Episode 4

South Korea, famous as a gaming powerhouse, had, until two years ago, been on the verge of seeing its domestic MMORPG market dry up completely and wither away. There were plenty of masterpieces that had once represented the MMORPG genre, but just like with other games, it was practically common knowledge to anyone with even the slightest interest in the field that botched operations and development corruption had driven the quality of those games into the ground with every passing year.

If you tried to sell someone on playing a domestic MMORPG with you, most people would say, “What game is that? An MMORPG? Like that Raniji thing old guys play? It looks fun, sure, but isn’t it one of those dog-and-pig games where you can’t enjoy it properly even if you pour money into it? If I’m going to do that, I’d rather spend some cash on a mobile game and aim for the rankings.” People thirsting for MMORPGs usually wandered around aimlessly before eventually digging through foreign games instead.

The one that completely overturned that gaming market was Zero Soft’s debut title, the PvP MMORPG 《Dusk》.

The last hope of South Korean MMORPGs! As always, people threw nicknames like “Korea’s last hope!” and “the last surviving ember of a dying flame!” at every newly developed MMORPG, but there were already more than enough game companies that had stabbed players in the back with operational issues. It wasn’t as if they were toying with users’ money and hearts—they were simply snatching them outright. Players had grown so exhausted by that kind of management that, in truth, they had about as much real expectation as all the talk of hope suggested: practically none.

To make matters worse, when complaints from a developer who claimed to have “escaped after working at Zero Soft” began spreading by word of mouth from one community to another, there wasn’t a single investor willing to support Zero Soft’s unrealistic development methods.

Because of that, development funds were extremely limited, and even the number of developers was small. As a result, the prevailing opinion was that unless they actively appealed to investors and brought in financial backing, development would either be halted or, even if the game was released, it would come out as something shabby.

But when an anonymous investor with excellent judgment appeared and fully funded the development, the story changed completely. With development funds secured and enough personnel brought in, a game was born that boasted an incredibly high level of polish despite being released four years earlier than the expected development period.

PvP-centered gameplay perfectly suited to a nation of battle maniacs; combat so satisfyingly impactful and tense that it awakened the hidden destructive instincts of users who liked cute decorating games or were afraid of fighting; a unique in-game worldview that stirred the hearts of story fanatics; an OST that was grand, refined, and naturally drew players into the game; beautiful and natural modeling; and sturdy, stable servers that rarely crashed no matter how many users there were.

As if accomplishing all that weren’t enough, Zero Soft adhered to a clean operating policy: being conscientious, not forcibly shaking down users’ wallets, communicating steadily with players, and doing its best for the game and its users. In doing so, it achieved the great feat of raising South Korea’s MMORPG market back up again.

Of course, 《Dusk》 wasn’t a completely perfect game. It had flaws, such as ordinary storytelling that failed to make full use of its unique and peculiar worldview, as well as slow and cautious announcements about update directions and development. But far more users supported it, saying that flaws of that level actually made it feel more human.

In a game that took first place in the online game rankings as soon as it launched, even won Game of the Year, and where most people, when Dusk was mentioned, would say, “Oh, I know that game. Of course I’ve played it.”

What did it feel like to become someone so famous that people recognized you just from your nickname?

[Results of This Year’s First-Half Trash-Class Showdown (Kkulppang vs Jaesugang)(398)【H】]

Normally, I supposed it would feel satisfying or exciting, but at least for me right now, it didn’t.

Someone had posted the first-half rankings for me and Jaesugang on the server board, and starting from that, people began multiplying as they noisily argued back and forth over topics derived from “which of the two is more skilled.” Among them were some users who tried to stop it, saying that Jaesugang and I were people too and that comparing us however they liked and even insulting us was rude, but most of them got so worn out that they gave up.

I wasn’t that interested in rankings. Of course, it wasn’t as if I had no interest at all, but still…… It was enough for me to just hit number one in my class rankings and the very top ranks overall. In other words, the reason I chased Jaesugang down so obsessively and killed him wasn’t simply to decide who ranked higher.

Greeting each other by killing each other, pointlessly searching for where the other was, hovering around, and eventually striking up a conversation—it was ticklish, like flirting or the early stages of dating, and so refreshingly simple for a combat game that it was fun. Though there was the premise that we had to kill each other. But I never imagined we’d be nitpicked and compared like this.

During the second half of last year, talk about whose ranking was higher had come up now and then too, but it had been quiet enough that I could brush it off as people just wanting to compare us because both our classes were bottom-tier in solo PvP. It was just that more people started recognizing me thanks to Jaesugang’s stream, and some people began paying attention to the control battles between me and Jaesugang. So why had it suddenly turned into this?

Leaving me aside, Jaesugang was probably either looking at the mess on the server board right now or would at least find out through his viewers when he started streaming, so I was a little worried he might get hurt or find it troublesome. Of course, judging by how he usually laughed and enjoyed exchanging brutal truths with his viewers during his chatting time, the chances of that were remarkably low, but still…… You never knew with people.

Should I make a big donation today, even if it got me cursed at a little, so he could eat something good and relieve some stress? As I worried over that and kept pointlessly refreshing the page, my eyes casually drifted to the clock on the right side of the taskbar.

8:56 p.m. Maybe because I always checked the time around then, it was exactly two minutes before Jaesugang’s stream usually began.

As soon as I checked the time, I closed the chaotic board and put the headset I had left beside the keyboard back on my head. Then I went to Jaesugang’s channel, which was always bookmarked, and waited for the stream to turn on. If I waited just a little, as always, the stream would start at 8:58, one or two intro songs would play, and once it passed 9 o’clock, Jaesugang would greet us in his sweet voice.

Normally, after Jaesugang’s stream opening, I would leisurely watch him do field PvP while listening to him chatter in his calm voice about what had happened that day. But today, I had agreed to fill in for a party PvP group starting at 10, so the time I had left to face Jaesugang was only about thirty minutes.

In other words, I had to confirm when Jaesugang entered the field, turn off the stream, then find him as quickly as possible and kill him as many times as possible.

If I monitored him—that is, if I left the stream on, checked which base he was moving to, and followed him around—it would be convenient, but that went against the spirit of fair play, so my pride wouldn’t allow it. That was also why, the moment I heard Jaesugang click the base-transfer statue and confirmed he had gone out into the field, I turned the stream off.

To meet Jaesugang quickly and often within thirty minutes without monitoring him, I had to pick out a few areas he frequently roamed before he entered the field and make a plan to search mainly around those places.

Rewinding my memory to recall where Jaesugang and I had died the most, I opened the Dusk window and pressed M to bring up the map. As I used the marking system, which let players mark destinations on the map, to indicate locations worth checking, it must have become 8:58, because the stream turned on.

Reflexively, I minimized the window, entered the live stream, then looked back at the map. For some reason, however, today the intro music played quietly, and Jaesugang immediately greeted the viewers.

— “Everyone, it’s an unusually eventful night.”

When Jaesugang’s soft, gentle voice, which I had expected to hear two minutes later, unexpectedly pierced my eardrums and barged in, I involuntarily sucked in a startled breath. Just as he’d said, it was an unusual greeting.