So Now What?

There was a man who loved open-world games. Growth systems he treated like homework — glanced at now and then, otherwise ignored — while every treasure chest, every last one of them, he picked utterly clean. To open a chest that appeared only after an achievement was cleared, he would trail an agonizingly slow cow for eighteen minutes. Even on his commute, if something chest-shaped caught his eye, he drifted toward it as if bewitched, remembered that this was real life, and turned back around.

He turned up across every kind of open-world gallery under the fixed handle Lupin, always the same title, always the same template. When the new release, Elysium, launched, he was no exception. In a single week a quiet little magic trick unfolded, and every treasure chest scattered across the world vanished. Players who had been telling one another that the launch build was one towering, overwhelming helping of content keeled over where they stood. The developer, starved for attention, went a step further and mounted his madness for good — an achievement, and a reward.

Event-only or not, the developer had shipped a variant of the protagonist's character over a single act of madness. For a gamer, it was a lifetime achievement fit to play at the funeral. Riding the high like a man who might die tomorrow, he wrote it up on the gallery in the shape of a will, begging them to be sure — be sure — to bring this up at his service. He had no idea that post would become a real one.

Collapsing out of nowhere from overwork in your early twenties and crash-landing in a game world — familiar enough, if you'd so much as brushed against novels or fiction. Becoming the female protagonist of Elysium, the Dimensional Wanderer, was a different story. And of all things, it had to be the variant born when the developers lost their minds: the Phantom Thief.

High-waisted shorts sealed tight against her hips and thighs. A weight across the chest that bowed her back even when she stood perfectly still. Long, cherry-blossom-pink hair that snagged on branches and on every other object in reach. If she started listing the inconveniences, three days and three nights awake would not have been enough.

But she had to eat to live, and if she meant to eat, she needed money.

She had thought that being inside a game would be fun. Fun, her ass. So it wasn't Hell Korea after all. It was Heaven Korea — the work backbreaking, the meals pitiful, and not a game to be found.

One month into the possession. If she hadn't chanced on something detected while passing the village outskirts, Lupin would have been well on her way to losing her mind, and then some.

The first treasure chest after the possession was sweet. Far too sweet.

The smell of blood — ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠her own, and other people's — would not leave her nose, and her appetite had stayed gone the whole time. Saliva that had answered to no cuisine now poured like a broken faucet at the mere ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠thought of opening the next chest.

She tested it, just in case, and good lord. Even a careless handful of grass, snatched off the ground and chewed, turned savory if she chewed it beside a treasure chest.

"What the hell."

A modern person has to drag themselves through every kind of hospital there is to treat every kind of illness there is. For Lupin, a single treasure chest was enough.

"This place… might actually be livable?"

"…Why isn't this a dream?"

Five years. It had taken only five years.

Lupin had roamed the entire ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠world and opened every treasure chest there was, and in the end she succeeded in leaving not a single one behind.

With her upper body slumped across the bar, face blank, Lupin muttered the line bound to hotkey one.

"So what do I actually do now…?"