2 - SOS
“This guy's only pissy with me!”
As soon as Lee Mir, the clan leader of Jebalbutak, left the clan home, Min-jun slammed the innocent floor in frustration. Middle finger included.
He opened his friends list, scrolled down to find the culprit.
NoName – In Game 13:47:08
“Doesn't she ever get bored...”
It was 8 p.m., when most people were getting off work, eating dinner, and starting their leisure time, but NoName had already been logged into Legacy of Legend for 14 hours straight.
Legacy of Legend, released by Riot Games in 2009, had swept the world with its explosive popularity, and no computer game had ever tamed that beast since. But in the late 2030s, as capsules became mainstream, virtual reality games started popping up everywhere. Riot rode the wave with a capsule sequel, Legacy of Legend, and despite being a latecomer, it rocketed straight to the top market share.
Lately, it was losing a bit of ground to Resonance and World of Arceria, but its player base remained thick. Pyo Min-jun himself couldn't find a decent alternative, so he was grinding 3,000 games per season in this damn game.
But compared to her—8,150 games just last year, over 50,000 in the past six years—his efforts felt pathetically small. Even a talentless hack like him could've succeeded at anything else with that time.
Yet NoName debunked that theory; the tier gap between her and Min-jun was crystal clear.
“Bronze 3... Yeah, maybe that's the successful life? Someone who truly plays games for fun! Not like me, raging every match and shaving years off my life.”
His contrasting Grandmaster badge did nothing to cheer him up. One unresponsive friends list entry, and on the other screen, the famous streamer 'Delete's' Docu4Days was in full swing.
The recent mega-hit on Twishi and VTube, profiling the real lives of pro gamers, streamers, and internet celebs across various games.
It would be a while before the episode featuring their clan aired.
“Is this really that entertaining?”
Honestly, he'd only agreed to appear for the cash, but Min-jun couldn't grasp why this content had blown up.
* * *
NoName – Searching for Game 14:39:40
NoName – In Lobby 14:39:43
NoName – Entering Clan 14:39:48
I blinked my eyes open to find myself summoned to the clan lobby. Conveniently, the person I was looking for was nearby.
500,000 won per person. That's what you'd barely scrape together working 18 hours a day for a week.
In my world, where financial ruin meant goodbye to the living, Min-jun's pitch to appear in a streamer's docu series had hooked me.
Mir had been against it at first, but with Min-jun and Sia voting yes out of desperation for cash, we were set for Delete's Docu4Days.
Even though I was just a VR avatar, they'd filmed the clan lounge with me as backdrop, so I deserved my cut.
I approached Min-jun and loomed awkwardly in front of him.
“Kid, you just gonna stare? What do you want me to do?”
Min-jun snapped venomously. What's his deal today?
So, what now? I needed to talk, but I couldn't. And I didn't even have a bank account in my name.
Head already throbbing from the pile of problems. Whether it was the cheap Chinese capsule or the criminals who'd kidnapped me, my language processor wasn't linked to the server. No in-game or out-of-game chat for me.
Oddly, I could hear clan chat fine—small mercies.
Just use sign language. Tried that. VR mimicked reality closely enough for laws like anti-stalking communication restrictions. Unregistered accounts like mine got neural blocks on speech or gestures to prevent harassment.
All I could do was blink.
Blink blink blink.
“Ugh, so frustrating!”
While Min-jun stewed, I'd figured out the account issue. I had a temp account from selling titles on a Chinese site—still valid for a week or so. Send it there.
452-5213-8019-108903
I pulled up the match history site, screenshotted four images, and floated them in the air. Then stared intently at one spot in front of Min-jun, zooming in.
“What? You want me to look?”
He couldn't ignore the blatant popup.
“She a troll like you? Only 452 damage by game end.”
Good, keep going.
“This your record? Human? 5,213 damage?”
Perfect—I'd dealt exactly 5,213 last game, which sparked the idea. Proud of my quick thinking, I burned the other numbers into his mind.
“What're you trying to say?”
Min-jun still puzzled. Oh crap. Smart me is useless if he's a blockhead. Plus, Chinese account formats don't match Korean ones—hard to guess.
As he turned to leave, bored, I blocked him, blinking frantically. How to sell the desperation?
I glanced at our clan statue, name engraved.
[Jebalbutak]
Please, please. If you don't give me this money, and the game goes into extended maintenance? I'm dead. You get what it's like, trapped in a capsule you can't escape even awake, clinging to VR out of despair? After Mom sacrificed everything to save my life? Come on, figure it out.
“Hey, our NoName's back after ages? What's with you two?”
“Sia? No, this kid's been trying to say something since earlier—I got nothing.”
“452, 5213, 8019, 108903? Some code? I'm bad at this stuff.”
“Me too?”
“NoName, didn't you call it out? No way it'd line up like this otherwise.”
“Told her if she wants money, give the account. Or I keep it all.”
“...?”
“Ah!”
“This the account number?”
Min-jun and Sia's heads snapped around together.
Two heads better than one, huh.
Blink blink blink blink.
“This concept-obsessed bastard...”
“Hey, no bad words in front of the kid!”
“Bold talk when it could be a 50-year-old uncle or 70-year-old grandma in there.”
“NoName's a baby. Gotta protect her.”
While Min-jun and Sia goofed around patting me, I settled in to watch the Docu4Days Min-jun had playing.
Tomorrow I'd have my 500k—might as well relax.
How was a four-person clan so popular? Pro gamers' real lives, full-time streamers' routines—ads twice, then our familiar clan gate appeared.
Peaceful bird chirps, serene setup... but reality always exceeded expectations.
Min-jun's character dominated the final promotion game against a streamer, racking up 25 kills while sweeping the battlefield. The streamer's despairing face amid win-loss-loss-loss-loss was gold.
Mir's four-man counter to another streamer's three-dive prep exploded the game—chef's kiss.
Sia, posing as a total newbie duoing, stole every resource as support—scene-stealer. Streamer ended 0/7/9 in shame; she dominated 18/1/2 as support.
The real highlight: their main account reveals. Chat went wild.
People love numbers. Look at chat—hate one minute, love the next.
Viewers got no breather before edited highlight reels. In monster-infested high-elo hell, Min-jun, Mir, and Sia shone like protagonists.
Producer Delete hyped up, adding commentary.
That's when I got why I wasn't featured.
My clips next: lingering in spawn village minutes, ignoring dying allies, even screenshotting to mock.
Public opinion: nuclear winter. Text storms buried me—some too vile, auto-deleted to '[Deleted Comment]'.
But the pre-censor burn seared into my brain.
Maybe their rage was fair. Carving precious free time for healing gaming, only for a troll like me? Mood-killer.
But one comment lingered, un-deleted, scrolling down... down... to my scalp.
End credits looped back to Jebalbutak's garden close-up. Me, apart from the trio, standing blankly.
All I could do: blink rhythmically, praying one viewer caught my SOS.
Blink blink blink
BLIIINK BLIIINK BLIIINK BLIIINK
BLIIINK BLIIINK BLIIINK
What a hellish world.