Beyond the Eternity

The doctors called it "chronic pulmonary insufficiency." A sophisticated name for a fragile existence.

As a child, I didn't fully understand my condition. I only knew it set me apart from others. My lungs couldn't draw in enough air, leaving me constantly gasping, as if life itself was trying to escape me.

Surviving infancy was considered a miracle. Even the doctors said as much. But surviving wasn't the same as living. My early years were spent within the confines of walls, unable to run, laugh, or play like other children.

I often wondered why. Why was I born like this? Was it some cruel twist of fate? Or was I paying for sins I didn't remember committing?

I couldn't help but recall the words of a fortune teller we encountered once.

My mother had been carrying me on her back when the old woman, draped in tattered robes, pointed a bony finger at me and declared:

"This child's illness is a curse of his own making. He will bring about the end of humanity. He will suffer for eternity."

My mother shouted something at the old woman, perhaps a curse—I couldn't actually remember, and hurried away.

As we went through the alley, her face was so pale that it seemed as though she was going to faint.

It was the first time I had ever seen fear in my mother's eyes.

From then on, my life was reduced to a monotonous cycle of medicine, meals, and sleep. I wasn't living—I was merely existing.

It was repulsive.

There was nothing I could do about it. I was just a child who longed to play outside like everyone else, but my unfortunate circumstances kept me confined indoors.

At some point, I completely lost interest in going outside.

What was the point of going outside when I would just have to return indoors moments later?

It was pointless.

In the end, all I could do was watch the world from my bedroom window, spending each day gazing out at the empty back alley.

That alley became my world.

No one noticed me watching from behind the glass, and even if they did, they would quickly look away, pretending the pale boy didn't exist.

I used to think, how nice it would be if someone could just take me away from here.

How naïve I was.

There was no way such a thing would ever happen.

Everyone was so consumed with their own lives that they wouldn't spare a thought for someone like me.

Then, one day, something changed.

I watched as a white cat caught a mouse in the back alley.

It was over in an instant. A white shadow darted out, and before I knew it, the cat was standing there with a mouse in its mouth.

The mouse didn't even twitch, perhaps the cat had struck it fatally. As if sensing my gaze, the cat turned its eyes toward me.

A pair of large green eyes, opened wide.

However, It only lasted for an instant. The cat disappeared from the alley in the same breath.

The image of the white cat was burnt into my memory. How beautiful it was.

Such a nimble creature, with eyes as round and bright as full moons. Its gaze was green, just like mine. But unlike her, I had no fangs. And I had no freedom.

That fleeting encounter stirred something inside me.

Later, as my mother fed me my medicine, I recounted the event with uncharacteristic rare excitement.

"I saw this strange white cat catch a mouse in the alley!"

"Is that so? You must have liked the cat."

She smiled. Her smooth raven hair cascading down her back, and her eyes shimmering with a brilliance that seemed to light up the room.

I inherited my looks from my mother.

My raven hair, my bright green eyes, and my beautiful pale skin.

I often received remarks from strangers about how much I resembled my mother—so much so that even my father couldn't help but feel a twinge of jealousy.

It couldn't be helped.

My mother was a beautiful actress.

Her face graced movie posters and television screens, her name whispered with admiration by people in bustling streets.

But to me, she wasn't a star.

She was the warm hand that brushed my hair back when I struggled to breathe at night. She was the voice that hummed lullabies to chase away the silence of an empty house.

Despite her hectic schedule, my mother always made time for me. Between rehearsals and shoots, she'd rush home, still in costume, to check on me. I remember her once coming in dressed as a queen from a historical drama, her elaborate hanbok trailing behind her as she knelt beside my bed.

"How's my little prince?"

She tried to make my world bigger. When I couldn't go outside, she brought the outside to me. She'd act out entire scenes from her scripts in my room, transforming it into battlefields, royal courts, and enchanted forests. Her performances were mesmerizing, but they always ended the same way—with her sitting beside me, holding my hand as my coughs shook my frail body.

The moment she reached out for my dirty clothes.

I saw her hands.

An overwhelming sense of unease washed over me.

Had my mother's hands always been so rough?

It was a foolish question because, deep down, I already knew the answer. Her hands were rough because of me.

I couldn't say with certainty that their roughness was entirely due to caring for me, but there was no doubt that I was a significant part of the reason.

Suddenly, the image of the white cat catching the mouse emerged inside my mind.

If I could achieve such a nimble body, would my mother need to take care of me constantly?

The answer was obvious.

It was a 'No'.

However, the main question was when I would obtain such a desired body.

"Mother…" I hesitated, searching her brilliant eyes for reassurance. "When will I be like other kids?"

I expected her to falter, to dodge the question. But instead, she answered without hesitation.

"You'll grow strong one day, Jakga. Stronger than anyone else."

I was shocked.

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No, I didn't believe her. How could I?

My body was a prison, and the world outside was a dream I could only glimpse through the window and stories she brought to life. But looking back, I think she wasn't just talking about my body.

Perhaps she saw something in me that I was too young to understand.

Those moments were fleeting.

As her fame grew, so did the distance between us. She was always on set, always in demand. But she never truly left me. I'd find handwritten notes tucked under my pillow, words of encouragement scrawled in her hurried handwriting: "I'll be home soon, my prince."

And when she couldn't be there, she made sure I wasn't alone. She hired the best tutors, brought in books and puzzles, and even installed a small projector so I could watch her films. Through her characters, I learned about bravery, resilience, and the strength to fight against all odds.

Perhaps that's what planted the seed of defiance in me. The belief that, even if I was born weak, I didn't have to stay that way.

Even someone like me can become the protagonist.

Thus, I gained will, then courage, and finally… freedom.

I had become the man my parents had always dreamed I would be, but fate, it seemed, had no intention of letting me savor even a single moment of happiness.

Though I had achieved freedom, my parents weren't there to witness it.

My father was the first to go, losing his life honorably in the line of duty while serving in the military. He died for the country, and I took solace in the pride he left behind.

But then, there was my mother…

If her death had been natural, I could have accepted it. I wasn't afraid of surviving on my own. After all, I had managed to survive on my own for years.

But why?

Why did she have to be taken from me like that?

[Personal skill, 「 Black Box 」 has activated.]

[The 'Black Box' has forcefully suppressed all negative emotions.]

The mysterious skill, Black Box, surged with its full strength, wrenching me away from the tormenting memory. A soothing wave of calm enveloped my heart and mind, extinguishing the chaos within.

Thump! Thump!

The frantic pounding of my heart gradually steadied, settling into its natural rhythm.

I placed a trembling hand on my chest, suddenly aware of how out of breath I felt. My body was slick with sweat, beads of it seeping through my pores as though my very being had been wrung dry by the ordeal.

What a horrifying memory that was.

I simply recalled that memory for a few moments, yet I was already reduced to such a pathetic state.

Wait... did they notice?

I quickly swept my gaze across the room, noting that the group members were still engrossed in the unfolding events of the Fragmented Memory.

No one seemed to notice my moment of weakness.

I let out a silent sigh.

It would have been dangerous if they saw me in such a moment of weakness. Fortunately, none of them including my avatars, Miyuku Kuroi and Yoo Rin, looked at me.

Perhaps It was just my luck.

Wait... Considering my luck so far, something bad was bound to happen any minute now.

And why was Reginald shown in his real form, while the others were displayed as shadows?

Is this because this is a crime scene displaying his death? Would the other crime scenes reveal the true appearances of the characters, too?

At first, I believed the Fragment was defective, showing the characters within the memory as mere shadows. However, it seems that wasn't the case at all.

The characters appearing as shadows was no accident!

The Shattered Fragments had been forcibly altered by some powerful, mysterious force, creating this strange and unusual phenomenon, where the faces of the characters couldn't be seen.

But who was the mysteries culprit?

It wasn't a great mystery. The culprit was undoubtedly the owner of the Abandoned House. Or at the very least, the Housekeepers tasked with guarding this foreign territory.

As I suspected, they must have altered the memory to make the Fable more interesting. After all, it wouldn't be much of a story if the Fable could be cleared easily.

The House Owner was also watching the Fable, so they wouldn't want to look bad infront of their master.

If that was the case, then this only created a big problem.

If there were able to alter memories within the Fragments, then what was stopping them from creating false memories?

There was even a chance that the memories we had seen so far were nothing more than False Memories.

Not good. This wasn't good at all!

Had we been dancing in the palm of their hands this entire time? That was the worst case scenario.

No. That couldn't be right.

If we had come across any False Memories, Soo Jinyoung would have quickly recognized and pointed them out to the group. So, the idea that the previous memories were fake no longer seemed plausible.

For now, the best course of action was to remain extremely cautious and alert.

Who could say what might happen next?

I quickly formulated multiple contingencies in my mind and decided on my next course of action. Shifting into detective mode, I focused completely on the memory displaying infront of me.

†

However,

「 What he didn't know was... 」

Someone had been watching him the entire time. A particular, yet familiar pair of cold eyes remained fixed on the very existence of Kim Jakga.