Prologue & Chapter 1

Prologue

Sometimes memories of his past life surface.

Even when he don’t want them to.

“Child, won’t you come with me?”

A robe with red flowers embroidered on the sleeves caught his eye.

The robe fluttered but was neat, and the middle-aged man’s smile was full of playfulness meant to reassure the child.

In the quiet of the night.

The middle-aged man approached the chained child and slowly extended his hand.

The child then pressed against the ground and staggered backward.

The rough stone floor that touched my palm was cold.

The black market that only opened during the full moon.

Even within that place, the child was merchandise located at the very bottom.

“Hahaha. Don’t worry. I came to take you home.”

The middle-aged man maintained his benevolent smile and waited leisurely with his hand outstretched.

As time passed, the child who realized that the person standing before him meant no harm lifted his head.

But the child couldn’t look directly at the middle-aged man.

Seeing this, the middle-aged man thought it was because the child was avoiding eye contact due to repeated beatings, so he turned his gaze to glare at the cold corpse of the black market dealer.

However, the eyes that appeared only blurry to the middle-aged man were clearly focused on something beyond his hand.

Not the outstretched hand, not the benevolent smile, not the red plum blossoms, but the sword hanging at the middle-aged man’s waist.

The child was looking at the sword.

And the moment he realized that in his memory, he was that child looking at the sword.

Seo-jun woke up.

“Ah…”

His face naturally contorted as the morning sunlight slipped through the curtains.

It wasn’t just because of the morning sunlight.

“It’s been a while since it appeared in my dreams.”

Jin Seo-jun.

For reasons unknown—who, why, or how—he recalled memories of his past life at a young age.

He glimpsed the past of a prodigy saved by a passing Taoist, the efforts of a promising late-stage disciple who was both admired and envied, and the responsibilities of a massive pillar supporting the orthodox sects.

And in his past life, he was called.

The Sword God.

That’s what they called him.

“What’s the point of being a sword god in my past life?”

Seo-jun chuckled and began drawing the curtains and making his bed.

Twenty-three years old, autumn.

It was the start of an ordinary day as usual.

Or so he thought.

Until a text message arrived.

Ding.

***

Chapter 1

Remembering a past life isn’t necessarily a good thing.

“Hey, want to go to the capsule room after class?”

“Today as well? We went yesterday too.”

“Yeah. So what’s your answer?”

“Of course we have to go. What kind of question is that?”

Seo-jun, who was an extremely ordinary college student except for the fact that he remembered his past life, listened to the whispered conversation of students sitting behind him and thought.

“We’ll end today’s class here…”

The lecture ended.

As always, the professor’s closing remarks were drowned out by the sound of students packing their bags and getting up.

Seo-jun also leisurely organized his things and stood up from his chair.

“Hey hey. If we’re late, there might not be any capsule spots.”

“What are we, middle or high schoolers? Running out of spots if we’re late after school.”

“Then?”

“It doesn’t matter—even if we go early, there won’t be any seats available.”

Is it really that popular?

Well.

Seo-jun nodded, thinking back seven years.

Even back then, getting a spot at a capsule room was like hell.

‘But capsule popularity keeps growing every year… No.’

Seo-jun lost interest and headed home.

When he opened the door and entered the house, his roommate and practically only friend was sitting on the sofa watching TV.

“Hey, you’re back? This is an all-star match, want to watch together?”

His name was Kim Tae-woo.

Seo-jun’s high school classmate and also a seven-year veteran streamer who maintained an average of 10,000 viewers.

Tae-woo had lived a life of sleeping at school and streaming at home since high school.

Thanks to that, he got kicked out during exam periods and ended up staying in Seo-jun’s room, which led to them living together when Seo-jun became independent after graduation.

“No thanks. Watch it by yourself. That stuff’s not fun.”

Seo-jun replied curtly.

“Fun? Do you even know what fun is?”

“Isn’t it obvious what’ll happen?”

“Right. It’s obvious. If you actually try it, you might feel that virtual reality is all the same stuff. I think so too. But you know what, Seo-jun?”

Tae-woo sighed.

“Yeah.”

“You’ve never tried capsules. You bastard. Even when I asked you to try it together, just once, just log in at least, you kept avoiding it!”

Virtual reality was a device that could immerse your entire body into another world.

Capsules.

The world had been swept up in this capsule craze for several years now, and it wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say so.

Capsules fulfilled the travel desires of busy modern people who couldn’t find time by implementing real-world attractions.

They were changing the world by integrating virtual reality into countless industries like shopping, education, medical care, and automobiles.

But there was a separate field that was most popular—entertainment, namely games.

As games with overwhelming realism and flashy skills poured out like bamboo shoots after rain, the popularity of capsule games was growing day by day.

The all-star match that Tae-woo was watching was also an event match for the famous virtual reality game ‘The League.’

“I told you I used to play capsule games.”

“Then why don’t you play now?”

“Virtual reality is dangerous.”

“What’s dangerous? Only one person has ever collapsed in a capsule so far. Just one person in the entire world!”

Hearing those words, Seo-jun wore a nonchalant expression and changed the subject.

“Is that so? Anyway, let’s go eat dinner later. My mother made braised short ribs.”

“Can’t resist braised short ribs.”

Tae-woo grinned foolishly.

Such a simple friend.

Seo-jun shook his head and went into his room.

* * *

After organizing his things and changing clothes, Seo-jun sat at his desk, turned on his computer, and clicked on the search bar.

He was curious whether Tae-woo’s words were true.

Capsule, virtual reality, accident.

Seo-jun combined these three words and searched the internet.

‘It really was just one.’

He was able to find an article about a 16-year-old student who collapsed while using a capsule seven years ago.

There was no need to click and check the content.

‘No one would know better than me.’

Sigh.

Seo-jun exhaled and leaned back in his chair.

‘Why did I play that game?’

So.

Remembering a past life isn’t necessarily a good thing.

It might be different if his past life had been born in some peaceful era, living as a farmer harvesting rice.

But he had been in a place where savages lived, where people would immediately break into a fiery sword dance just by making eye contact like men and women at a ball, and he was at what could be called the center of such a place.

‘It was definitely savage.’

In his past life, death was closer than shadows.

Loss was more common than pebbles rolling on the roadside.

Most of all, when he was young, he couldn’t help but doubt the authenticity of his memories.

There was no proof he wasn’t crazy, after all.

Then when he turned 16.

By chance, he took his first step into virtual reality and held a sword within it.

He still vividly remembers that moment.

Awkward, yet so familiar, the feeling in his hands.

Movements.

Sword paths.

He swung the sword following the movements that kept circling in his mind.

That day, he was able to confirm that his memories weren’t fiction.

‘Is that why?’

Virtual reality games were quite enjoyable and liberating.

However.

Seo-jun, who had been enjoying virtual reality, collapsed unconscious with blood flowing from his nose and mouth in less than a year.

Inside a capsule.

The cause was a congenitally low synchronization rate.

Synchronization rate is a measure of how much one perceives the virtual reality world as real, and the higher this rate, the better one adapts to virtual reality and the lower the fatigue.

‘Unfortunately, Mr. Seo-jun’s synchronization rate is too low, making the link unstable.’

This was what Seo-jun heard after receiving a detailed examination at the research institute.

‘How low is it?’

‘It’s 10. It seems to be the lowest in the world. You must have been quite dizzy all this time, but how you managed to play games in this condition…’

Synchronization rate 10.

Considering that the average is 60 and the lowest rate excluding him was 42, Seo-jun’s synchronization rate was extremely low.

‘If you continue to enter virtual reality in the future, your brain will probably be in danger. Just like how electronic devices get damaged when the voltage doesn’t match between a charger and the device, Mr. Seo-jun’s brain doesn’t match well with virtual reality, so serious damage could occur…’

Was it because he uniquely remembered his past life?

Or was it just an unusual constitution?

That’s how Seo-jun became the only person in the world to collapse in a capsule.

‘We’re sorry. For Mr. Seo-jun’s safety, we have no choice but to stop providing virtual reality services. We’re truly sorry.’

She explained that this was the first case of someone collapsing and the first time they had to discontinue service.

It was a natural decision, and Seo-jun accepted it calmly.

It’s not like you’d die from not being able to play games.

Even so, this feeling he has now is.

Regret perhaps?

Or maybe.

“I don’t know.”

Just as Seo-jun muttered this and was about to turn off his computer.

Ding.

His phone’s notification sounded, and Seo-jun’s eyes widened when he checked it.

“Huh?”

[Hello, Mr. Seo-jun. This is Oh Ji-hye, Director of Surface Korea R&D Center. When you have time, could you please visit our research institute for old times’ sake?]

* * *

The next day.

Whirr.

The capsule cover rose and Seo-jun opened his eyes.

“How was it, stretching your body in virtual reality after such a long time?”

A woman who appeared to be in her late thirties approached Seo-jun, who was slightly dizzy from just coming out of virtual reality.

Oh Ji-hye.

The research institute director who had built a relationship with Seo-jun while examining him in the past.

Seo-jun flexed his hands for a moment, then gave her his impression.

“It’s fine. It definitely feels less dizzy than when I used it in the past.”

The reason she invited Seo-jun to the research institute was simple.

It was because a method had been found for Seo-jun to dive into virtual reality without brain damage.

After a full seven years!

“Hehe. Right? The new capsule you just entered is a model designed to minimize discomfort for people with low synchronization rates and allow people with high synchronization rates to achieve maximum performance!”

“I see.”

“Could you come this way, please?”

She led Seo-jun to her desk area.

And seated Seo-jun in the chair next to her.

“If you look at this graph here…”

Well, even looking at the graph, he couldn’t understand it, but her explanation was as follows,

As long as he didn’t exceed a set amount of time per day, he could use the capsule.

But there was one more condition besides the time limit.

Namely.

“Unfortunately, only this new capsule model will be safe. It’s something where we didn’t consider price at all and only focused insanely on performance.”

So it had to be something made like that for him to barely use it?

Seo-jun smiled bitterly and asked about the price.

“How much is it?”

Her words about not considering price at all bothered him.

Sure enough, the capsule price that came out of her mouth was beyond imagination.

“Well, you see… it’s 100 million won. Haha, it is a bit expensive, isn’t it?”

Expensive.

Budget models can be bought for a few million won, and even high-end models don’t exceed 30 million won.

‘But 100 million won.’

Professional equipment—for example, for pro players where victory or defeat is decided in 0.1 seconds—might be worth such an investment.

“What would you like to do?”

Seo-jun thought it was too expensive to pay just for a hobby.

As expected.

Just as he was about to say it probably wouldn’t work out, Oh Ji-hye cautiously spoke up.

“100 million is definitely a burdensome amount. So, have you heard of The League tournament held in Travel?”

League of Streaming.

Shortened to LOS.

It’s a tournament where streamers compete in a game called The League, essentially the largest tournament outside of the actual pro league.

Seo-jun nodded since he knew about it superficially thanks to Tae-woo.

“Surface is sponsoring it this time. So this new capsule was added to the prize pool.”

“Ah…”

“If Mr. Seo-jun participates in the tournament, we’ll specially lend you the capsule for free until the tournament ends.”

Seo-jun’s mind began to get complicated.

In other words, win it and pay it back?

Streamer.

Even with a close friend in this profession, it was a job he had never once considered.

“But don’t even think about becoming a pro gamer. Pros practically live in capsules, eating only meals, and get regular checkups every month. If Mr. Seo-jun took on such a profession, your brain wouldn’t be able to handle it. Even if a capsule with better performance than this came out.”

Is that so?

Seo-jun thought for a moment, then smiled and chose the most reasonable answer.

“Thank you. I’ll think about it.”

* * *

“Why did you do that, director?”

In the research lab after Seo-jun left.

A regular researcher who had been eavesdropping on Seo-jun and Oh Ji-hye’s conversation from behind approached and asked.

“Do what?”

Oh Ji-hye pretended not to know at first, but.

“The free rental. And a streamer tournament? Why did you say such things? What’s so special about that student? I understand he’s a unique case, but there’s no need to go that far.”

“Hey, man. Our Surface never lets go of even one customer.”

“You’re the one who threatens to discontinue service using danger as an excuse when pro players visiting for checkups get even slightly annoying.”

The researcher spoke in a tone of disbelief, and Oh Ji-hye brushed it off as if it were nothing.

“Well, I hate seeing talent go to waste.”

“Huh? But even if you give him such benefits, can that student win LOS, or even participate?”

Oh Ji-hye recalled when she first saw Seo-jun seven years ago at the researcher’s words.

How surprised she had been that such an amazing user had a synchronization rate of only 10.

And even now.

‘His skills haven’t rusted. No, rather…’

Oh Ji-hye’s eyes moved to the side.

There, today’s measured data on Seo-jun was displayed.

Not only Seo-jun’s physical responses but also the results of simple—no, simple but therefore too clear—tests conducted in virtual reality.

“Honestly, participation might be difficult.”

Since he needs to establish himself as a streamer and gain some recognition.

But if he just participates.

“Winning, seems possible?”