Chapter 364

It felt like a dream.

The excruciating pain that had once threatened to tear Theo’s body apart was now gone, as if it had never been.

Though his mind was hazy, a sharp, distinct scent tickled his nose, bringing him back to his senses.

Theo’s half-lidded eyes slowly opened, and in front of him was a glowing screen.

“…”

As Theo stared at the screen, fragmented memories began to trickle into his mind.

The most significant revelation was that he had once been a man named Yoo Tae-ho, and the rest were glimpses of the era Yoo Tae-ho had lived in.

‘Program origins? Yoo Tae-ho? …Let’s see where this goes.’

Theo reasoned there was no point in trying to resist physically—after all, this seemed beyond any physical confrontation.

And he was curious. Curious about what “program origins” referred to and who this Yoo Tae-ho truly was.

Fixing his gaze on the unsettling screen, Theo focused.

The surroundings were dim and oppressive, filled with the kind of stench one might expect in such a scene.

Mountains of cigarette butts piled up next to Yoo Tae-ho, along with an assortment of beer cans and trash.

In this filthy environment, Yoo Tae-ho’s eyes didn’t stray from the monitor for even a second.

His posture was atrocious: a jutting neck, slouched shoulders, and a hunched back. His skin, darkened as if blood circulation had ceased, added to his sickly appearance.

Despite it all, Yoo Tae-ho paid no heed, chain-smoking while his fingers moved rapidly across the keyboard.

His bleary eyes scanned lines of text on the monitor, adjusting and manipulating something with incredible focus.

“Please, let it work…”

Yoo Tae-ho’s voice was desperate as he murmured to himself, pressing the Enter key with cautious determination.

He clenched his fists, his gaze locked on the words appearing on the monitor.

His eyes shone with a hopeful intensity as he waited.

And then—

“It worked! It worked! I did it!”

Yoo Tae-ho’s ecstatic shout filled the room as the word ‘Complete’ appeared on the screen.

Theo observed this with growing unease. Something about the way Yoo Tae-ho only moved his upper body during his celebration struck him as odd.

It wasn’t until Yoo Tae-ho’s lower half came into view that the reason became clear, and Theo’s eyes widened in shock.

Creak, creak.

Using his frail arms, Yoo Tae-ho wheeled himself toward a capsule nearby.

Struggling to open the capsule’s door, his movements were slow and labored.

‘Has it been long since his accident?’

It didn’t seem likely. His lower body appeared completely paralyzed, and he lacked the strength or skill to manage such a task efficiently.

Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his breaths grew ragged, but Yoo Tae-ho eventually managed to climb into the capsule and close the door.

“Phew!”

Even through his exhaustion, he smiled with satisfaction and wore a headgear device with careful anticipation.

With a trembling voice full of hope, he muttered:

“Execute.”

[Player connection detected.]

[Beginning connection.]

A cold, mechanical voice filled the capsule.

Theo felt a sense of discomfort as he noticed the interface design of the system—its fonts and shapes—eerily resembled the ones he had seen in his current world.

[Connection complete.]

Before Theo could fully process his thoughts, his perspective shifted suddenly and drastically.

His viewpoint had become one with Yoo Tae-ho’s.

The disorienting change left Theo momentarily stunned, but as his vision cleared, he saw through the eyes of Yoo Tae-ho within the headgear.

The first sight was breathtaking: a vast plain stretching endlessly under a vivid sky, where flocks of wyverns soared majestically.

Their grandeur reminded Theo of the White Dragon Knights he had encountered before.

Thump. Thump.

Theo’s heart pounded heavily.

An inexplicable unease began to churn within him.

“Ah, yes, this is it!”

Tears of joy streamed down Yoo Tae-ho’s face, their wet warmth somehow felt by Theo as well.

For a fleeting moment, Theo wondered if their senses were now linked.

“End game session.”

Yoo Tae-ho’s satisfied voice cut through the moment as he removed the headgear.

Wiping away the tears from his reddened eyes, he wheeled himself back to his desk.

‘Why…?’

Theo subconsciously touched his nose, confused by the mix of emotions stirring within him.

Yoo Tae-ho picked up a smartphone and made a call.

“Yes, professor! I’ve done it! It’s a success!”

‘Reporting to his employer?’

Theo surmised that Yoo Tae-ho must have been developing this game as a part of some project.

But the next words he heard left him reeling.

“Yes, yes. It’s perfect. Please proceed with my euthanasia request.”

Theo’s instinct was to shout, to object, but before he could react, the scene shifted abruptly.

‘A hospital…?’

Unlike Yoo Tae-ho’s messy room, this was a pristine white chamber, clean and orderly.

Lying on a comfortable bed, Yoo Tae-ho spoke with a doctor in a white coat.

His appearance was vastly different now—his hair neatly combed, his face clean, though his emaciated frame was glaringly obvious under the bright lights.

“If you sign here, we’ll begin the procedure immediately. Would you like to speak with a counselor one last time?”

The doctor’s tone was empathetic, his eyes filled with regret.

“No, it’s fine. I’ve made my decision. I have no regrets.”

Yoo Tae-ho’s voice was resolute, his gaze unyielding.

Faced with such unwavering determination, the doctor could only sigh in resignation.

“Very well. I won’t press further. Then…”

Yoo Tae-ho signed the chart without hesitation and handed it back.

Adjusting his glasses, the doctor spoke once more:

“As per your request, we’ve copied your brain’s data into the program and successfully integrated it. Shall we proceed?”

Before the doctor had even finished speaking, the scene shifted again.

Now, they were in what appeared to be a dimly lit laboratory.

Theo felt a growing sense of discomfort as he watched Yoo Tae-ho, whose face radiated anticipation, looking perfectly at peace.

“Beginning procedure.”

The doctor gave a nod to the nurses nearby, who carefully placed Yoo Tae-ho’s body into the capsule.

Before closing the capsule, the doctor spoke, his voice calm but deliberate.

“As per your request, Yoo Tae-ho, we have deleted your memories and knowledge. This means that the ‘Yoo Tae-ho’ who will exist within the program may not be the same as the one sitting here now. Do you agree to this condition?”

He was explaining that the Yoo Tae-ho within the program would develop as a new individual, living a new life within a new world.

But could this truly be called happiness?

Theo silently observed Yoo Tae-ho, unsure of his own expression but acutely aware of the hollow ache in his chest.

Despite Theo’s turbulent thoughts, Yoo Tae-ho didn’t hesitate for even a moment.

“Yes, I agree.”

The doctor closed his eyes briefly before inserting a needle directly into Yoo Tae-ho’s vein.

As the injection took effect, a single tear rolled down Yoo Tae-ho’s cheek, and he smiled—a peaceful, content smile.

The room darkened, as though enveloping him in eternal sleep.

[Ending playback.]

From the pitch-black void, a message suddenly appeared before Theo.

He was once again gazing out at the world through the small window of his inner consciousness.

‘So… I ended my own life?’

Theo reflected on the memory of his final moments, a storm of emotions raging within him.

The vivid but brief return of his past memories left him wanting to cradle his head in his hands.

For the first time, the inexplicable fragments of recollection in his mind made sense.

They were remnants of his life as Yoo Tae-ho:

The accident that had robbed him of his legs.

The crushing despair and anguish he had felt in that moment.

The distorted hope that had bloomed from the ashes of his broken reality.

‘I must have realized there was no recovering in reality. I clung to the idea of a “new life” instead.’

Theo now understood the exhausting and lonely journey Yoo Tae-ho had endured to make that hope a reality.

And yet, Theo found himself repulsed by how easily he sympathized with the choice Yoo Tae-ho had made to end his life.

『How utterly laughable.』

The Nameless Sovereign's hollow voice shattered Theo’s thoughts.

Theo turned his gaze toward the altar.

The First Apostle’s heart was gone, and the once-red sky had returned to its normal state.

On the altar’s column, a radiant blue jewel now rested in place of the heart.

Crack.

The Nameless Sovereign's teeth clenched so tightly they seemed on the verge of breaking.

He glared at the jewel with murderous intent before extending his hand toward it.

Information about the jewel appeared before him:

[The Truth of Creation]

An artifact containing the final memories of its creator, Yoo Tae-ho.

Type: Indestructible Relic

Effect: Cannot be destroyed by any force.

As the text hovered in the air, the Nameless Sovereign clenched his fist tightly.

『To think that this entire world was nothing but the amusement of a dying man—a coffin of his own making… how utterly ridiculous.』

His voice was laced with bitterness and regret.

For someone who had lived countless years, amassing divine power and reaching the pinnacle of existence, the truth must have felt unbearably vile.

How empty and meaningless it all must have seemed.

The raw complexity of the Nameless Sovereign’s emotions flowed into Theo, overwhelming him.

『Truth is often ugly, but this? This is beyond reprehensible. What did they call it? The Truth of Creation? Ha! They dressed up one pitiful man’s death in grandiose terms.』

Even the gods watching from the Pantheon were left speechless.

The revelation rippled through them like a silent storm. None dared to speak first, their minds reeling with conflicting thoughts.

Theo, too, found himself at a loss.

‘So… all this time, I’ve been playing in a world of my own making?’

The divine power, the myths, the legendary deeds—

All of it crumbled into farce in the face of this revelation.

The outer gods of chaos erupted into uproarious laughter at the tragic comedy of it all.

Meanwhile, Theo could not bring himself to open his eyes.

‘Why did I seek strength? Was it to confront a truth like this?’

The memories of his past life, filled with suffering, flashed through his mind.

So, too, did the hopes and bonds of this life—dreams of a better future.

But now, the thought that it was all false, that every emotion and connection was fabricated, clung to him like a shroud.

Even his current feelings—were they a lie?

Were the emotions of his past nothing more than entertainment for some program?

Countless thoughts raced through his mind, and with them came a darker realization:

Everyone he had met, everyone he had cared for—were they all just data?

‘Yoo Tae-ho… what were you thinking?’

It seemed clear that this world had been his attempt to escape the tragic reality he had lived in.

To design a game where he could live a hopeful new life, even if it meant erasing his memories and entering a world of his own making.

But if that was the case, why had he left behind a system capable of revealing the truth?

‘For what purpose?’

Theo desperately wanted answers, even though he knew none would come.

Even as fragments of his memory returned, his questions remained unanswered.

No matter how much he searched within himself, Theo could find no resolution to the haunting enigma that was Yoo Tae-ho’s final act.