Prologue
Memories of my past life sometimes surface.
Even though I don't want them to.
“Child, won’t you come with me?”
My eyes caught sight of a traditional robe with red flowers embroidered on its sleeves. The robe fluttered gracefully yet remained neat, and the middle-aged man’s smile was full of playful warmth meant to reassure the child.
In the stillness of the night.
The man slowly reached out toward the child bound in chains. The child pressed against the ground and staggered backward. The rough stone floor beneath their palms was cold.
A black market that only opened during full moons.
Among its wares, the lowest commodity was none other than this child.
“Hahaha. Don’t worry. I’ve come to take you home.”
The middle-aged man maintained his benevolent smile as he patiently waited with his hand outstretched. As time passed, the child finally raised their head, realizing the figure before them meant no harm. Yet they couldn’t bring themselves to look directly at the man.
Seeing this, the man assumed it was due to repeated abuse and turned his gaze instead to glare at the cold corpse of a black-market merchant. But what appeared blurry to him were eyes that clearly reflected something beyond his outstretched hand.
Not the extended hand, nor the kind smile, nor even the red plum blossoms—but the sword hanging at the man’s waist.
The child was looking at the sword.
And in that moment when Seo-jun realized within his memories that he was that child staring at the blade—
He woke from his dream.
“Ah…”
The morning sunlight streaming through the curtains naturally drew a grimace across his face. Though it wasn’t just because of the sunlight.
“It’s been a while since you appeared in my dreams.”
Jin Seo-jun.
He didn’t know why, or who, or how—but at a young age, he had recalled memories of a past life. He had glimpsed the past of a prodigy saved by a passing Taoist priest, witnessed both admiration and envy toward a promising successor’s efforts, and seen firsthand the weight of responsibility borne by a pillar upholding orthodox martial arts.
And in that past life—
He had been called
Sword God (劍神).
“What good is having been the Sword God in a past life?”
Seo-jun snorted as he drew back the curtains and began straightening his bed. Autumn of his twenty-third year. What should have been the start of another ordinary day…
Or so he thought,
until—
Ding!
—a single message arrived.
Chapter 1
Remembering one’s past life isn’t particularly pleasant.
“Hey, wanna hit up the VR pods after class?”
“Again today? You went yesterday too!”
“Yeah. So what’s your answer?”
“Obviously going. Why even ask?”
Seo-jun listened to this whispered conversation between students behind him, thinking that aside from remembering his past life, he was an utterly ordinary college student.
“That concludes today’s lecture…”
Class ended. As usual, the professor’s final remarks were drowned out by the noise of students packing up. Seo-jun leisurely gathered his things and stood.
“Hey, hey! If we’re late, there might not be any pods left!”
“What are we—middle schoolers? Like there’d be no spots just because we’re late!”
“Then what?”
“This place never has spots, whether you go early or late! So relax!”
Such popularity…
Honestly…
Seo-jun nodded, recalling how seven years ago, securing VR pod time had already been hellish. Though their popularity keeps rising each year… No. He shook off the thought and headed home.
Opening the door, he found his housemate—effectively his only friend—Kim Tae-woo lounging on the sofa, watching TV.
“Hey, you’re back! This is the All-Star match—wanna watch?”
Kim Tae-woo: Seo-jun’s high school classmate, a seven-year veteran streamer averaging 10k viewers. Since high school, he’d slept at school and broadcasted from home, getting kicked out during exams and crashing in Seo-jun’s room. After graduation, they’d moved in together.
“Nah. Watch it alone. Not interested.”
“Interested? Since when do you know what ‘interest’ means?”
“It’s all predictable anyway.”
“Yeah, predictable. I get it—VR feels samey once you’ve tried it. But listen, Seo-jun—” Tae-woo sighed heavily.
“Hmm?”
“You’ve never even tried VR, you bastard! You keep dodging me whenever I ask!”
The device that transports one’s entire body into virtual worlds:
The Capsule.
Calling it anything less than a global phenomenon for years would be an understatement. It simulated real-world landmarks to satisfy wanderlust, revolutionized industries from shopping to healthcare with VR integration—yet gaming remained its most popular sector. Games blending hyper-realism with flashy skills mushroomed daily, their popularity soaring. The All-Star match Tae-woo watched was an event for the famous VR game The League.
“You say you tried VR games ages ago.”
“Then why quit now?”
“VR’s dangerous.”
“Dangerous how? Only one person worldwide has ever collapsed using a capsule!”
Seo-jun’s expression remained neutral as he changed the subject. “Anyway, let’s get braised short ribs later. Mom made some.”
“Can’t resist short ribs!” Tae-woo grinned, simple as ever. Seo-jun shook his head and retreated to his room.
After changing, Seo-jun sat at his desk and searched online, curious about Tae-woo’s claim. Combining [Capsule], [VR], and [accident], he found exactly one article: a sixteen-year-old student who’d collapsed seven years ago. No need to click—no one would know better than me.
He leaned back, sighing. Why did I even play games back then?
Exactly.
Remembering a past life isn’t pleasant—unless you were a peaceful farmer harvesting rice. But his past life had been in a savage world where “barbarians” erupted into fiery sword dances at a mere glance, where death lingered closer than shadows and loss was as common as pebbles. As a child, he’d doubted his memories’ validity—after all, he had no proof he wasn’t insane.
Until age sixteen, when he’d first stepped into VR and grasped a sword.
That moment remained vivid even now.
Awkward, yet familiar—the feel of a hand gripping his.
A motion.
A slash.
Following the movement that had been circling in his mind, he swung the sword. He could confirm that the memory from that day wasn’t fiction.
‘So that’s why?’
Virtual reality games were quite enjoyable and liberating.
But.
Seo-jun, who had been enjoying VR, collapsed within less than a year, blood trickling from his nose and mouth as he lost consciousness. Inside the capsule, no less.
The cause was his inherently low Sync Rate.
The Sync Rate measured how closely one perceived the virtual world as reality—the higher the number, the better the adaptation to VR, with lower fatigue.
“Unfortunately, Mr. Seo-jun, your Sync Rate is too low. The neural link is unstable.”
These were the words Seo-jun heard after thorough tests at the institute.
“How low is it?”
“Ten. Likely the lowest in the world. You must’ve been dizzy all this time—how did you even play games in this state…?”
A Sync Rate of 10.
With the average at 60 and the next lowest recorded at 42, his rate was catastrophically low.
“If you continue diving into VR… your brain could be at risk. Like mismatched voltage frying electronics, your brain isn’t compatible with VR—it could lead to severe damage…”
Was it because he strangely remembered his past life?
Or just his peculiar constitution?
Either way, Seo-jun became the world’s sole case of capsule-induced collapse.
“We apologize, but for your safety, we must discontinue your VR services. Truly sorry.”
She explained this was the first instance of both a collapse and service suspension. A reasonable decision, accepted calmly. It wasn’t like he’d die without gaming. Yet this lingering feeling—regret? Or something else?
“…I don’t know.”
As Seo-jun muttered those words and shut down his computer—
Ding.
His phone chimed. Checking it, his pupils dilated.
“Huh?”
[Hello, Mr. Seo-jun. This is Oh Ji-hye, director of Surface Korea’s R&D Center. Would you visit our institute soon?]
The next day.
Whirr.
The capsule lid lifted, and Seo-jun opened his eyes.
“How did it feel stretching your body in VR after so long?”
A woman in her late thirties approached him—Oh Ji-hye, the director who’d examined him years prior. Seo-jun flexed his hand before answering:
“Not bad. Definitely less dizzy than before.”
Her reason for inviting him was simple: A method now existed for him to dive into VR without brain damage—after seven years!
“Heh. Right? The new model minimizes discomfort for low Sync users while maximizing performance for high Sync ones!”
“I see.”
“Come this way.”
She led him to her desk.
“Look at this graph…”
Not that he understood graphs, but her explanation was clear: Daily time limits would allow safe use… with one more condition.
“Sadly, only this new model is safe for you—it prioritizes performance over cost.”
Bitterly smiling, Seo-jun asked:
“How much?”
“Well… 100 million won (~$750k). Steep, right?”
Steep indeed! Budget models cost millions; premium ones under 30 million (~$22k).
‘But 100 million?’
For pros where 0.1 seconds decided matches? Worthwhile. For a hobby? Absurd.
As he prepared to decline, Ji-hye added:
“$100M is burdensome… Do you know about The League tournament hosted by Travel?”
League of Streaming (LoS)—where streamers competed in The League, second only to pro leagues in scale. Thanks to Tae-woo, Seo-jun nodded.
“Surface is sponsoring it. The grand prize includes our new capsule.”
“Ah…”
“If you join… we’ll lend you one free until the finals end.”
His mind raced: Win-to-pay scheme?
Streaming—a field he’d never considered, despite knowing someone in it.
“But don’t think about going pro! Pros live in capsules between monthly checkups—your brain couldn’t handle that.”
After a pause, Seo-jun chose politeness:
“Thank you. I’ll think about it.”
“Director, why?”
A researcher approached after Seo-jun left.
“Free rental? That streaming tournament? Why go so far? He’s unique, but this is excessive!”
“Hey! At Surface, we never let clients slip away!”
“You threaten pros with service cuts over minor issues yet bend backwards here?”
Ji-hye waved dismissively, recalling data from seven years ago—and today. His Sync Rate: 10. Yet his skills? Unrusted. Improved, even.
“Honestly, participation might be tough… but if he joins?”
She smirked.
“Winning? That seems possible.”
