Ch.59[Revised] Night at the Library (3)

# Tick, tick.

The book pages spread open, and a reddened piece of paper falls out.

Pages rapidly cool and turn to ash.

Choi Serim watched this silently, then slowly opened her mouth.

“Have you ever heard of pataphysics?”

I shook my head.

“Wait,” Choi Serim said as she stood up. She tapped my shoulder and walked forward, pulling a book from the bookshelf.

[Pataphysics, Plato, Idea]

It had a khaki cover.

According to the library manual, it contained a memetic kill agent that could be tolerated by someone with a moderate level of anomaly resistance. Still, it was the second most dangerous classification in this library.

And Choi Serim doesn’t have particularly good anomaly resistance.

Last time, just from briefly seeing a memetic kill agent, she kept vomiting until her face turned pale.

“Noona. Is it okay for you to read that?”

When I asked worriedly, Choi Serim answered with a faint smile.

“Yes. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

What does she mean by “it doesn’t matter anymore”?

The book cover began to glow, and letters swirled around it.

I could see some of the text.

Unified Language Program: Babel

Detecting current reader’s language

Automatic translation in progress

The alphabet written on the leather cover began changing to Korean.

[Pataphysics: A Philosophical Examination]

I looked back at the numerous books on the shelves behind me.

Among all those books, Choi Serim had found one that covered the topic she wanted.

“How did you find it?”

“I’ll tell you about that later. First, about pataphysics.”

Choi Serim opened a page from the book to show me.

[On Pataphysics and Narrative Layers]

Letters were arranged under the large subtitle.

Some information gives an eerie, ominous feeling just by looking at it.

Like a letter from a severe schizophrenic patient.

Or a diary written by a serial killer.

Even when not associated with crime, there’s a chilling sensation that naturally runs down your spine when looking at photos of haunted houses or dark alleys.

I felt exactly that kind of feeling.

Each letter seemed filled with malice and nihilism, making me hesitant to keep reading.

[Pataphysics was once a term for a bogus field of study popular in Europe. Its proponents used illogical, irrational arguments as the foundation for their ideology, and they cited passages supposedly taken from (as they claimed) non-existent books with impressive-sounding titles in their papers. As times changed and militarism and colonialism spread, pataphysics spread throughout the world. The word “pataphysics” is the Japanese translation of the term. This bizarre field of study seeped into the underworlds of various countries, taking on completely different forms.

The “Creative Writing Association,” a doujin publishing company created by authors like “Charles Martini.” The “Truth Society,” which was affiliated with the World Occult Association. “OI,” an extremist portrait research organization that split from the “Illuminati.”

These became religious organizations advocating nihilism, tragic fate, and contradiction. One of their representative doctrines is that the universe consists of multiple narrative layers, and our world is merely a report observed from someone’s simulation.]

– [On Pataphysics and Narrative Layers], p.112.

As if she had anticipated this.

Choi Serim closed her eyes and waited for me to finish reading.

Tick. Tick.

The paper was burning.

I quickly looked away from the book.

“I’ve finished reading.”

“Good job.”

“I read it, but I don’t really understand what it means. There are too many unfamiliar terms.”

“Yes. That’s understandable.”

Choi Serim reached out to pat me, then awkwardly stopped the motion and said:

“Then I’ll explain it simply. Have you ever thought that this world might be a novel written by someone?”

“Is that what pataphysics is about?”

Though the terminology is different, I already know a similar concept.

Meta-fiction.

It refers to a genre where characters in creative works recognize the existence of the fourth wall and break through it. These characters might speak directly to readers in the real world, or in games, they might understand the system and try to use it to their advantage.

So, is she saying that where I am is also a world inside a novel?

Choi Serim tilts her head with a subtle expression.

“It’s not exactly that, but let’s understand it that way for now.”

She places her hand gently on the closed book cover.

In a quiet voice, she continues:

“Now, think from the perspective of the author who wrote that novel.”

An author thinks of the story in their novel as complete fiction. That’s only common sense.

If someone claimed that the world in their novel actually existed, they’d probably say it’s nonsense.

“But what if that author was also a character in a novel written by someone else?”

Choi Serim stacks her palms on top of each other.

As if building invisible layers.

“And what if the person who wrote the novel featuring that author was also a character in yet another novel?”

“So the layers keep stacking up.”

As I summarized, she nodded and said, “That’s right.”

“This is what we call narrative layers.”

1. We can observe and narrate narrative layers below our own.

2. We cannot recognize the existence of narrative layers above our own.

So then.

“So there’s an author writing our story too?”

“Not necessarily.”

Choi Serim lowers her voice firmly.

“No. Definitely not. Not from what I’ve seen.”

“What? Are you saying there’s a story running without an author?”

“Yes.”

Her gaze shifts away from me toward the abyss below.

Choi Serim’s eyes reach the center of the star where information scatters and breaks apart.

“It wasn’t like that at first, but something external intervened and made it that way.”

[Seven]

A massive star devouring information.

Choi Serim had also noticed its existence.

“That thing isn’t simply devouring surrounding information.”

Her voice trembles slightly as she speaks.

“Then what is it doing?”

“It’s a monster that erases the very narrative layer it appears in.”

Choi Serim sighs deeply, lowering her head. Her hair cascades down, creating a curtain in front of her face.

“After that, everything becomes as if it never existed. Our world itself. The fact that we existed. All writings mentioning us. Everything gets erased.”

“It’s hard to grasp.”

“Same for me.”

Tying her hair back, Choi Serim meets my eyes again.

“So. We need to stop that thing.”

Letters are still rotating around the star.

Is it even possible to stop such an enormous entity?

“By using the properties of narrative layers.”

The story was getting increasingly complex, but Choi Serim seemed unaware of this. Or perhaps she simply didn’t care.

“The world always exists within the realm of possibilities. Multiple probabilities overlap. But when some entity from a higher narrative layer observes and narrates one of those possibilities, reality becomes concrete. That record remains in the form of ‘creation’.”

Probably the latter.

Choi Serim herself keeps interrupting and continuing her speech. It feels like she’s just laying out whatever knowledge comes to mind.

“Dabin.”

I nod heavily.

“I told you before that a disaster would happen in the future.”

“Yes.”

“That disaster is probably related to that thing.”

“That star down there?”

“Yes. It’s definitely the cause.”

“Based on what evidence?”

“I’ll tell you about that later too.”

Choi Serim continues:

“The end of the world will come in the future. This is something I’ve clearly seen, but we can change it. Also by using the properties of narrative layers.”

Then.

Swish-

Another book appeared before me. Choi Serim had pulled it out.

“It’s just a fairy tale. Is this higher or lower than our narrative layer?”

“Since it’s a novel, it would be lower, right?”

“Yes!”

Choi Serim raises her voice happily.

Actually, I barely understood anything else, but I just went along with it.

Rustle.

Choi Serim slowly lifts the book.

“And right now, before Dabin reads this, possibilities are overlapping in the closed book. We can’t know anything except the title.”

The hardcover book cover shines in the campfire light.

[When Sunlight Shatters]

“It’s short, so could you read it quickly?”

“Yes.”

“You only need to read page 11.”

I took the book and opened it.

[At some point, Casey was lying on a park bench. Feeling uncomfortable, she got up and walked. Casey is now sitting on the steps at the entrance of the Independence Memorial.]

When I finished reading, slender fingers covered the book.

Choi Serim looked down at me and quietly said:

“Now try covering the middle sentence.”

Second reading:

[At some point, Casey was lying on a park bench. Casey is now sitting on the steps at the entrance of the Independence Memorial.]

The content now made it seem as if the protagonist had teleported.

“This time, read the sentences in reverse order.”

[Casey is now sitting on the steps at the entrance of the Independence Memorial. Feeling uncomfortable, she got up and walked. At some point, Casey was lying on a park bench.]

“Also try reading by erasing some words in the middle.”

[Casey walked from the park bench.]

I looked away from the book.

Despite being a short passage, the content jumped around wildly.

“So depending on how you read it, it becomes a completely different story.”

“That’s right.”

Puzzle pieces slowly start fitting together in my mind.

Knowledge about how this world works.

I’ve learned something new, but I don’t feel like knowledge has been filled in. Rather, I feel emptiness.

The prayers of monks, which should no longer be audible, echoed in my ears.

“If this is the role of the author when writing a novel, I get it. An author can easily change future events. After all, what developments to write next is up to the author. They can also change past events by publishing a revised edition and modifying the text. ‘Breaking causality and plausibility’ – I understand this as the author being able to write implausible content, yet the story still progresses. Though this might earn some criticism from readers.”

“Yes.”

“If it’s the author’s role, then it’s something happening in the narrative layer right above us.”

I tapped the floor with the back of my hand as I continued:

“So what you’re saying is. If we interfere there, we can change what happens in our world. Is that it?”

“That’s right.”

“It’s hard to grasp, but is there a method? It sounds like you’re saying a character in a novel can take the author’s position.”

“I’ll explain that later too.”

Choi Serim, who had collapsed and gotten up complaining of a headache, seemed to have discovered many more facts I didn’t know.

I had a feeling that “later” wouldn’t be just a few minutes or hours away.

I was about to turn my gaze to the warm flames when I recalled Choi Serim’s sleep-talking.

– Only one ending remains.

And what she said earlier.

– The story we live in is progressing without an author.

– In a world before narration, multiple possibilities overlap.

I combine these three statements.

Though my mind is complicated with too many unknown facts, if I focus…

I reach one conclusion.

“Then let me ask one more thing.”

“Yes? What is it?”

“What you said earlier. About there being no author.”

“Yes.”

“Does that mean that in this narrative layer where we exist, there’s no longer any possibility for observation and narration? Is that how I should understand it?”

I’ve come this far.

“And the reason is that star below. The thing called Seven, and Seven has almost completely erased our story, our narrative layer.”

This is what Choi Serim directly stated earlier.

“So the remaining possibility. The remaining ending is just one.”

This is what Choi Serim said in her sleep-talk.

I organized my thoughts one last time.

All the facts were leading to one question.

“Then that final one.”

A powerful and fundamental question, enough to drive away all the emptiness that came with discussing pataphysics.

“Why wasn’t that one erased? Why did it remain?”