Becoming the Elite Slayer

A spear pierces flesh, blood spraying. On a medieval stone wall. Spearmen were pinning down the surging monsters one by one. The battlefield was evenly matched. For now.

At that moment, beyond the wall. A massive shadow steps heavily from a blue portal. A variable that instantly tips the scales of the front line. An elite monster. Easily ten times the size of regular monsters. Covered in dark red carapace, wielding a massive club. The behemoth crosses the wasteland and reaches the wall in no time.

Upon arrival, the club swings mercilessly. Brave soldiers fighting valiantly tumble down with the shattered wall. Screams mix with dust.

"Ah…."

I scratched the back of my head and stared down at my smartphone screen. Failed again. Wave 27 this time too.

Fortress of End. That's the name of the defense game I'd been glued to.

Different battlefields with unique backdrops. Commanders assigned to each. Of course, the commander is the player. The player deploys units, manages resources, and devises strategies. A run-of-the-mill defense game setup.

But I loved this game's unique vibe. Like a bitter taste? The shifting monster compositions and strategies per wave. Sequential resource allocation requiring foresight ten waves ahead. And if the wall falls, back to wave one. It felt like solving a devilishly intricate 3D puzzle.

The problem was.

"The elite mob is the issue…."

The elite monster appearing at wave 27 on my account. That one bastard shatters every strategy. An outlier. No matter how perfectly I form up, the moment it reaches the wall, it's over. Just like before.

I set down my phone and picked up the exploded cup ramen. Even chopsticks couldn't fish anything out.

"Sigh…."

I just dumped it into my ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠mouth like a drink and swallowed. 1:32 a.m. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Notifications piled up on my smartphone.

Three messages from the Professor. First, 6 p.m.: Ji-hoon, organize lab meeting materials by tomorrow morning. Confirm.

Second, 10 p.m.: Not tomorrow, by today.

Third, 1 a.m.: Materials. Still?

I'd replied Yes, got it to the first, ignored the second, and now the third. "Ha…."

I flipped my phone face down. Second year of master's. While others graduate, I haven't even finished coursework. Was standing out a mistake? Buried in the professor's project busywork, my thesis hasn't even started.

Class at 9 a.m., lab after, home at midnight. Half my work is making the professor's materials. The other half, sorting data dumped by my senior. Hesitate, and it's You not doing PhD?

Monthly stipend: 900,000 won. Fair in 2026 Korea? No weekends. Professor messages on Saturdays. Sundays too, naturally. Ignore, and Monday lab meeting pays the price. No intention to graduate? An elite mob smashing my wall.

Still, no thought of quitting grad school. I was a silkworm. One that eats only pine needles. Eventually, slog through PhD, suffer more…

"Phew…."

I sigh it away. No point complaining if nothing changes. Seeking acceptance in the unacceptable is time wasted. I shoved the empty ramen cup to the desk corner. Now three empties. Breakfast yesterday, dinner yesterday, dinner today. Hardly meals.

And the sink has two unwashed cups. Laundry basket has workout clothes from three days ago.

"Is this any way to live…."

Third sleepless night. Two nights ago, sudden paper drop kept me up. Last night, rerunning senior's experiment data all night. Today no different. Napped briefly, woke to finish… Set alarm, accidentally entered group chat.

"Argh, damn it…."

The 1 is gone. No escape. Organize, refine, attach to email… But my hand still grips the smartphone.

A modest rebellion. When cornered like this, Fortress of End waves haunt my ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠mind.

"If I just used ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠fewer infantry there…."

Elite monster spawn timing. Time to wall. Low-tier mobs in between. All gears meshing in my head like clockwork.

Talking reason and waste, yet playing now? Contradiction. But living purely rational isn't human. AI territory.

"Just one round."

Granting myself logical exception is easy. Game loads, waves flow. 10. 15. 20. Smooth. Resource tweaks worked well. Mid-game losses way down. Passed 25. Blocked 26 clean.

Then, wave 27. Elite mob emerges from blue portal as expected. Club rises mercilessly again.

"Ah, seriously."

I flung my phone. Same result. Formations, resources—useless. Ants can't beat a dog.

"If only there was a mercenary to slice that elite mob…."

Fortress of End has a mercenary system. Specs vastly superior to basic units. Like summonable special units. Not free, though. Needs Cron, the in-game currency. Varies wildly per merc, hero-grade costs mind-boggling.

Makes sense—hero-grade flips the battlefield.

"Doesn't exist anyway."

Deflated chuckle. I gazed at the ceiling, lost in fantasy. If, just if. A unit shredding elites with insane damage? Hero-grade, not rare or elite. Weak elsewhere fine. Just elite-slicer. Drop one, I'd handle the rest.

Mouth curls up. Ding.

Ah. Professor, no doubt. Sleepless at this hour? Plan to send before he wakes—ruined. Screwed.

I drag to laptop. Open lab materials, format data as he wants. Fingers fly.

4 a.m. Sent. No reply. Sleeping, probably. Tomorrow morning, more fixes. Worst.

Collapse from chair to bed. Three-day sleepless body sinks. But eyes won't close. Too exhausted to sleep? Seems true.

Phone glows in dark. Wave 27 haunts like mirage.

Then. Beeeeep.

Sudden shrill pierces ears. Head spins, vision blurs.

That wall…?

Game's crumbling wall crashing on me. Hallucination? Chaos. Body tilts sideways. Though lying down. Spinning now. Dying? Sleeplessness limit? Or something else…

Thoughts shatter, consciousness fades.

I opened my eyes. Ceiling white. Not my yellowed studio stain. Pure, spotless white. Not just ceiling. White walls everywhere. Floor white too. Room holds only bed and bedside drawer.

Studio? No, hospital room fits better. What? Dream? Sensations too vivid. Sheet resistance, quilt rustle. And refreshed. No three-day fatigue. Energized.

I step down, scan room. Two doors. One entrance, one bathroom—obvious. Locked one, open one. Sink, mirror, toilet. Stark.

"…."

Key: Unknown man in mirror.

Tall first. Taller than me. At least late 170s, maybe 180+. Broad shoulders, long arms. Lean, toned build. Face sharpest. Deep eyes, pointed jaw. Cold handsome.

Not mine, obviously.

"What the hell."

Voice deeper, thicker too.

Possessed or something?

Ridiculous thought feels natural. Natural? That's weird. Whole situation bizarre.

Exit bathroom, recheck room. Bed, drawer. Drawer might have something. First drawer: single paper.

Hand freezes. Summon cost. Hero grade. Specialty. Cron. Too familiar. Fortress of End terms, right to death.

No what's happening. Instinct knows: Possessed. Into that guy I imagined. Elite killer.