I Refuse

Kang Do-seok was dreaming.

It was raining. The front yard of a run-down orphanage — rainwater pooling on the bare dirt, mud caking the soles of the children's shoes.

The kids stood there without umbrellas, every one of them soaked through.

Kang Do-seok walked at the head of the line. The children trailed after him.

"Big Bro, where are we ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠going?"

Someone asked. Kang Do-seok didn't answer.

"The PC cafe?"

"Are we going to play games?"

"We don't have any money."

But they followed anyway. Because Kang Do-seok had said they were going. Because he'd told them there was something fun waiting, that all they had to do was come along and play — that big brother would teach them everything.

Kang Do-seok kept walking.

In the dream, he couldn't answer. Couldn't turn around. Couldn't tell the kids to go home. He knew where they were headed. He knew what was going to happen. But his feet would not stop, and his mouth would not open. He walked out in front, and the children followed behind him, laughing at nothing they understood.

At the end of the alley hung a worn old light. The sign of an aging PC cafe flickered on and off. From a street where no sound should have carried, he could hear keyboards clattering and old computer fans whirring.

The kids started to run.

"Come on, hurry!"

"Big Bro, are there seats left?"

"I'm sitting next to you!"

Kang Do-seok stood in front of it all.

He knew he should not open that door. He wanted to stop his hand on the handle — but the door was already flung wide.

One by one, the children took their seats. Old chairs creaked. Small hands settled onto the mice and keyboards, and on every screen glowed a familiar logo.

Chrome Blade Saga.

A title screen emblazoned with a silver blade.

The kids chattered away. One was declaring which character he'd pick; another wanted to know what nickname to use. The youngest, unable to find the keys, picked his way across the keyboard one letter at a time.

Kang Do-seok stood behind them.

"Big Bro, do I press this one?"

someone asked.

Kang Do-seok couldn't answer.

The silver sword on the screen trembled. The cafe ceiling flickered — the fluorescent lights died once, then came back on.

In that instant, the whir of computer fans became the growl of engines. The clatter of keyboards turned to gunfire. The click of a mouse became the ring of a blade leaving its sheath.

The chairs the kids had been sitting in vanished. So did the floor of the PC cafe.

The next moment—

they were standing in an alley in Netron City.

The rain was still falling. Signs blazed overhead in characters no one could read, and oil-slicked water ran along the ground. Sirens wailed in the distance. Gunshots cracked, and somewhere a voice screamed.

The children were no longer laughing.

They were all looking at Kang Do-seok.

"Big Bro."

Kang Do-seok opened his eyes.

A ceiling. The dark ceiling of the penthouse.

Rain drummed against the glass, exactly as it had in the dream.

He lay still for a long while. Then he sat up.

His throat was dry. He picked up the cup on the bedside table and drained the tepid water in one swallow.

"Maybe it was seeing the kids."

Those waterlogged faces. Clothes heavy with rain. The little one who, even with terror in his eyes, had pushed his younger siblings ahead of himself.

It had been a long time since the old days surfaced like that. Kang Do-seok sat quietly for a moment, then set the empty cup down.

Sleep had fled completely. Perched on the edge of the bed, he listened to the rain for a while. Beyond the window, the glow of neon signs was bleeding into the wet dark.

Then his terminal rang. Carvel — his job broker. Kang Do-seok pressed the call button.

"What."

"Kang Do-seok. Were you asleep?"

"Just woke up."

"Perfect timing, then. Information just came in on a Skill Star."

At that, Kang Do-seok straightened up slowly.

"Give me the details. Where'd it come from?"

"A black-market auction site."

"A guild listing?"

"If it were, I wouldn't have called."

"A corporation, then?"

"Not that either. A civilian posted it himself."

Kang Do-seok said nothing for a moment, and Carvel went on.

"I've already run down the poster. A corpse collector working F-Sector. Name's Morte, twenty-eight, male. No family, no connections — just an ordinary citizen."

"Hold on. Let me look myself."

Kang Do-seok swiped through his terminal. The address Carvel had sent hung on the screen, and he tapped the link without hesitation.

An old black-market auction site loaded. It was filthy from the very first page: illegal prosthetics, unregistered firearms, decommissioned combat drones, organ transplants, identity-laundering services — the listings ran on and on.

Kang Do-seok typed the number Carvel had given him into the search bar.

A single post opened.

There was a photo attached, too.

Fingers smeared with dried black blood.

And resting between them, a single crimson star.

Kang Do-seok zoomed in.

The resolution was bad and the lighting worse. But he could still make it out.

A Skill Star — and a Blood-attribute one at that.

Kang Do-seok muttered, low.

"This bastard's out of his mind."

"See it?"

"Yeah."

"Can't say yet whether it's real or fake. Either way, that post went up twenty minutes ago. If you're interested, you'd best move quickly."

Kang Do-seok scrolled down and checked the view count.

The number was abnormally high. Comments were locked, but that meant nothing. No one who laid eyes on a thing like this was going to sit around typing comments. They'd come find it in person.

Kang Do-seok picked up the sheath propped beside the bed.

"Carvel."

"Is there something wrong with this guy's head, by any chance?"

"His records say no. Heh. It was a stroke of pure idiocy, though. A nobody civilian, listing a Skill Star on an auction site."

Kang Do-seok didn't argue.

It wasn't just any stupid stunt, either.

A Skill Star was no ordinary commodity. It wasn't a gem to be sold at a handsome price, and it wasn't stolen goods to be parked on the black market while you waited out a buyer.

To a player, a Skill Star was opportunity itself.

A new skill. A new path of growth. The most direct, most reliable way for a player who was already strong to become stronger still.

And a civilian had just announced to the whole world that he was carrying one.

That wasn't an advertisement for a sale. It was a placard reading: Here I am. Come kill me.

Some players would come with money in hand, sure. Maybe one in a thousand. The other nine hundred and ninety-nine? They'd simply kill him and take it.

That was the kind of thing a Skill Star was — the thing every player alive was half-mad to get one more of.

Kang Do-seok looked at the post title again.

Stupid, stupid words.

Seller was a title for someone with the strength to protect what he sold. It did not apply to an ordinary corpse collector named Morte.

"Location?"

"Last confirmed near the closed collection zone in Sector 18 of F-Sector — the line that runs off the corpse-processing facility where he works, straight down into the sewers."

"And does he still have the star on him?"

"No way to know. For that matter, there's no telling whether he's even alive. Well — even if he is, he's a dead man within hours either way."

Kang Do-seok lifted the sheath and hung it at his hip.

"Send me the coordinates."

"Already sent."

The coordinates blinked onto his terminal.

The closed collection zone, Sector 18 of F-Sector. A rotten old underground line leading to the corpse-processing plant — ten minutes' travel, for Kang Do-seok.

He confirmed the coordinates and walked to the door. When he flung it open, damp air rolled in to meet him. And then he was gone.

Morte was running like a man possessed along the passage beside the sewer.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck—!"

His breath had climbed all the way up into his throat. His work clothes were drenched in rain and sweat; the sole of his left shoe was half torn off. Still, he couldn't stop.

If he stopped, he died. Even Morte knew that much.

He hadn't seen this coming.

He'd thought his luck had finally broken his way — thought so even when he'd found the thing in a pile of corpses. A life spent hauling bodies, wiping up rotten blood, feeding unclaimed remains into the grinder: he'd believed the chance to claw his way out of that fate had finally come.

So he had posted it. On the black-market auction site. Selling a Skill Star.

Right up until that moment, Morte had thought himself clever. He'd taken the photo blurry. He'd bounced his connection through relay after relay. Write that only players with real buying intent should contact him, he'd figured, and the rich ones would start bidding on their own.

But the very first message was off.

No one asked the price.

They asked for his location.

The second contact was the same. The third didn't bother pretending:

Morte read that message and went straight out the window at the back of his apartment.

Twenty seconds later, he heard his own room detonate.

"Fuck. Those absolute lunatics—!"

Morte plunged into the closed collection zone. The facility had been shut down years ago. Water leaked from the ceiling; corpse-carrying rails stood rusted and dead along the walls. Black water pooled on the floor.

He knew this place well. The lower line of F-Sector's corpse-processing plant — the old passage once used to move the unclaimed dead. A route no ordinary citizen knew existed.

Gulping air, Morte looked back over his shoulder.

Nothing. No one.

He stopped for a moment, one hand braced against the wall, lungs feeling ready to split.

"Sons of bitches. You could just pay for it. You could just pay — so why—"

Right then, a voice drifted out of the dark behind him.

"Pay?"

Morte went rigid.

Slowly, he turned his head.

A man stood at the far end of the passage, half his face hidden behind a metal mask, a short axe hanging from one hand.

"Why would we pay for it?"

Morte stumbled backward.

"I-I don't have it."

"Then ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠where is it?"

"I don't know. I threw it away."

"Threw it away?"

The man laughed.

"A Skill Star?"

Morte spun and bolted.

"Fuuuuck!"

The axe flew.

CRASH!

The wall right beside Morte's head burst apart. Concrete fragments raked across his cheek, and hot blood ran.

Swallowing his scream, Morte hurled himself into the side passage.

Footsteps hammered after him.

Not one pair.

Two.

Three.

"Grab him!"

"Take him alive — don't kill him! We need the location first!"

"Chop his limbs off one at a time!"

Morte clenched his teeth and ran.

"I don't have it! I told you, I don't have it!"

Of course, it was a lie — and of course they wouldn't believe it. Their positions reversed, Morte wouldn't have believed himself either.

The man carrying that thing says he doesn't have ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠it? That meant he'd hidden it. If he'd hidden it, they only had to find it. If he wouldn't give up the location, they'd take his fingers off a joint at a time until he did.

That was how they'd be thinking.

"Fuck!"

Morte plunged into the heart of the closed collection zone.

It was a broad space, once crossed and recrossed by corpse-transport capsules. Now the rails were severed, the conveyor belts dead. Only a few work lamps hanging from the ceiling still flickered, faint and sickly.

Morte ducked low beneath the rails.

And right at that moment—

WHAM!

Something slammed into his side.

"Gahk!"

His body rolled across the floor, the breath blasted out of him. He lay face-down, mouth open as if to vomit.

Then a beast's paw came down on the back of his hand.

Crunch.

"Gyaaaaah!"

"So it's you?"

A human wearing a wolf's face grinned, baring his teeth. His frame was easily twice an ordinary man's. Rain ran through his soaked fur, and yellowed fangs showed inside that long-split muzzle. His eyes were red — not prosthetic lenses, not arcane implants. Just the eyes of a beast.

A werewolf. One of the character types a player could choose.

"You're the imbecile who put a Skill Star up for sale on the net?"

Crunch.

The wolf-man ground his weight down onto Morte's hand, and Morte's face contorted with pain.

"I- I don't — I don't have it—"

"Then where would it be?"

The werewolf seized Morte by the hair and wrenched his face up. Two more walked out behind him.

One was a mage draped in a black robe, a tarnished ring on every finger, a fist-sized ball of fire floating in the air at his side. The other was a gunner with shield and shotgun — an iron shield broad enough to hide half his body in one hand, a massive scattergun slung across his chest, and a bandolier of glowing blue shells looped down his back.

"He's a genuine lunatic, Captain."

"A civilian, putting a Skill Star up for auction? Everyone who's ever pulled that stunt is dead, no?"

"Guess he thought it would actually sell. Heh heh. What a moron."

As they talked, a blue emblem glinted on each of their shoulders — a single sword standing upright through a half-opened cloud.

And beneath the emblem, letters cut into the metal:

At the voices of these players who had appeared out of nowhere, Morte clenched his jaw.

"You could just pay for it... damn it..."

"Pay?"

The werewolf laughed, the sound scraping out of his throat like an animal's cry.

"Hey. You hear that? He says we should pay for it."

The gunner snickered.

"This idiot still thinks he's the seller here."

The shotgun-wielder looked down at Morte's fingers.

"Right now you're just a loot box, pal. A box that coughs up a star when we pop it open."

Morte's face drained white. He twisted his body, but with his hand pinned underfoot he couldn't manage anything.

"Please. I swear it's not on me. I hid it. So if you kill me, you'll never find it — kill me and you'll never find it!"

"And that's exactly why you're still breathing."

The werewolf leaned harder into his boot.

"Where'd you hide it?"

"If you p-promise to let me live. And promise me money — then I'll tell you."

"Hm. Still not grasping your situation? Then shall we begin with the fingers?"

That was when—

Step.

Footsteps rang out over the flooded floor.

All three heads turned at once.

Toward the entrance of the closed collection zone.

A man in a rain-soaked coat was walking toward them. A sword hung at his waist.

Morte knew the moment he saw him.

A player. Another player.

The werewolf lifted his boot off the back of Morte's hand, slow and easy. Yellowed fangs gleamed through the wet fur.

"And who are you supposed to be?"

Instead of answering, Kang Do-seok drew a single business card from inside his coat.

The white card sailed through the damp air.

Tap.

It settled on the floor beside Morte's face.

Through blood-smeared eyes, Morte looked at it.

The players' faces hardened the instant they saw it. The whole mood around them changed.

The fireball floating at the mage's fingertips wavered. The shield gunner hauled his shield in tight and brought the shotgun up on reflex.

"Kang Do-seok?"

The mage breathed it first.

"Shit. That Kang Do-seok?"

The shield gunner exhaled slowly, drew one blue-lit round from the bandolier across his back, and chambered it.

The werewolf's red eyes narrowed too. The leisure with which he'd been looking down at Morte was gone.

Kang Do-seok walked on, unhurried.

"Came for the star."

A low growl leaked out between the werewolf's fangs. He wasn't laughing anymore.

"Kang Do-seok. I know exactly who you are. I've heard that name more times than I can count."

The playfulness had drained out of his voice. The werewolf bared his eyes upward.

"But this is Cheongmyeong Guild's catch now."

The mage lifted his fireball higher. The blue emblem glimmered faintly on his rain-damp shoulder.

"We tracked him first. We took him first."

The shield gunner didn't lower the shotgun — shield planted forward, muzzle trained on Kang Do-seok. The werewolf spoke.

"Consider this an official warning from the guild. Interfere any further, and it will be treated as a hostile act against Cheongmyeong."

Kang Do-seok kept walking. The werewolf's face twisted.

The fire at the mage's fingertips rippled, quiet and low.

To the man closing the distance, the werewolf said, low:

"I'll say it once more. Fall back. Now."

A short silence fell.

Drip. Drip.

Water fell from the ceiling, striking the rusted rails.

The mage's fireball swayed; the gunner pushed his fire selector over with his thumb.

And Kang Do-seok answered.

"I refuse."

Shring. A silver blade slid free of its sheath — and in an instant, the clammy air of the collection zone went cold.

— End of Chapter 5 —