The Age of Adaptation
It was a bizarre thing.
Wasn’t this the sort of phenomenon that only happened when you were logged into a virtual reality space?
Countless streaks of multicolored light swept past Yoo Sung-jun.
Shapes began to take form ahead of him. Familiar objects, impossible to forget, gradually entered his field of view.
Before long, Yoo Sung-jun realized he had been drawn into a space.
“This is….”
A space he knew well.
This was unmistakably the Enter Room of Another Earth.
A four-dimensional space forged by super-science. The final place to prepare before heading into a mission, and the place where party members rested, too.
And yet it was empty. There was nothing here.
All that remained was a blank-white room with a plain white desk and chair.
He’d clearly poured mission points into it and furnished the place with top-tier amenities.
There’s no body-modification capsule, no armory, no storage vault, no suit maintenance room.
Everything he had maxed out under the name of Meteor was gone.
For a brief moment, he was too stunned to react. Then he reached for his clothes and his eyes shot wide open.
The one summoned into Another Earth’s Enter Room wasn’t his avatar, Meteor.
It was Yoo Sung-jun himself.
How the hell is this happening…?
He was sure he’d tapped the guide message sent by the Another Earth developers.
After that, he had registered the connection.
“This is the 2.0 login method?”
The game’s premise was that an alien super-civilization had given humanity aid to cleanse Earth of the D-Virus.
But that was a game.
It wasn’t real.
“Since when do you get teleported to an Enter Room with one tap on your smartphone?”
He shouted, but no answer came back.
Fine. Stay calm.
It was an Enter Room, after all. A safe zone. He hadn’t even started a mission yet.
He forced his breathing into a steady rhythm and called out in a voice he knew by heart.
“Summon support.”
[1.0 avatar name Meteor confirmed. Welcome, Yoo Sung-jun.]
“Forget that. What’s your name?”
A machine voice rang out from the void.
But Yoo Sung-jun knew better. The thing was hovering beside him somewhere in the four-dimensional gap.
In 1.0, it had introduced itself as Auto.
Would it be the same here?
[My name is Loki. From this point forward, I will be assisting Yoo Sung-jun in 2.0.]
This thing handled everything a user couldn’t do while out on a mission: controlling the Omega Suit, delivering mission briefings, organizing real-time updates, and so on.
So what. None of this overly realistic 2.0 nonsense had any appeal to him.
Still, he might as well hear the details.
“Explain what the hell is going on.”
The request was vague, but support units were smart by design. Loki began her explanation politely.
[Version 2.0. In other words, the next stage after gathering sufficient data from version 1.0.]
“What data did you gather?”
[Whether humans can, after receiving equipment tailored to their developmental stage, reach the level needed to hunt down Level 10 beings. And Yoo Sung-jun, under the avatar name Meteor, accomplished that.]
“Ah….”
With a groan, he rubbed his face.
So he’d dug his own grave.
Calm down. There was still more to ask.
“So 2.0 is going to run while 1.0 stays intact?”
[Due to maintenance costs, 1.0 is scheduled to be shut down.]
“What about all the gear I built up with points?”
[It will all be reset.]
“Why?! The users are going to riot. Me too! You’d be wiping out years—decades—of progress in one shot!”
This was a game where expensive gear could trade for hundreds of millions at minimum.
Equipment was currency. It was a form of investment. And they were going to erase it all.
And all because he’d killed a Level 10 Infector.
How was anyone supposed to accept that without losing their mind?
Even if he’d made absurd amounts of money through YouTube, the value of Meteor’s equipment alone had to be worth tens of billions of won.
“Restore it. Or move me over to 2.0!”
He slammed a fist into the wall like a madman and shouted.
His reason felt like it was cracking in half.
Still, the pain that shot through his hand was so vivid it seemed to cool his head.
Wait. Pain?
What… what is this?
Yoo Sung-jun stared at his hand. It was trembling faintly and flushed red.
This kind of pain was unfamiliar.
Surely Another Earth 1.0 hadn’t implemented tactile feedback this realistic.
He stood there in shock until Loki spoke again.
[Have you calmed down?]
“…Tell me why it can’t be done.”
[As I said, 1.0 is only a world implemented in virtual space. That means things made of one and zero can’t be pulled into reality.]
“Wait a second. This thing is all real?”
[That is correct.]
“The concept… isn’t fake?”
[It is unmistakably real.]
He was confused.
And in the middle of that confusion, indignation surged up so hard he couldn’t help himself.
“But you’ve got the technology to make it! You could build the same thing and supply it!”
[That would make it impossible for you to adapt to 2.0 in that body.]
Meteor from 1.0 and Yoo Sung-jun were, without question, different people.
Their physical enhancement levels, experience, and very nature were proof enough.
He felt himself becoming terrifyingly calm.
It was strange to accept, but the facts were the facts.
Could he really wear a Level 10 Omega Suit and handle an ultra-vibration greatsword with this body?
He’d become nothing but minced meat inside the suit before he ever managed to control it.
“Then why even start 2.0? That’s real too, isn’t it? If I die in a mission, do I actually die?”
[Yes.]
“Unbelievable. You people really are aliens, aren’t you?”
[I heard that analysis was your awakened nature in 1.0. Your insight is impressive.]
“Hah….”
So it really was a game made by aliens who had achieved an advanced super-scientific civilization.
He’d been playing this thing all along?
Why? Because they were some kind of perverts who enjoyed watching humans like animals in a zoo?
[We did not drag you here for our species’ amusement.]
“Explain it so I can understand in one shot. Why make Another Earth real?”
[We lost our home world to the D-Virus, but with our support, humanity still has a chance. So we’re using what technology we have left to help as much as possible. In doing so, we gain the strength and information to fight back as well.]
“So it’s mutual aid, then… Is 2.0 set on Earth, the one I live on? Has the D-Virus really spread into reality?”
[2.0 is a parallel world. An Earth similar to 1.0, already destroyed. It is not the Earth you live on. Not yet, anyway.]
Not yet.
He asked the obvious follow-up.
“Why say ‘not yet’?”
[Are you familiar with the term ‘overwrite’ in computing?]
“You mean the computer term? Not knowing that these days would be weird.”
[Time unspecified. Probability that the Earth you live on will be overwritten by 2.0’s Earth: 100%]
She said it flatly.
Not 99.9 percent. A hundred.
A chill crawled up his spine, and he rubbed his forearm without thinking.
That meant, someday, reality itself would be transformed into Another Earth’s environment, didn’t it?
Which meant he had to get strong enough in 2.0 to deal with it before the Five Calamities—those living disasters—appeared in the real world.
“Don’t tell me you’re the ones behind this insane plan….”
[No.]
“…….”
[We lost our home to the same phenomenon.]
“Hoo… Then how do I access 2.0?”
[A medium has been implanted in your smartphone. A single touch will send you to the Enter Room. Of course, that assumes there is no D-Virus threat within a 15-meter radius.]
“Can only Another Earth users log in?”
[Yes. You’ll need to hurry. The D-Virus antibody can only be used after at least one body enhancement.]
That much he already knew.
At minimum, you needed level 1 body enhancement to obtain a D-Virus antibody.
“Is 2.0’s environment similar to 1.0?”
[99.8 percent similar.]
Then there was no D-Virus floating around in the air.
An environment where infection only occurred if saliva from a D-Virus carrier entered the body.
His mind grew frighteningly calm.
The apocalypse had already been scheduled.
Then what about his younger brother? Yoo Sung-hwan?
The only blood relative he had looked after with a responsibility that had once belonged to their parents?
“What’s the method for a non-user to access Another Earth 2.0?”
[We can’t increase maintenance costs by recruiting users indiscriminately. That’s why we introduced the invitation system.]
“Explain it briefly.”
[You can purchase an invitation for 10,000 points earned from 2.0 missions. Anyone who receives an invitation will undergo a simple tutorial when they use it, and only those who prove themselves will gain eligibility to access 2.0.]
So he had no right to interfere there.
The tutorial was a trial his younger brother would have to endure alone.
If he succeeded, his brother would gain a chance to escape the danger of the D-Virus.
If he failed… he would die.
“So the bottom line is I need to do missions….”
It was time to accept it.
From this day forward, the reality he had known had been shattered to pieces.
“Has 1.0 access been blocked?”
[That is correct.]
“So I can immediately operate as a 2.0 user?”
[Impossible. Being a 1.0 user is no exception. You must prove your eligibility through the tutorial.]
“Then the only benefits of being a 1.0 user are tutorial eligibility and getting explanations in the Enter Room before non-users.”
[Precisely.]
Then he had his answer.
There was a lot to do.
He would have to walk the same path he had in 1.0.
Only this time, it would be in reality.
In a hardcore world with a single life and no revival, where death meant death.
Because that was the only way to survive the hellscape that was about to unfold in the real world—not 2.0.
Am I ready right now?
Yoo Sung-jun checked his condition.
He was wearing comfortable training clothes.
His body was fit.
That was thanks to never neglecting exercise, all for the sake of increasing synchronization.
Good.
He felt ready.
Just as he had in Another Earth 1.0, he would do the same thing here.
Exactly the same.
He would discard his humanity completely and care only for his own survival.
There was a reason his synchronization rate had reached 99.8 percent.
Meteor was me, and I am Meteor.
He exhaled once, and when he spoke, his tone was calm and settled.
“One more thing. Are there any warning signs before the overwrite happens?”
[Unclear. What I can say for certain is that I recommend using a wide-open space as your base.]
Because when the overwrite happened, he might get impaled by the remains of some collapsed building?
Then he’d need to prepare for that unknown overwrite phenomenon, too.
This was no longer something he could afford to fear, deny, or run from just to buy time.
He had to adapt as quickly as possible and gain the same kind of power Meteor had in 1.0.
That was the only way to secure his safety.
“Let’s begin. This tutorial or whatever it is.”
[A wise choice. The faster you adapt, the better. Initiating the mission briefing.]
With a hum, a holographic window appeared before his eyes.
It contained the details of the tutorial mission Loki had released.
Tutorial: Escape the Abandoned Factory
📍 Location: Waste treatment facility
🎁 Reward: Points awarded based on escape method
As expected of a tutorial, the difficulty was at the very bottom.
That didn’t mean he could let his guard down, though.
This was reality, after all.
Still, was he supposed to go in like this?
[I’ll provide basic equipment.]
As soon as Loki finished speaking, a backpack dropped out of the air.
He opened it and found a dagger, duct tape, a flashlight, three days’ worth of food, and foam spray inside.
Minimal gear, huh.
She could at least have thrown in a pistol.
[I’ll send you over as soon as you signal.]
He hoisted the backpack higher on his shoulders and nodded.
“Send me.”
[Beginning transfer of 2.0 user Yoo Sung-jun.]
That familiar sensation returned.
Just as when he had first arrived here, his body was transported elsewhere.
Yoo Sung-jun looked around at the world regaining its color.
Filthy concrete walls sealed him in on all sides.
Green slime was smeared thickly across the surfaces around him.
“Tch.”
He covered his nose first.
It was the reeking stench, so vividly transmitted that it felt almost physical.
So this is the abandoned factory….
The smell that hit him was like excrement left to rot for days.
The surroundings were sealed off. Loki must have set the starting point in a safe location, just like 1.0.
A cramped room.
The real start would be when he opened the decrepit door in front of him.
Hoo. He was already getting used to the smell.
Reality. A place where one wrong move didn’t just end the game—it ended your life.
He swallowed dryly and gripped the dagger.
Then he opened the door.
Creak.
The heavily rusted hinges gave off a grotesque screech as the door swung open.
Ki-ki-ki-ki!
Kaah! Kyaah!
The shrieks of the Infectors—familiar, yet chilling precisely because they were not virtual but real—slammed into his ears.