I'm an Infinite Regressor, But I've Got Stories to Tell-Chapter 335

The Self-Immolator IV

It wasn’t as though the Buddhist world was only populated by shameless monks like Seok-hwa. In the countless loops I’ve been through, I inadvertently became well-versed in cults. After all, how many people out there have acquainted themselves with heretical sects from Christianity, Buddhism, and Taoism alike as I have?

(Frankly, even if there were more like me, it’d be a problem.)

Thanks to that—or rather, as an unexpected bonus—whenever I met with high monks now and again, I could hold some rather profound conversations with them. There was a time I asked them this:

“Venerable Monk. Why do you practice Buddhism?”

That time, an elderly monk replied, “To die well!”

Indeed. If the purpose of a Christian is to go to Heaven, then for a Buddhist, the greatest task on earth is to be free of suffering in this shitty life. Birth, old age, sickness, death. There was nothing in life that wasn’t painful, but among them, the absolute worst was undoubtedly the pain of death—the terror of one’s own death, and the thoughts and reflections that terror brought. Naturally, for all Buddhists, the hardest challenge is liberation from the suffering of death.

The high monk I met sighed as well. “This is damn hard!”

That final moment. The instant of death that no human can avoid. Shorter than one second, right before my consciousness plunges into a pitch-black abyss—

That’s when you let go of fear.

You accept, with not just your mind but also your heart, that breathing and letting the breath slip away are both nothing more than the natural flow. You face it head-on—and in that sense, transcend. Go beyond. Maybe to make a jump away from this final millisecond apocalypse that monks devote their entire lives to meditating over in a cross-legged posture.

“But how do you prove you’ve transcended death, Venerable Monk? That’s something only you yourself can truly know, isn’t it?”

“Ah. Well, there’s no real need to prove it to others. But sometimes, for the sake of future disciples, you might want to show that it’s possible, right? The Buddha did that too. Compassion and all. In that case, we monks usually just go, like this, see? Sitting cross-legged as we kick the bucket.”

“Wow.”

“You maintain the exact same posture you had in life and keep it even after death. Right then, people can see, ‘Oh, for him, living and dying really were the same thing, and off he went.’ Something like that.”

Back then, I just nodded as I mused it over and the high monk burst out laughing.

“When we old monks are among ourselves, we joke about it. ‘Hey, you know, that phenomenon where a monk’s body doesn’t collapse even after death? Maybe it’s because we’ve sat in that same posture for 50 or 60 years till our muscles and bones stiffened in place.’”

“That could happen.”

“I think that’s actually true. The muscles just stiffen. But that half-century of practice spent stiffening those muscles was my life, you know? That’s what I studied for, that’s why I meditated. And so, that’s what I said at that time. If anyone points a finger at you to accuse your muscles of just stiffening, you just laugh back at them. Punks. You’re right, dammit. We worked our asses off to stiffen them!”

By the way, that high monk ranted quite a lot about Seok-hwa behind his back every time we met, right up until the day he died.

Ah, even venerable monks can’t resist trash-talking Seok-hwa.

‘But now, that very same Seok-hwa isn’t just dying. He’s apparently going to perform self-immolation, no less?’

Self-immolation. Burning one’s body.

Of course, even for a seasoned master who has supposedly transcended all sorts of pain, self-immolation is no easy task. I’ve also died by burning a few times, so I know that truth very well. It’s unbelievably painful.

‘Just sitting cross-legged and passing away is already regarded as attaining nirvana. Imagine pouring fire on top of that.’

There’s no doubt it’s the highest realm of enlightenment. It is an act of dedicating one’s self to the world, to others, and to the seed of the Buddha-nature found in all beings.

Once again, I tilted my head.

‘He says he is going to do that?’

Was it all bullshit, or was it for real?

Probably bullshit, if you asked me.

In an ordinary modern setting, when people speculated over truths and falsehoods, they’d just assume it was a lie and move on because they were busy going to work. But since I’m a regressor, I just skipped work.

In other words, I chose curiosity.

“Commander Noh. Sorry, but I’m leaving today’s and tomorrow’s duties to you.”

“What? Where—?”

“I’ll bring back some ice cream on my way.”

“Wait, just a minute. Hey? Hey, you asshole! Where the hell do you think―?!”

I, the Undertaker, who has experienced all kinds of deaths over millennia, a sommelier of death, a Baskin-Robbins of death, a Faker of death—how could I not be intrigued?

I was honest with myself.

‘A regressor can’t resist meddling with Seok-hwa.’

As soon as I saw the news on SG Net, my legs were already carrying me to the designated location for the self-immolation, north to Sinuiju.

Sinuiju in this era was more or less known as the biggest “military city” on the Korean Peninsula. Wave after wave of monsters would come from the continent side whenever they felt like it, handing in their complaints as they asked, Excuse me, is immigration to this place possible?

So perhaps that was why. In the Eastern Holy State, Sinuiju was considered one of the cities with the most devout believers, along with Pyongyang. Paladins armed with faith in Mo Gwang-seo and the Saintess roamed about. It was a strict, solemn atmosphere.

Contrastingly, there was a disproportionately developed red-light district to provide soldiers with adequate rest.

But on that day, Sinuiju saw an unfamiliar sight for the very first time.

(Monk) Venerable Seok-hwa’s Nirvana Self-Immolation (Event)

There it was—colorful, bold, and right in the heart of the front line that blocks the monstrous armies.

They’d hung up a banner.

By the way, in this era, banners weren’t mass-printed but instead were all handmade. They even hired a professional to paint lotus flowers on it with utmost care.

Surely by now, Seok-hwa’s wallet must have been bled dry. Where did the money for that come from?

“I-I... I painted it for free.”

Somehow, Ah-ryeon was already at my side. As if to remind everyone this was her own front yard, she was wearing her official Saintess attire.

“Northern Saintess” mode, ON.

Even the cheesy pizza smell that usually wafted from her hair now smelled a bit cleaner, more like butter croissants.

“A-are you saying you painted it for free?”

“Yes, y-yes. I mean, I’m the Saintess. And that lotus design is literally a sacred painting...”

“Why’d you do that?”

“Well, you know, the notion that if some penniless nobody burns himself, the demonic forces might tremble in awe and bow to the Buddha... Th-this is a super fun, massive-scale event we can’t miss, right? So I deliberately upped the scale. See, wasn’t that a smart move?”

For crying out loud.

Truly ridiculous. I’d sent her up here to the Eastern Holy State to do some real work, and she’d wasted time chasing cheap thrills. Talk about dereliction of duty.

“U-um, well, Guild L-Leader, you’re obviously dumping your duties on the Commander yourself and running away...”

“You got any popcorn?”

“Caramel, butter, or soy sauce?”

“Caramel.”

“Ehehe...”

A pair of dopamine addicts formed on the spot.

With the Saintess of the East in attendance, there was no room for interference. The Holy State’s paladins instantly transformed into event staff, organizing the venue.

In the center of it all sat the bald monk, Seok-hwa.

“Ah.” When his eyes met mine, they slowly grew bigger. “My, Undertaker. Isn’t that Undertaker?”

“Long time no see.”

In the time we hadn’t seen each other, Seok-hwa had become noticeably thinner. In past loops, he’d always been plump and oily, but now his cheeks and arms were dried up like roasted squid. His monk’s robes, which were always neatly laundered in the past, were now rather shabby. The thick cloth couldn’t fully hide the grime staining it.

Meanwhile, where once Ah-ryeon had looked ragged and never got accepted by any proper guild, now she was dressed in the finest garments imaginable.

‘Truly, the vicissitudes of life.’

Seok-hwa staggered toward me with an exaggerated wobble. “Undertaker... It is you, yes.”

“What is it you want to say?”

“I have nothing left. All I have left is this.”

Abruptly, he grabbed both my hands. A faint scent emanated from his face, like the smell of something scorched—an air of mental precariousness.

“They say when a person undergoes excruciating pain, they achieve enlightenment. Awakening. Yes, Awakening is also a sign of enlightenment, is it not? Wouldn’t you agree?”

A strange, nearly indescribable fire burned in Seok-hwa’s eyes, which had gone dry to the point of losing all moisture.

“I will do it. Self-immolation. And I shall boldly achieve enlightenment in the presence of the Buddha.”

You might not notice it from text alone, but as he spoke, his voice was so low it was barely audible. All rasps and hisses, that sort of sound. It was nearly impossible to hear him clearly.

Ah-ryeon only tilted her head in confusion from where she stood right beside me.

“I find Mo Gwang-seo suspicious. The Second Coming of Jesus, they say? Ha. That can’t be. That idiot can’t possibly be... He simply awakened when he was blown up.”

Neither of us responded.

“It’s all lies. All bullshit. This Eastern Holy State or whatever, it’s a damn cult. I’m the only one who sees it for what it is. Undertaker. Tell me, does any of this make sense? Does it?”

Inwardly, I was surprised. His rambling sounded like nonsense, yet in fact it pierced the core of the Eastern Holy State. Probably a case of a blind squirrel stumbling upon a nut, but still.

“These masses... They can’t recognize a rabble-rouser, nor can they recognize a truly remarkable man. I’m going to make them come to their senses. Just watch, Undertaker. I, Seok-hwa, the most faithful disciple of Shakyamuni, will bring the East back into the Buddha’s embrace.”

He staggered, about to turn away. I grabbed his shoulder, holding him in place.

“Wait. What happened to your right leg?”

When he approached me earlier, he was swaying so badly from side to side. The cause lay in his right foot.

From the ankle down, Seok-hwa’s foot was “gone.” His toes and achilles tendon were replaced by a prosthetic device, one I found extremely familiar.

It was a device belonging to patient Shin Su-bin. Something Do-hwa had once made for him.

“Ah. My foot?” With a slow blink, Seok-hwa answered, “That happened when I crossed the 38th Parallel. You know how the area is a literal minefield, yes?”

“No, I mean how did a device belonging to Shin Su-bin end up in your possession, Venerable Monk?”

“Ah, that. Right, he gave it to me. He said he didn’t mind moving around on crutches, so I should take it. Heh. It doesn’t fit too well since it’s old, but living without it wouldn’t be so bad for a monk anyway.”

He wobbled and lifted his right foot. The worn-out prosthetic squeaked like a cricket as he swayed.

“It’s better than nothing, so I’m just borrowing it for now. Why? Does it bother you, Undertaker? Is there something on your mind?”

My lips parted momentarily.

...That’s not just some scrap device. It’s custom-built by Noh Do-hwa for Shin Su-bin. For him, that’s not just a machine, it’s like his actual foot.

...Giving that prosthetic to you wasn’t just handing over a piece of hardware, it was practically an act of offering part of himself.

...Furthermore, it’s a symbolic link that ties Su-bin to someone with real power: Commander Noh. Some people might take lifelong pride in that connection, treat it like a piece of their own identity, or at least trot it out as a good drinking story.

...But you have no clue. Probably because Su-bin never even bragged about it once, not even for a laugh.

I shut my mouth.

Did I have the right to tell him the truth? Even if I did, would it mean anything?

“Nothing at all.”

“Really?” he asked.

“...How is Su-bin these days?”

“Hm? Well, yes. He came with me to Sinuiju. Saw him this morning, as a matter of fact. He’s probably around somewhere.”

As I suspected, Seok-hwa had zero interest in someone “like” Su-bin. What could it matter that the man had literally walked across the country with him, risking his life all the way? In the game in Seok-hwa’s mind, his quest for influence, someone like Shin Su-bin was just an NPC easily replaced at any time.

“If... If Buddha helps me attain enlightenment...”

A dried foam had crusted around his lips.

“I’ll transform this land. What’s so great about being the Commander? Ruling over that tiny Busan, what’s the point of that? A man has to have a broad ambition. Busan, Daejeon, Sejong, Pyongyang, Sinuiju... Beyond that, even. That Noh Do-hwa or Mo Gwang-seo—once I’m awakened, I’ll accomplish so, so much more than them. That is the karma I must bear. Undertaker! I’m going to create a Pure Land for all the people, you hear?”

He muttered like he was chanting a sutra.

“I know full well you never liked me.”

I stayed silent.

“But just watch. Everything will be different once I awaken. Truly, wait and see.”

Glaring, Seok-hwa added one final thing.

“I’ll spend one whole night here, then tomorrow at dawn, I shall offer myself to the Buddha in flames. Please, Undertaker, bear witness...”

He looked as if he could no longer be hurt by anyone or anything.