Link Start: Beware Individuality

Link start. Beware individuality. And I mean ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠that literally—these days, it's an era where individuality reigns supreme. Everyone wants to be the protagonist. It's an age overrun by so-called protagonist syndrome. How many people do you think actually don't want to be the hero? Hell, there's even that saying, "I'm the protagonist of my own life." Nuff said.

In that world, some genius suddenly piped up. "Why not just give every player their own unique hidden class?" Game devs heard that and felt like they'd been smashed in the head with a hammer—dizzy as hell. It nailed the spirit of our individuality-obsessed times perfectly.

So, to meet player demand, the companies cooked up new jobs tailored to each character's growth. They call 'em unique classes or hidden classes. Players could craft and play with personalized hidden classes just for them.

But you'd wonder—wouldn't devs be stuck patching jobs all day? How do they keep pumping out balance fixes and new classes? The answer: AI. It handled game balance, generated fresh skills, and differentiated classes. Even effects and sound were top-notch, no jank. With AI backing it up, game characters became a real outlet for self-expression. Call it entrusting your ego to your avatar... or maybe treating it like a second self. Fulfilling dreams of becoming your ideal fantasy self. Whatever.

Anyway, I let out a sigh when this trend took off big-time. Truly, the age of lacking romance has arrived!

Still, I tried out hidden classes at first. Novelty factor, y'know? My take? Pretty good, yeah. Fun customizing growth to fit your playstyle. I got why it blew up.

But... it lacks romance. Do you know the myth of a single sword? That deep thrill from a lone swordsman lording over the world. Sure, basic jobs get dismissed, but I couldn't let go. The hero of fantasy lore! Once you've felt it, even simple, underwhelming classes like warrior or swordsman were my go-to.

I'm planning the same for this new game I'm starting. Sure, getting older makes diving into fresh games a chore... but the spark that got me hyped was simple.

Birds chirping, flowers blooming—it was some April day. Drifting through my deadbeat NEET routine, I stepped out to hit my minimal exercise quota. And on that walk... nah, nothing dramatic. Just yesterday.

I picked up a book off the ground. Turned out to be promo material. But the writing was weirdly polished... couldn't resist, ended up impulse-buying the latest diving machine. Masterfully explained the game's unique hooks, y'know? Blame it for the premium resale value jacking up the price on that bad boy.

...I could ramble more, but I'll cut it short. Don't wanna drone on forever. Anyway, time to blindly dive into Position Side. Games are for fun, right? Studying on day one kills the vibe. Call it... rich experience or whatever.

Enough chit-chat. Time to fire up this sleek, curvaceous beauty.

One sec first.

"Gotta turn off the lights. Save on the electric bill."

Firing up the diving machine hit me with a drowning sensation—consciousness sank into the depths, then resurfaced. When I opened my eyes again, I was back in my familiar, eye-rollingly mundane room.

"...Huh?"

No dramatic wakeup in a strange new world like I'd expected. Kinda different from what I pictured—maybe I should've skimmed the Position Side gallery guides first—

Plop.

"Rung na-rong~ Nice to meet ya na-rong~."

A pint-sized rabbit mascot with an "EUCAL" pin on its head—Eucal, the company mascot.

"Oh, right."

Forgot that firing up a fresh Eucal device summons the Nintendo-style mascot. Been a while since I bought one new.

"Thanks for buying the device na-rong. Proceeding with registration na-rong~. Takes about 3 minutes na-rong."

*Do not turn off the device. First-time Eucal activation runs through the ancient rituals: birthday input, time settings, Nintendo ID registration, network setup... and done.

Finished filling it out, and the mascot beeped, bounced over chipperly.

"Rung na-rong. Your Eucal account has [Position Side] and 1 other game na-rong."

Two neat boxes popped up: WITCH SIDE and BANG!!.

Position Side was the one I'd pre-bought. Bang!!... no memory of that.

"What's Bang!!?"

Asked the AI mascot, fruit of the industrial revolution, and got an answer.

"Pre-installed game na-rong! Shoot floating targets with a paint gun on the map. Wanna play na-rong?"

"Nah, start Position Side."

Just a bundled mini-game, like Minesweeper. Meant to play Position Side anyway—might try it later if I remember.

"Gotcha na-rong, launching [Position Side] na-rong!"

Game kicked off, familiar scenery faded behind like passing through a tunnel. Suddenly, I stood stock-still in the middle of an eight-lane highway.

A gut-punch of open space. A proper grand road. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Surreal as hell.

Standing in the center, the vastness oppressed me, the emptiness where cars should be unnerved me. But the endless openness liberated too—the silence and loneliness of a lifeless city made it an eerie thrill.

"So this is the vibe."

Tech's leaped forward. Few years back, diving machines couldn't fake this realism. Game's well-made too—graphics felt real.

One weird thing, though. I bought a fantasy game.

"What now? Great Car Thief? Bank heists like a vehicle theft sim?"

Normal games start with job select, customization, nickname setup. Where's that? Why drop me in this weirdo spot, devs?

Flailing without a goal—then chunky red letters burned into view, stoking dread.

"What the—? Just toss a passive and call it? No tutorial on what to do?"

"What kinda user-unfriendly game is this? Industry #1 perks, huh..."

Read the passive—still no clue how. Probably the fantasy world gateway. But why bundle this pointless modern crap? Filler data eating space?

Anyway. Usage seems intuitive from the tip: jump at something reflective.

Reflective stuff. Not much around. Even if there is, not much comes to mind.

Guessing mirrors or water—jump through reflections.

Not like... black bra or some nonsense. Nah.

I'm on an eight-lane highway bridge. Finding a mirror here's like water in a desert. Glass too.

Regular road would've been easier.

"Wait... on a bridge?"

Devs' intent dawns. Can't hack this? Don't play our game, tough-guy business.

"Damn it..."

Never thought I'd do the 11-meter model tower fear-training in-game. Even top devs—sure this is right? Dunno.

People did it? Peered down: endless river abyss. Sweat drips, plummets.

That sweat was me.

Shit, gotta do it. Top user spot ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠awaits. Strongest swordsman title calls.

"GYAAAAAH!"

Wind screams mercilessly in my ears—then whoosh—splat! Gravity drags me to the riverbed depths.

Consciousness sank.