Prologue. There’s a Reason They Tell You Not to Do Things.
“Hyung, that looks like it hurts like hell.”
“It’s all a show. A show.”
“A show?”
“They’re pretending to be hurt, pretending to hit each other. Pro wrestling is all a show! It’s fake.”
I learned that shocking truth, that red pill, at the age of nine—faster than any of my friends, even more shocking than the secret of Santa Claus I’d discovered when I was seven.
At the time, I’d screamed at my brother, who was three years older than me, telling him not to lie.
And then I got beaten half to death, but…
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“Pro wrestling is a show.”
But even if it hadn’t been my brother, wouldn’t everyone have swallowed the red pill by around eleven? Twelve?
By that age, didn’t we all figure out that pro wrestling was a show?
Though I think it took a little longer before I learned there was a predetermined script.
Even so, I liked it.
No, the more I learned, the more I liked it.
Punches and kicks were just “pretending to hit” and “pretending to get hit,” but throwing each other, hurling their bodies off the ring posts, jumping down from ladders—all of that action was real.
Sometimes I loved the twists so much I’d wonder, “Was that scripted? Or was that an accident?”
Of course, there were ridiculous storylines that made the locals faint, like, “He’s not your son. That boy is actually my son,” but that was common material in Korean dramas.
The only problem was that pro wrestling was far too unpopular in our country.
Still, its cable TV ratings came out better than professional soccer, and sometimes even rivaled professional baseball.
0.5 to 0.8 percent.
That meant, out of fifty million people, at least two hundred and fifty thousand were watching it like me.
And yet, if I told my friends I liked WWO, they treated me like an otaku or a shut-in warrior.
Where the hell were my two hundred and fifty thousand comrades?!
After I entered university, I asked around and around until I finally found a pro wrestling academy, and I attended every weekend.
With my lousy athletic sense and physique, even dropkicks, power slams, and head scissors whips—the kind comedians could do—were difficult for me.
But just like the saying that even knowing origami can be useful in the army, I used that foundation to win reward leave at the Christmas talent show during my military service.
That’s right.
I truly loved the show that unfolded within a 6.1-meter-by-6.1-meter space.
If you call it a rigged game of go-stop, then isn’t theater the same?
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Me now?
I’m still playing “2K27 WWO Superstars,” which was released two years ago.
The reason I’m clinging to something from two years ago is because of the editor.
“Wow! You really suck.”
“Hey! You try it, then. See how easy it is to enter the Noble Rumble at number one and win…”
Noble Rumble.
It starts with two wrestlers, and every ninety seconds, another competitor enters, for a total of thirty people, until they fight it out and only one remains.
If you enter in the twenties, then maybe, but coming in at number ten or below and winning really isn’t easy.
In reality, depending on the script, number one or number two can win too, but the game has no script, and managing stamina is way too difficult.
If I started as a huge, strong powerhouse, my stamina dropped in chunks in no time, and if I set myself up as a fast, nimble technician or high-flyer, I became food for the big guys.
Watching me like that was an old classmate of mine.
A friend who had talent in programming and hacking, who worked at a security software company, said one thing.
“Hey! How old are you, and you’re still doing this? Want this hyung to make you an editor or something?”
“Fuck. For real?”
“Yeah. Call me hyung first.”
Hyung? What’s so hard about that?
“Hyung. Jeong-u hyung-nim.”
“Kekeke. You sly little bastard.”
“It’s not being sly. It’s called having good social skills.”
“Social skills, my ass.”
“Hey, can you really do it? I’ll buy you pork belly right away.”
“I can’t do anything too complicated, but making one broken character should be plenty possible.”
“Can it be a female character too?”
“Are you kidding me? Just wait two months, to be safe.”
“Yes, yes, hyung-nim.”
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Two months later, I received the editor from him.
With his help, I made a pretty character no less beautiful than a female character from an MMORPG, and maxed out everything I could—strength, agility, and constitution as the basics, plus durability, recovery, flexibility, technique, and more.
And I checked off every single trait, too.
It was the birth of the most broken character among broken characters.
“That do it?”
“Yeah.”
I treated him to skirt steak and a glass of soju, then immediately turned on the game.
My character, “Cha Rina,” who brought a certain idol to mind, greeted me.
“Hahaha! You’re all dead.”
“Should I try story mode first?”
The moment I pressed “START,” the screen flashed, and my consciousness gradually began to fade.
And in my ears, faintly, I think I heard the words “cheater,” “punk,” and “trash.”