Click-clack—click-clack—tak-tak—
The sound of something being pressed. Frantic fingertips.
In a cramped, shabby room, the noise rang out again and again. Inside that small, meager space, a man sat in front of the TV with a blanket pulled over his head, doing something.
The room was so tiny that the dripping water from the faucet and the wind squeezing through the reinforced window frame overlapped each other.
In front of him sat an empty lunchbox, left behind after being hastily eaten. Barely enough to count as a meal. The only light in the dark room, where even the bulb hadn’t been switched on, came from the TV screen.
The man was gripping the console game controller, playing. Even through the blanket, his shoulders trembled. He was curled up and shaking, but still he refused to let go of the controller.
Click—
The sound of the buttons seemed louder than usual. His gaze, burning with desperate longing, was fixed to the tiny TV. He couldn’t pull his eyes away.
[Trust has increased. Would you like to check Daegong’s trust? Yes / No]
At last.
Without hesitation, the man pressed “Yes.” On the screen appeared a sharp-featured figure. Heterochromatic eyes pulled his attention. But in that instant, the character’s face distorted like a glitch, flickering with static.
The noise vanished quickly. Maybe he had imagined it. Yet it felt like he had really seen it—a murderous expression, eyes full of hatred. A character that had never shown any emotion until now.
He realized it wasn’t just a trick of his mind when a single line of text appeared across the screen.
It was very short. But it contained everything. Rage, disgust, and hate. The glitchy, static-filled message was all he could look at with trembling eyes.
[I hate you.]
That was the answer. The answer to everything he had done up until now.
In the dark, his hunched back looked pitiful. His eyes, opened wide in shock, slowly closed in despair. The hand holding the controller dropped weakly.
His eyes stung faintly.
As if to etch it into him, the words stayed on the screen for a long time. He had to force himself to look away as the letters faded into noise.
***
The game Elix.
It was a downloadable empire-building game in the form of a console title.
Wrapped in mystery—its publisher, distributor, even developer unknown—Elix appeared in the world at the stroke of midnight, when the New Year’s bell rang.
It came out of nowhere, and instantly topped portal-site search rankings.
Regardless of race or nation, people downloaded it as if possessed. Using a launcher, they started playing this game with no transparency about its creators.
The worries about its lack of information vanished instantly. It was perfect. It boasted shocking freedom and a vast simulation system.
One by one, the people of the world became captivated by Elix. Its sudden appearance, like it had dropped from the sky, only helped it feel all the more revolutionary.
Elix was a nation-building game where the player, as king, founded an empire alongside retainers and gods. While building their empire, they had to conquer a dungeon called the “Tower of Trials,” nurture retainers, and strengthen national power—in short, pursue prosperity and military strength.
It looked like nothing special, but it was anything but easy. No, it was infamous for its extreme difficulty. Even Koreans, known for beating games where you die every three seconds, admitted defeat.
Before play began, Elix required an aptitude test. Speculation still swirled on the internet, but the most widely accepted theory was that it existed to assign the most suitable character to each player.
If false answers or mismatches with earlier responses were detected during the test, the program forced the player to retake it.
No matter how many times they tried, the rule stood: only truthful answers let you advance.
After about an hour of this test, Elix used the results to assign each player a “lord” character.
In other words, players had no freedom to choose their character.
Appearance, gender, age—all determined by the test. The lord’s race and occupation, too, were set according to the player’s aptitude, tendencies, environment, intelligence, and talent.
Some left in disappointment at this lack of choice. Others were thrilled at the new kind of accessibility.
Once assigned, players entered the game as kings, accompanied by a single retainer to assist them. Elix called this helper the Daegong.
The Daegong mattered because they had the authority to interfere with the empire.
Even if you built a nation, if you failed to earn the Daegong’s trust, or ruled with tyranny, idleness, or ruthlessness, you could be killed by revolt, coup, or assassination. Of course, other players’ invasions could also bring you down.
In those cases, the slain player had to start over with a new character. Death was the end. A brutal, hell-difficulty system. Most users never made it past this first trial and quit.
But many others calmly identified the problems and tried again.
Not that death was without penalty. Each death caused the character’s stats to decline.
And if a player died more than ten times, they lost reason and all authority.
The character still existed, but the controller no longer worked.
At that point, they became a puppet that only obeyed the Daegong. The only solution was to quit.
It was absurd, but Elix allowed it. And the important part: no matter how many times you died, the same Daegong always stayed with you.
Despite the punishing difficulty, everyone was enthralled. Cloaked in mystery, free of errors or bugs, Elix was a perfect game.
Six months later, the world was thrown into frenzy again—because of a new in-game announcement.
On the glitchy screen appeared words as unfriendly as they were electrifying.
[The Open Beta Test period has ended. Entering Official Server.]
The notification of official service. It intoxicated the world. People cheered, waited eagerly, anticipated.
But it was nothing to cheer, expect, or wait for.
[Time remaining until entry: 23 hours 58 minutes.]
Yes. It was nothing to celebrate.
***
He woke with a headache that felt like his skull splitting. Hard ground under him, dazzling light above. Covering his eyes, he forced himself up. At once, noise buzzed in his ears.
Maybe because of the headache, every sound reverberated, humming in his skull. Plugging his ears, he endured, blinking slowly until the blur cleared.
When his vision sharpened, Sehyun heard someone sobbing. Drawn by it, he turned. A boy sat slumped on the ground, crying.
Fifteen—no, fourteen at most. He was wearing a school uniform.
Sehyun opened his mouth, but suddenly every memory rushed through his head—then cut off into darkness, ending at the moment he collapsed from pain.
Right… he had collapsed.
His gaze lifted slowly into the void. The space had no ground or sky, no limits at all. A white expanse, like a subspace stretching endlessly.
The mix of murmurs and sobs swelled around him, echoing like through a speaker. Voices trembling in fear, shouts of anger, cries of despair.
Sehyun’s eyes returned to the boy sitting beside him, shoulders shaking. He stared for a long moment before finally blinking. At last, the reality sank in.
He wasn’t alone here.
Countless people were trembling in the void. Even just what he could see numbered in the thousands.
The fact that such a space could hold so many made his skin crawl. No heat, no cold. No wind, no moisture, no dryness, no scent—nothing.
Clenching his shaking hand into a fist, Sehyun forced himself to stay calm. Anxiety clawed at his mind, but he bit the inside of his cheek to push it away.
Rising to his feet, he ignored the pounding of his heart. Those nearby flinched and edged back, wary eyes fixed on him. He paid them no mind, scanning the surroundings.
People of every gender, age, race, and face filled his view. Most were in panic, though a few like him tried to keep composure, searching desperately for a turning point.
Of all places.
Everyone near Sehyun was panicking. Everyone except the boy sobbing beside him. He was the only one still somewhat whole.