Episode 3
"Why can't I challenge Level 10?"
Taewoo sighed before explaining.
"You need to defeat the Level 9 AI first. And Level 10 isn't a regular AI."
"Then what is it?"
"It mimics the best player among those who've cleared Level 9."
"Oh."
"By the way, the current Level 10 AI is someone you know well."
"Shin Hayeon?"
"Correct."
"So if someone beats the Level 10 AI, does it get replaced by that person?"
"Presumably. For the record, Shin Hayeon's held Level 10 for five years. Let's just start already."
Seojun marveled internally.
"Got it."
'About time.'
Taewoo watched Seojun with gleaming eyes.
The way he swung his sword through the air didn't resemble a novice's movements.
'Did he take gaming academy lessons?'
Such people existed, he'd heard.
Those who trained at real martial arts schools or bulked up physically to improve their gaming.
But after seven years in streaming, Taewoo believed spending that time playing extra matches was more efficient.
Why did elite athletes sometimes flounder here?
One reason alone:
'Real physical abilities don't transfer to avatars.'
VR avatars scanned users' bodies and followed their motions but couldn't exceed preset performance limits.
A 2-meter rugby player might lose an arm wrestle to a 160cm woman here.
What mattered was skill, experience, and mental fortitude.
In some games, people moved faster than reality allowed.
'Still better than no training at all.'
Taewoo deemed it inefficient.
Peep!
A whistle echoed as Chulsoo began advancing.
'Nervous? Should raise your guard. Pfft.'
Seojun remained motionless despite Chulsoo's approach.
Kim Taewoo eagerly awaited his composed friend's bewildered expression.
He recalled his own first Training Grounds attempt - foolishly challenging Level 4 only to get pummeled by Chulsoo.
One-on-one combat without skill assists proved deceptively difficult.
Just as he anticipated seeing his unflappable friend get trounced—
Seojun tilted his torso smoothly, evading Chulsoo's slash before countering.
Chulsoo's HP dropped by 1.
The Training Grounds duel followed simple rules: 10 HP each, 1 damage per sword hit, first to zero loses.
Chulsoo retreated to create distance.
'Fluke? Why's he backing off?'
Was Level 4 AI being lenient?
He should've counterattacked immediately.
As Taewoo pondered—
"Not coming? I'll go then."
Seojun closed the gap himself.
Taewoo mentally rehearsed the impending scene:
'Overexcited from luck. Charging in like that will just— Wait.'
Chulsoo's textbook response seemed excessive for Level 4.
Yet Seojun met Chulsoo's blade to alter its trajectory, redirecting momentum into a spinning follow-up strike.
The fluid sequence made Seojun appear faster to Taewoo's observer eyes.
'But physical advantages don't exist here.'
Seven years' experience reminded him:
The lack of wasted motion created the illusion. Swing speeds remained identical.
Seojun began toying with Chulsoo - blocking five consecutive strikes without footwork, tripping him, then pinning his sword underfoot.
When Chulsoo's HP reached 1, Seojun switched to non-damaging punches.
Thwack.
Thwack.
Every movement seemed practiced.
He threw himself into attack range without hesitation, as if predicting each move.
Even seemingly unavoidable strikes were dismantled through unseen openings.
"Hey! You actually did this seven years ago? Damn anticlimax. Finish up and try Level 7."
'Why's someone this skilled never played before? Annoying bastard.'
'With that face and skills, he could've succeeded in cam streams...'
Yet as a friend, concern surfaced:
'Raw talent alone won't guarantee success...'
Seojun slashed Chulsoo's throat.
A notification appeared:
[Duels won: 107th Place]
[HP 10 / 00:02:23]
[Victory in duel]
Tae-woo suddenly questioned the window that had appeared.
‘Why does the ranking show up instead of records? The ranking system only goes up to Stage 9...’
He realized Seo-jun was still manipulating the floating window even after their sparring match had ended.
Then, a cluster of light gathered before Seo-jun, gradually taking human form.
The summoning ritual-like scene gave him déjà vu.
‘No way?’
What appeared was a robot.
Though not intricately detailed, the new robot roughly resembled a human female, with a nickname floating above its head:
[Shin Ha-yeon]
His jaw dropped. Goosebumps prickled across his entire body.
“Hey, was that Chul-soo you just beat really Stage 9?”
The match had been so one-sided he hadn’t noticed.
Chul-soo’s movements clearly surpassed even Stage 4—no, even the Stage 8 opponent he’d barely defeated!
Seo-jun chuckled as if it were nothing.
“Well, no big deal.”
He’d effortlessly subdued someone even pros struggled against.
‘If he beats Stage 10 too, this’ll be insane…’
Prime streaming material.
Tae-woo was a streamer to his core.
Swallowing hard while thinking No way he can win this?, he fumbled to hit the record button.
‘I just wanted to use a collab stream as an excuse to give him exposure. Am I gonna end up begging him for one later?’
All his worries about Seo-jun had vanished.
Everything felt alien.
When walking, swinging his arms, even breathing.
When blades clashed too.
But not enough to distract him.
‘Guess this is what premium capsules feel like.’
Technological progress was astounding.
And then—
Seo-jun stared at the robot parrying his blade head-on:
[Shin Ha-yeon]
As he’d sensed before, she was a true genius.
If this AI perfectly replicated Shin Ha-yeon’s control style, calling her more talented than anyone from his past life wouldn’t be an exaggeration.
‘Well, except one person.’
Regardless, such skill emerging within VR’s mere decade of existence was remarkable.
“Maybe train eighty more years and you’ll stand a chance.”
As Seo-jun savored his rare good mood, Tae-woo shouted beside him:
“What bullshit are you spouting? Hey—focus here!”
Tch.
Shin Ha-yeon’s HP had already dropped below half.
In contrast, Seo-jun’s HP remained untouched.
Tae-woo seemed thoroughly excited—even recording this. A true pro.
Seo-jun deflected an incoming strike while glancing at Tae-woo instead:
“Tsk tsk. Still don’t get it after watching this long?”
“I said focus!”
He looked utterly ridiculous.
Regardless, this was a space where everyone shared equal strength and speed—only willpower and technique mattered.
With memories of his past life, Seo-jun couldn’t lose.
Even without internal energy, mastery was eternal.
The AI recognized routine attacks wouldn’t work and began mixing irregular movements.
‘Is this Shin Ha-yeon’s pattern? Or the AI’s own judgment? Either way…’
Before her blade reached its mark, Seo-jun’s sword scraped its edge, altering its trajectory.
CLANG!
The long-missed sound of clashing steel rang crisply.
The blade aimed at his throat missed by a hair’s breadth as Seo-jun deflected it downward.
With the clatter of falling metal, the AI stood wide open—defenseless.
SWOOSH!
He slashed diagonally across its torso.
[HP 4]
The wounded AI scrambled backward to retrieve its sword.
But Seo-jun closed the distance half-a-beat faster—their proximity allowed another strike:
[HP 3]
When speed is matched, initiating the next move first is crucial—requiring prediction of enemy actions.
The AI’s current options were obvious.
Seo-jun precisely stabbed its arm reaching for the fallen blade.
CLANK!
The tip met metal with a dull clang instead of piercing through.
[HP 2]
Despite its injured arm, the AI persisted and grabbed the sword.
Yet Seo-jun immediately transitioned into his next motion:
A textbook-perfect vertical slash.
Kwaaang!
The AI lifted its sword to block, but the tip of Seo-jun’s blade still grazed its head.
[HP 1]
From his past battles, he’d learned this place equalized maximum strength—but not the consistency of its application.
What mattered was perfect force transmission.
The AI’s wrist snapped as it blocked mid-crouch.
This part’s oddly realistic, he mused.
Yet the machine lunged again, boots scraping pavement as it thrust toward Seo-jun.
A move only achievable by an unkillable robot.
Then it hit him.
Wait—aren’t I unkillable too?
Seo-jun didn’t dodge, instead driving his sword into the AI’s torso simultaneously.
In another life, this mutual impalement would’ve been fatal. Here?
Just a 1 HP loss at most.
[Duel Victorious.]
No blood. Only a pinprick of pain.
Fun.
Seo-jun yanked the blade from his chest, deadpan.
“Well? I beat Shin Hayeon’s AI. Stream-ready now?”
[Level 10 AI attempting movement replication.]
Tae-woo’s grin stretched ear to ear.
“Toldja you should stream.”
Seo-jun snorted at his friend’s ridiculous face.
When did you ever—
[Additional duels required for motion capture. Proceed?]
“Ugh, effort. Pass.”
“Shut your trap and hit ACCEPT, dumbass!”
Post-capsule, the duo shoveled ice cream on the living room couch.
“Why’d you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Uploading your Level 10 clear privately! Leak that, and thousands’ll swarm.”
Seo-jun licked his spoon.
“Never streamed before. Floodgates open now? We’re talking sandcastle foundations.”
“Sand...castle?”
The old man in his mind began lecturing about classical idioms. Seo-jun swallowed the impulse.
“Means something flashy but fragile. Topples without proper groundwork.”
“So when’s the big reveal?”
“When we’re ready. Better than hype-then-crash, right?”
“Ah!”
Tae-woo’s streamer instincts kicked in.
“Wait—you corporate spy or something? Chills, man.”
“The hell you on about now?”
Rubbing his arms dramatically, Tae-woo launched into explanation:
“Know what hosting is?”
“When big streamers toss viewers to small ones?”
“More like embedding their feed on yours. Combined viewer counts. But most noobs blow the momentum—audience vanishes in weeks. Total sandcastle situation. You’re a natural, dude!”
“So?”
“When’s our collab stream?”
Seo-jun kicked his shin.
Thud.
“Do your damn chores first.”
“Agh! Right—chores! Cover for me?”
“No.”
“Cold!”
Tae-woo flopped on the couch, clutching his leg.
Next morning, Seo-jun prepped his stream setup.
Goal: Rapid visibility as a new streamer.
But which game?
Tae-woo’s advice echoed:
Popular MMOs? Overflowing with streamers. Need top-tier skills to stand out.
Indie gems? Low competition, zero audience.
Every option had trade-offs.
Then Tae-woo’s grin flashed in memory:
But there’s always a golden midpoint.
The recommended title glowed on his screen—a week-old AAA sequel already dominating charts:
<Assassin’s Dawn: Metropolitan Shadows> - 831K Viewers
Third in platform rankings.
Perfect.
Seo-jun downloaded the game, smirk playing on his lips.
