Jump Master

"No. What the fuck is this…"

Fuck.

A word every man, woman, and child in Korea has spoken at least once — a cursed, miraculous syllable capable of expressing the entire spectrum ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of human emotion, from joy to rage to pure existential despair.

Any true Korean could hear that single word and instantly parse the exact feeling loaded into it. Most of them could, at least. And everyone in the chat knew.

The curse that had just left his mouth was born from the total, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠absolute collapse of comprehension.

A primal sigh escaped him. But his body was already moving on its own, pulling up the replay of the match he'd just lost. No need for the early game — he cranked the playback speed and jumped straight to a few minutes before his death.

Spectator mode.

A floating camera in the sky laid out both his own movements and the enemy player's in a single clean view.

Dozens of rounds hammered into the vehicle he'd been driving, flames blooming from the hood. His past self slowed, bailed out, and started closing in on the opponent who was leisurely setting traps on the second floor of a house.

Even as he watched, the enemy finished tying fishing line to a trigger, slipped quietly into the next room, and yanked the line — dumping a full magazine into empty air.

"Oh, come on… fuck. I should've just run instead of charging in. Ugh…"

The footage kept rolling.

The enemy had already strung fishing line across every approach to the second floor. Not a single strand, either — the way you saw it done in movies. Four or more lines woven together, crossed twice, engineered specifically to guarantee a human-shaped body would go down hard.

What came next was obvious.

Kato climbed the stairs carefully, only for his leg to catch on fishing line anchored rock-solid to nearby fixtures. He went down hard. A low scream, mixed with the heavy thud of impact, filled the space.

And in that same instant — the enemy's avatar came into view. His neck was already locked; he couldn't even turn his head. Practically speaking, this was the first time Kato had actually seen his opponent.

Delicate features. And a long serpent's tail that somehow didn't seem to belong with them at all.

Fully armed, the opponent approached with careful steps, fishing line still wound around one hand. The thick green tail coiled around both of Kato's legs, locking him in place — and then the strangling began.

In a voice smooth as rolling jade beads, the figure gathered the fishing line into one hand, drew a pistol from its holster with the other, and leveled it at his head.

Bang.

And just like that, the promotion match was over.

"…What the hell is this?"

Kato spat the words out in pure disbelief. But did he know?

That this was only the beginning.

"…Somehow I made it up here in about ten days. I think it's because so many of you have been cheering me on. Thank you to every single viewer."

Tier 2.

Had it taken a little more than a week, or a little less? I'd been climbing half on autopilot without any real goal in mind — the kind of "this is it!" target that usually keeps people focused — so the fact that I hadn't been tracking the time at all had produced exactly this result.

In Dark Zone, the Apex Predator promotion series is built around filling a certain amount of RP within a set number of matches.

Depending on the trail you'd left behind, the number of games required to hit that RP threshold went up or down. In my case, it was so low that — to borrow a phrase from chat — it made you wonder if this was even possible.

Anyway. That left me with three promotion matches. According to the brief info panel that popped up before queuing, I needed seven-plus kills and three consecutive first-place finishes to secure the required RP.

Ironically, it wasn't particularly hard.

Twelve hours and thirty-six minutes.

That was today's total stream runtime. Unlike my usual habit of roaming in every direction and vacuuming up other players, I'd been playing a little more carefully lately, so each match had been running longer.

Physically, I could still hold out just fine. Mentally, though, I couldn't exactly call it good. Fatigue aside — no matter how much of a game it was, doing the same killing I'd done in the past, even inside a game, just wasn't enjoyable.

I drew a deep breath, closed out of Dark Zone, and switched the environment over to a private booth.

Sinking deep into a chair soft beyond description, I opened my mouth.

"That'll be it for Dark Zone. I'm quite tired."

Watching the chat slowly fade as I stared up at the ceiling, one thought crossed my mind.

Come to think of it… had I ever actually done any kind of interactive stream with my viewers? Hard to say for certain. You could argue either way and both would be half-true.

Which was another way of saying the situation was just that ambiguous. Compared to the just-chatting streams other creators ran on platforms like YourSpace, the answer was a solid "ehhh."

And when I tried to figure out what I was even supposed to do, that got fuzzy too.

"…No. I'm not asleep."

The voice that came out was a little lower than usual.

I thought it over for a moment, then decided to just say it plainly.

"…It's nothing major. I just realized I've never really interacted with all of you properly. Please don't misunderstand — it's not that I don't want to talk with you. I simply haven't known what I was supposed to do."

…Terrifying. Genuinely terrifying.

All this time I'd assumed everyone was just focused on my gameplay. Turns out they'd simply been holding back. The way they pounced the second the door cracked open felt like someone had just flung a gas valve wide open.

I asked for a moment, got up for water. If I didn't stretch and rehydrate once an hour, my body wore out fast — the same way lying in one position too long would give you bedsores.

I gave my body and tail a thorough misting with a spray bottle, lay down on the bed, and returned to the private booth — only to find questions already overflowing in front of me.

Alright. One at a time.

"…The questions are a complete mess right from the start. Do you really need to know this kind of thing?"

I filtered those without even looking. Besides — this wasn't just an avatar. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠It was my actual body. There was no reason to hand that information out. I'd never revealed my real-world appearance to anyone, which made caution even more necessary.

Skipping past the questions made the pot climb higher, bit by bit. I ignored it, of course.

Next question.

"…I'm 171 centimeters. I can't tell you my weight."

"Just so there's no misunderstanding — my body is fairly unusual, so if I give out my weight as well, it creates exposure issues related to my personal identity. I'd appreciate it if you kept that in mind."

Then the next question appeared.

"No comment. I believe my previous answer already told you everything you need to know."

There was no real reason to hide that part.

A few people in chat fretted about impersonating an Awakened, but I wasn't particularly worried. If I were faking it, the law would come down on me like a hammer and I'd simply disappear.

I considered taking more questions, then decided I couldn't fill the rest of the time with Q&A alone. I cut off the remaining ones at a reasonable point and started talking about myself instead.

Now… what would be good?

…Ah. That.

"Come to think of it, I got a message from Harmony recently. Just a normal check-in, and… what was it called, Jump Master? She said it was about time I tried it and recommended it to me. Apparently it's a game where you rescue a pretty girl character at the very top."

The reaction was immediate.

How to put it.

Uncharitably, it was the reaction of insects hit with insecticide. More politely… it felt like they'd all been electrocuted. Either way, neither was the kind of response you wanted aimed at a streamer.

But looking at it from the other side, I was genuinely curious. What kind of game could make them hate it this much? — though "hate" wasn't quite right. It was more of an "it was only a matter of time" energy.

And really, it wasn't the viewers who'd suffer. It was me, the one actually playing. From that angle, their reaction was less genuine outrage and more playful cursing aimed at Harmony, who went around recommending this thing to everyone she knew.

Either way, their fierce denunciations only sharpened my curiosity about the game.

So I opened my mouth, using Harmony as a shield.

"…Still, since she went to the trouble of recommending it, if I stream tomorrow I'll try playing it for about an hour."

And with that — leaving behind a truly diverse range of reactions, mostly the screams of viewers begging me not to walk that ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠path — I wrapped up today's broadcast.

Looking back, it hadn't been much of a real conversation. But somehow, this kind of feeling wasn't bad either.

With that vaguely unfinished thought, the day came to a close.

I still didn't fully understand it, but something about today… felt, just a little, like I was starting to settle into this world more than before.