Chapter 2: The Character He Chose

Twelve years later, Seoul

It started with something trivial.

A week ago, Gyeongheon had been involved in a hit-and-run during an investigation. He was now hospitalized, and it would take another two weeks before he could get the cast off his leg. Which meant that, to survive the agonizing boredom, he needed to at least pretend to be interested in whatever game his junior was playing.

“Hey, what’s that?”

Even someone like Gyeongheon—who found all games pathetic, without exception—couldn’t ignore his junior lying on the hospital’s spare cot, laptop hauled in, fully immersed in a battle. Worse yet, the kid had the nerve to wear gaming headphones right next to his senior.

“Hey. Cha Jong-un.”

No answer. Gyeongheon stared at the back of the kid’s head and sighed deeply. Damn it. I’ve really failed this kid’s training.

He called out again, this time escalating.

“Cha Jong-un. Officer Cha. Jong-un. You brat.”

“Yes?”

Startled by the icy tone, Jong-un turned around, eyes wide, only to find his senior glaring and squeezing a fist. He flinched, then began spewing excuses no one asked for.

“Senior, it’s just because you don’t play games. Once a round starts, it takes at least an hour.”

At that, Gyeongheon let out a disbelieving laugh.

“Hey. Don’t give me that crap about me ‘not playing games.’ If you can just drop a bomb once and be done, why the hell are you fighting for an hour?”

Completely unaware of game mechanics, Gyeongheon dismissed the vast world beyond the monitor in one shot. One hour per match—ridiculous. And spinning? What the hell was spinning? Even back in his school days, he kicked an actual ball outside, not virtual ones. Jong-un’s explanation meant nothing to him.

But instead of responding, Jong-un scooted closer, laptop still in hand.

He glanced up nervously and began,

“Senior, Odin isn’t some simple game.”

“You literally told me last time you were quitting games forever.”

Veteran players like Jong-un—practically fossilized at this point—knew their game was hopeless, yet still returned to it like Pavlov’s dogs. A kind of homing instinct—one that unfortunately didn’t seem to end.

Gyeongheon clicked his tongue at the non-answer and looked at the laptop screen. Then he asked offhandedly,

“Do a lot of people play this?”

The answer came with a suspicious hint of sorrow.

“No. Only the remaining apes do.”

“Are you sure playing this won’t devolve you?”

“…….”

The MMORPG Odin’s Frontier had been released ten years ago.

It was infamous for heavy monetization, stagnant design, and a toxic old-guard community. For years it hovered stubbornly between 10th and 15th in PC-cafés. It survived only because of people like Jong-un—barely on life support, constantly on the verge of flatlining.

Gyeongheon glanced at the old fossil beside him, then at the slender character standing idly in a turquoise field.

“This your kid?”

“…Senior. ‘Kid’? Seriously? That’s my character. Lulu. Hey, Lulu, say hi. It’s Senior Gyeongheon.”

At a few clicks, Lulu hopped cheerfully in place. Gyeongheon snorted, amused, then frowned with curiosity.

“Hey, earlier you were fighting with some big bulky guy. Why’s this one so skinny?”

“I switch between two accounts. I haven’t played this one in a while.”

When he clicked a little more, Lulu began waving both hands.

“What’s she doing now?”

“Just quests. Buying stuff. Selling stuff. You know.”

“Sounds like real life.”

“Real life is better.”

Jong-un pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh. He loved the game, but even he couldn’t lie about it. Then he sneaked a glance at his senior—who was watching the screen with surprising interest—and offered,

“Wanna play, Senior?”

“Can’t you see my leg’s wrecked? How am I supposed to play like this?”

He pointed at the cast with his chin, but Jong-un—ever perceptive—simply placed the laptop on his senior’s lap. Gyeongheon’s eyes followed the moving character.

Still pushing, Jong-un added,

“Come on, just make an account. You get bored at home on your days without duty, right? That’s when you play.”

“Idiot. On those days you go outside, breathe some air. Not sit home playing games.”

“Fine, then don’t.”

As he tried to take the laptop back, Gyeongheon grabbed it with one hand, clicking his tongue.

“Leave it.”

He continued examining Lulu standing in the field.

Lulu.

He didn’t like the name, but the design wasn’t bad.

Pale skin that looked like she’d grown up malnourished, a roughly cut hairstyle, a yellow cape draped over her shoulders, a bow slung on her back—like a wandering vagabond on a quest for freedom. Jong-un muttered something about not spending much money so she looked shabby, but Gyeongheon wasn’t listening. He already liked her.

While clicking around, moving her left and right, he murmured,

“Feels like she’s dressed better than me…”

At that small mutter, Jong-un suddenly took a deep breath and raised his voice.

“Senior, do you know why I dropped her?”

He began ranting without being asked.

“I’ve been playing this damn game for three years, okay? And these devs are absolute con-artists. She’s supposed to be an elf archer, but she can’t do jack-shit!”

He yanked off the headset he had put on Gyeongheon earlier and hurled it onto the bed. Then he pointed accusingly at Lulu bouncing happily on screen.

He ranted that treating players like ATMs was bad enough, but half a year without a proper update was practically abuse—of both players and the character.

To sum it up:

Odin had always had class-balance issues, but the archer’s last update six months ago was a cooldown reduction of 0.03 seconds on her main skill—a microscopic change that only infuriated players.

And they rarely released new costumes. So angry players submitted their own designs to the developers—only to have the next update release three archer outfits: including strawberry-patterned pajamas.

“For holidays, all we get are a lucky pouch and socks. Shared items! Not even class-specific!”

Listening silently, Gyeongheon frowned. What puzzled him most wasn’t the updates—it was why his junior still played this cursed game.

An obsession, maybe. Gyeongheon looked at his disappointed junior and offered advice.

“Hey, then just report them somewhere.”

“Why would I report them, Senior? People already faxed the National Assembly. When the time comes, we’re gonna blow this wide open. We’ve been plotting for years.”

After lecturing for ages about why the game was doomed, Jong-un finally snapped out of it when the system warned that the game would return to idle mode. He reached for the mouse again, exhausted.

Then, watching him, Gyeongheon quietly asked,

“…Hey. So. You’re not going to use her?”

At the same time, he placed his hand over Jong-un’s on the mouse. Jong-un blinked, confused.

“Senior, just make your own account. I’m telling you, she’s not worth it.”

“Jong-un. If they haven’t updated her in six months, that’s harder to accomplish than East Asia uniting. Just sell her to me.”

He hadn’t expected that to be taken literally. Jong-un gaped, but Gyeongheon continued negotiating.

“You’ve got another account anyway. What are you gonna do with a lost cause like her? If you’re not gonna use her, just lend her to me.”

“…Senior. Her level isn’t even high. Look. Level 40. I stopped raising her, so the gear’s mediocre. Just keep playing that mahjong game on your phone.”

Jong-un then asked seriously, “Senior, do you even know what enhancement is?”
Hearing “What’s that?” he gave up.

But Gyeongheon wasn’t done. He dangled bait.

“I’m hospitalized for a month. You know my place will be empty.”

Jong-un’s eyes wavered. Gyeongheon continued, still holding the mouse:

“And doesn’t it hurt your soul paying rental fees for your car every month?”

“…Senior…”

“Seventy thousand won every month, you idiot.”

“…….”

“If it were me, I’d have ditched the rental and bought a car on installment already.”

As the specific amount stabbed him in the heart, Jong-un sighed. Gyeongheon promised he’d use the account just for a month, until discharge. First he said buy, then borrow—his words were all over the place.

Jong-un looked tortured.

Weighing Lulu on screen and the monthly rental bill, he hesitated before answering, face still twisted.

“…I can lend her for a bit. But even if the class is trash, it’s gonna be tough.”

“Don’t look down on classes like that.”

“You don’t know unless you taste shit yourself.”

“Hey, Lulu can hear you.”

Leaning back against the bed’s headboard, Gyeongheon snickered. Jong-un shook his head helplessly.

“…I’ll move the stuff in the storage to the other account.”

“Why? Take everything with you.”

He didn’t care about the gear. Only Lulu. Jong-un looked horrified.

“Senior. I only dropped her three months in. Do you know how hopeless a character has to be for that? I warned you.”