Erysichthon Protocol

Erysichthon Protocol.

A first-person hardcore survival game. At least, that was how the developers pitched it.

The premise was simple enough: deploy into a designated Hazard Zone, scavenge high-tier loot, evade flesh-eating zombies and murderous human scavengers, and make it back to the safe zone in one piece. Multiplayer was supported, but solo play was just as viable. In fact, there was hardly any difference between the two. The developers periodically recorded real player behavioral patterns and fed them into the NPC algorithms, making ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the non-player characters shockingly cunning—at times even deadlier and more ruthless than actual humans.

Judging by my surroundings, though, there were no other players in this world with me. The starting village, Mini Bell, was a tutorial area that never appeared in multiplayer lobbies. In other words, I was currently stuck in a solo campaign populated entirely by NPCs who acted more human than real people.

In the original game, a player had full freedom to customize their loadout. Kit yourself out with top-tier armor and high-end weaponry, and your odds of surviving deep within high-threat sectors skyrocketed. Carry low-tier garbage, on the other hand, and you had to plan your route meticulously just to scavenge scrap without dying.

And if you died?

You lost everything. Every single piece of gear on your person, every scrap of loot you had collected—gone in an instant. Your character either reanimated as a wandering corpse or ended up as a pile of mangled, unrecognizable meat. All you could do was roll a fresh character from scratch. If luck was on your side, you might stumble upon your previous character's hideout stash and reclaim some of your old reserves, but that was a rare luxury.

"...Is this actually supposed to be fun? Sounds like nothing but pure stress. I don't get the appeal at all."

That was the very first question I had asked when a college classmate from my investment club introduced me to the game.

"I thought the same thing at first," he had replied with a grin. "Then I played it. It's about investment—or maybe speculation is a better word for it. That's where the thrill comes from."

"Speculation?"

"Think about it. Isn't that the whole draw of gambling and speculation? Taking on the risk of losing your entire stake for the adrenaline rush of finally raking in a massive payout."

"So you're saying it's just an RNG casino game?"

"It's the difference between roulette and poker. Roulette is blind luck, but in poker, the player makes the calls. How much risk you want to stomach, how much loss you're willing to write off, and how much you stand to win. It's a calculated, manageable sort of unfairness. This game is a lot closer to poker. Remember how I said you choose your kit before deploying? That loadout is your buy-in. Bringing better gear is like raising the stakes. The risks are higher, but the rewards are exponentially bigger. And honestly, it has one huge advantage over real gambling."

"Which is?"

"It's all virtual. You're not wagering real money. Who cares if you wipe? At the end of the day, it's just a game."

Right. It was just a game.

It was supposed to stay that way.

I pumped the bicycle pedals, searching for a safe haven to rest for the night. Where am I right now, and how far have I traveled? I pulled up the mental map in my head, cross-referencing it against the darkening terrain ahead. With nightfall creeping in, the shadows distorted the landscape, making it hard to match my surroundings with my memories.

In times like this, landmarks were a lifesaver—tall, distinctive structures that were impossible to mistake. Like those towering steel pylons rising high above the canopy. Spotting them told me everything I needed to know: I had entered the Transmission Tower Forest.

Shaped like an elongated oval, the forest was vast enough that crossing from one end to the other on foot took a day and a half. It was a sprawling expanse of rolling hills, meandering creeks, wide clearings, and suffocatingly dense woodland. Normally, terrain like this looked completely identical in every direction, making it dreadfully easy for beginners to get disoriented and wander in circles. Here, however, navigation was different. As long as you kept an eye on those fifty-meter-tall transmission towers that dwarfed the seventeen-meter pine trees, you wouldn't lose your way. If all else failed, simply following the overhead high-voltage cables would eventually lead you out of the woods.

For a game renowned for unforgiving, hardcore mechanics, that was a surprisingly generous layout. Yet paradoxically, this zone claimed more player lives than almost anywhere else on the map. It served as the crucible where players were forced to learn real macro gameplay—the harsh fundamentals of resource management, route planning, and basic survival.

If the tutorial village of Mini Bell was designed to familiarize you with controls and user interface, the Transmission Tower Forest was where the game tested whether you could actually survive in its world. Naturally, corpses piled up by the dozens.

Even if you managed to navigate using the towers and cables, the woodland was crawling with danger. A zombie bursting from behind a tree with a guttural shriek was enough to startle anyone. Beginners almost universally panicked, pulling the trigger out of pure reflex. The loud gunshot would echo across the quiet valley, broadcasting their exact coordinates to the entire sector. More infected would swarm toward the noise, and even if an amateur managed to shake them off, an ambush awaited down the trail.

Every hardcore survival game had them—the self-proclaimed 'gatekeepers' who claimed they were merely giving rookies a taste of reality. In truth, they were washed-up griefers who lacked the skill to compete against actual veterans, so they lurked in beginner zones to mow down fresh spawns and stroke their fragile egos. They were no different from toxic, incompetent military seniors who used the excuse that 'the army's just like that' to inflict the exact same hazing they once suffered onto helpless juniors.

Those griefers always relied on a massive gear disparity. They wielded overwhelming firepower that could vaporize lightly armored players in a second, or swaggered around in impenetrable heavy ballistic plates that laughed off low-tier pistol rounds. Back in the day, baiting those pathetic gatekeepers by dressing in starter rags, turning the tables on them, and posting clips on the forums titled "Bug Down" had been one of my favorite guilty pleasures.

There was no forum to post on here, unfortunately. A minor shame.

Finally, my destination materialized through the twilight: a weather-beaten container house. According to the game's lore, it had served as a temporary field office and crew barracks during the construction of the power grid. Very few players ever bothered visiting the place; it lay far off the standard routing paths and contained zero high-value loot.

That utter lack of value, however, gave it a unique upside. It made for an ideal layover to patch up wounds, cook a hot meal, and catch your breath unmolested. It offered poor defensive integrity and was far too isolated for a permanent base, but for a transient survivor in need of a brief rest, it was second to none.

I circled the perimeter twice, verifying that no infected or hostile wanderers were prowling nearby. Satisfied, I slipped inside, locked the heavy latch, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and braced my bicycle firmly against the doorframe. The interior was grimy, but ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the small canvas cot in the corner was intact aside from a thin layer of dust. I brushed it off and collapsed onto the mattress, coughing slightly as airborne grit tickled my throat before gazing up at the corrugated steel ceiling.

A bizarre thought crossed my mind: This is actually manageable.

Manageable? In a lethal nightmare like this?

I let out an incredulous chuckle, accidentally inhaling a lungful of dust and breaking into a dry coughing fit. But looking back, my life had always been like this. Things rarely went according to plan. Whether my expectations had been unreasonably high or I was simply blind to my own shortcomings, ideal outcomes always eluded me. Yet without fail, I possessed an uncanny knack for sidestepping the absolute worst-case scenario. Whenever I reached a desperate precipice where quitting seemed like the only sane choice, diving headfirst into the chaos without thinking had consistently yielded surprisingly decent results.

I was the type of person who had rotten good luck, but an absurdly high resistance to fatal misfortune.

That was my own honest appraisal of myself.

Discovering Erysichthon Protocol had been a rare stroke of good fortune; I had poured thousands of enjoyable hours into its systems. Getting dragged inside its fictional hellscape, on the other hand, was purely rotten luck. Yet had it not been for this game, I never would have survived the massive fraud attempt during my freshman year of college, nor would I have ever unlocked my true talent.

My national college entrance exam scores had been bitterly underwhelming, making the decision to spend another year retaking the test an easy one. The real obstacle was the cost of tuition. Our household finances had stabilized somewhat, but paying for an intensive full-time prep academy was entirely out of reach.

"I'll just self-study," I had declared nonchalantly. "I can just take online lectures for the subjects I actually need."

People in the real world called me crazy, so I sought companionship online instead. Fortunately, there were plenty of souls in the same boat—drifters alienated by reality who found solace in the digital ether. During that awkward, ambiguous period between boyhood and adulthood, I threw myself into living with fierce intensity. I devoured lectures and ground through practice exams relentlessly. Even while working part-time night shifts at a study lounge, even after getting IP-banned by community moderators for spamming forum boards, and even after rolling dozens of alternate accounts until several exhausted site admins threw in the towel and resigned, I never let go of my textbooks.

I frequently felt the bitter sting of poverty. There were countless nights ruined by struggling through clunky, lag-ridden free VPNs, where I found myself wishing I had a few spare dollars to burn on a reliable paid service. Ending up at a mediocre university might well have been the cumulative result of that chronic, sleep-deprived fatigue gnawing away at my concentration during the final exam. But in hindsight, it hadn't been entirely bad. Had I possessed the financial freedom to buy premium VPNs at will, I likely would have drowned in the internet completely and neglected my studies even further.

Having acutely tasted the misery of having an empty wallet, I arrived at a firm conviction: A man doesn't need to be filthy rich, but he must always have cash on hand when an emergency strikes.

Armed with that singular goal, I joined the university's investment club, a prestigious circle boasting a thirty-year history. Its alumni network was formidable; my wallet practically bulged with business cards handed out by senior members working as stockbrokers, insurance underwriters, and proprietary day traders.

Homecoming Day—the annual gathering where prominent alumni descended upon campus en masse—remained etched vividly in my memory. Rows of seniors clad in sharp business suits sat like panel interviewers at the front of the hall, our faculty advisor beaming with paternal pride beside them, while a charismatic alumnus and former club president delivered a passionate keynote. He was introduced as a high-stakes futures and options trader.

"Tell me, juniors," the alumnus boomed, sweeping his gaze across the room. "What is the single most vital component of investing?"

"A brokerage account and seed money," someone piped up.

"Precisely!" the alumnus shouted, pointing a finger. "I can open an account for every one of you right this second. What I cannot give you, however, is seed capital. That money belongs to my valued clients—or rather, to you, my dear juniors—and my duty is merely to manage it on your behalf. But remember this: seed money isn't something you passively save up; it's something you aggressively generate. We are going to forge capital out of whatever funds you currently have. Now, pass down these account opening forms and fill them out."

Unfortunately, reality was never quite that simple. An account was utterly useless without funds to deposit. I obediently filled out the paperwork and created the account, but my pockets were completely empty. The sole reason I had shown up that evening in the first place was the promise of a free banquet and promotional restaurant vouchers.

"Come on, junior," the senior grumbled, reviewing my empty ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠balance sheet with an irritated scowl. "You talk about wanting to get rich, yet you don't even have five hundred thousand won in cash?"

Despite his grumbling, he still handed over a promotional voucher. The other club members received thirty-thousand-won gift certificates, whereas mine was merely a coupon for a complimentary soft drink. Still, walking away with four thousand won in value just for sitting in a chair was a massive win in my book.

"All right, let us move on to the investor risk profile assessment," our professor announced, fluttering around the hall like a mother duck guiding a brood of ducklings. "Teaching assistant, is the multimedia lab unlocked? Is the evaluation portal loaded? Excellent. Follow me, everyone."

We clustered around the monitors in the computer lab, clicking through the mandatory diagnostic survey.

I answered every question with blunt honesty. When the results flashed on screen, the senior leaning over my shoulder blinked in disbelief.

"...Junior? Didn't you just say you wanted to turn a small sum into a fortune?"

"I did."

"Then why does your evaluation classify you as 'Ultra-Conservative Risk-Averse'? With a profile like this, the system won't clear you for anything riskier than basic fixed-deposit savings accounts! Your seniors took time out of their busy professional schedules to share lucrative opportunities with you. You have to be willing to shoulder some degree of risk!"

I stared at the screen. Was that truly my nature? The outcome was as unexpected as an offbeat personality test, but hearing his condescending tone rubbed me the wrong way.

"I joined this club specifically to learn a guaranteed method to multiply a small sum into a large fortune," I replied smoothly, looking him straight in the eye. "Don't tell me you aren't capable of teaching me that?"

Not wanting to look like an incompetent fraud preying on his own juniors, the senior shifted his eyes uncomfortably and clamped his mouth shut. All he could do was mutter empty platitudes under his breath about how high returns naturally required taking on proportionate exposure.

These so-called elite seniors are dumber than I thought, I concluded. I steadfastly refused to touch their recommended high-risk speculative vehicles, shunning every exotic derivative and 2x leveraged inverse ETF they hawked. In the end, the only thing I walked away with was that single restaurant voucher for a free soft drink.

One month later, every single club senior who had sunk their money into those derivative contracts filed for an emergency leave of absence from the university.