics rushed back and forth, tending to wounded hunters sprawled across stretchers or propped against vehicles. The air was thick with tension, exhaustion, and the sterile scent of blood and disinfectant.
I took a few steps forward, and then—
"So... Someone's exited the gate!!" a voice shouted.
Instantly, every head turned.
All eyes locked onto me.
With a calm demeanor, I walked away from the Hell's Gate, ignoring the murmurs and stares trailing behind me—as if everything that had happened inside was just another Tuesday.
As far as they knew, I died in that dungeon—brutally ripped apart by the boss. That's what they saw.
"Seo-jun-ssi!!" a familiar voice called out, footsteps quickening toward me. I expected just one person, but when I turned, I was met with a whole group of hunters.
They all looked clean. No blood, no dirt, no signs of combat.
Strangers. All except for three familiar faces.
Wait...
Why does that last one feel familiar?
"I thought you died for real!!" Hwang Jae Min said, grabbing my shoulders and giving me a quick shake.
"You died?" Eunseok asked casually, making a few of the others gasp in disbelief.
"Yeah... the beast tore me to pieces," I said just as casually, like I was talking about the weather.
"Excuse me... did you just say he died?" one of them asked, brows furrowing.
"Ah, right... we haven't introduced him to you guys," Eunseok said, stepping forward and motioning toward me like a showman. "This is Park Seo-Jun. He's a reg—" he paused, glancing at me. "Can I tell them?"
I sighed and waved a hand, giving him the go-ahead.
"He's a regressor."
At the mention of the word, all of them were struck—stunned into awe and disbelief.
"A regressor? ...Really? Cut the crap," a woman behind them scoffed, arms crossed, voice sharp.
Her brows were furrowed with scrutiny, lashes long and curled upward. Jet-black hair, cleanly cut just above the neck. A long sword hung at her hip. She wasn't a regressor in this timeline—not yet.
She looked different. Sharper. Younger. But I'd recognize those eyes anywhere.
"Hey, I'm telling the truth," Eunseok defended, raising his hands.
"Sorry about that," he added, leaning in a little as if whispering a secret. "She's just... brash with strangers. Her name's Kim Si-Won."
I smiled faintly.
Like I said... we'll meet again.
And we did.
Kim Si-Won.
"It's fine…" I said, my voice low, distracted, scanning the crowd beyond them.
Injured hunters, some wrapped in gauze, others slumped in foldable chairs or resting beneath the shade of emergency tents—there were too many faces, too much movement. But I was looking for someone else.
The investigators.
It took a moment, but I found them—clustered near one of the support jeeps, speaking with what looked like the squad leader. I made my way over.
As I approached, Byeom In-Seok turned. His eyes widened. His breath caught, just slightly. Like he'd seen a ghost.
To be fair, he kind of had.
"Park Seo-Jun… Junior Investigator," I said, letting the words come out slow. I pulled aside my coat, revealing the black suit underneath—pressed, clean, with the subtle silver trim that marked me as a member of the association.
One of the senior agents gave a quiet nod of recognition. Another scribbled something on his clipboard.
Byeom In-Seok stepped closer, eyes narrowing with disbelief. "Hold on... I saw you die. You were shredded—torn into pieces."
I met his gaze, unflinching. "Then I guess you're lucky I'm not a ghost."
He didn't respond immediately. Just stood there, the gears in his mind visibly turning.
You could almost hear the silence tighten.
I turned to the investigators, brushing past the tension clinging to Byeom In-Seok's disbelief like smoke.
"There were no inside jobs. No spies, no betrayal from guild members," I said firmly, my voice even, professional. "Just a standard boss fight... although I believe there was a miscalculation in the gate's ranking."
I paused, glancing toward the Hell's gate, cracking behind us where the carnage still lingered.
"It might've been lower S-tier. Definitely not A."
The man with glasses gave a small nod, pushing them up the bridge of his nose as he replied, "Ahh, I see... That explains the casualties. Three raids had passed without us requesting a re-evaluation on Hell's Gate. That's on our end."
"We'll be filing a report," he added grimly.
A woman to his right—clipboard in hand, pen already tapping—stepped forward. "Please sign your statement here, Detective Park."
I took it from her, eyes quickly scanning the form. No holes. No fine print traps. Just a formal record.
I signed with a calm stroke, the same way I rewrote fate itself not long ago. Then I handed it back.
"Thank you for your cooperation," she said politely.
Behind me, I could still feel the quiet stares—the ones who saw me die. The ones who couldn't decide if I was a monster, a miracle, or something else entirely.
"Is there anything else you need from me?" I asked, voice sharp enough to cut through the murmurs.
The clipboard woman shook her head. "That'll be all, Detective."
I nodded once and turned—coat trailing behind as I walked back into the mess of survivors, like it was just another day.
And in a way, it was.