Clear Battle Coin Skyrockets
While surfing the internet, I tilted my head at a familiar term. "...What the hell is this?"
Clear Battle. It was a game I'd played from my college days all the way through my job-hunting phase—a pretty long stretch. "Played" doesn't even cover it. From the moment I got discharged from the military until I quit cold turkey three or four years later, I was obsessed. I'd rage like a maniac every time my score dropped, pouring every ounce of effort into winning. Studying and self-improvement? Forget about it. I spent nearly every waking hour on that game, and even when I wasn't playing, it consumed my thoughts. I lived and breathed it.
If I hadn't been living alone, my parents would've smacked me upside the head a few dozen times and no one would've batted an eye.
It wasn't like I had nothing to show for it. My name was always on the seasonal leaderboards, and I'd won plenty of tournaments. It was fun. Looking back now, it sounds ridiculous, but in those moments, I felt truly alive.
What finally forced me to quit was the game's incomprehensible policy shift. "Even now... those lunatics. Turning that game into an NFT of all things..."
Clear Battle had been a solid competitive game, but then they abruptly changed direction. If it had just been predatory monetization, I might've grudgingly accepted it. The business model was already laughably bad—like it was being run by volunteers. There weren't even any worthwhile items to buy with real money, and hardcore players like me didn't need to spend a dime anyway. Yet they poured fortunes into character models, music, voice acting, localization, graphics, and optimization—a structure that was bleeding cash from the start.
But that wasn't it.
The Clear Battle Coin hadn't started as some intentional cryptocurrency either. It was more like an achievement token or in-game currency. Players got a certain amount based on their tier, leaders got way more, and tournament winners like me raked in astronomical sums.
Back then, no one cared. It was treated like Zimbabwean dollars—worthless paper. You couldn't trade it, and anyone grinding that hard could afford every character and skin in the game anyway. That was its exact value.
"...Insane?"
I hadn't checked the Clear Battle Coin price in years, and it had rocketed far beyond my wildest imagination.
"How much is this...?"
The moment they announced the NFT conversion, my coins had taken on real monetary value. I figured it was at least a few million won, though I wasn't sure exactly.
But I didn't sell. The Clear Battle Coin was a badge of honor—a tiny reward for all the time I'd wasted and the effort I'd poured into the game. Money wasn't exactly plentiful, but my pride was stronger. Selling for a few million felt like reducing all those moments of joy, all those grinds for points and tournament wins, to pocket change.
So I held on. That was it.
"Is... this surge for real?"
I frantically downloaded a coin exchange app, made an account, and linked it to my game profile.
"Ha."
There were positive catalysts, sure. Some rich guy who loved the spotlight was hyping the game on social media—raving about its tech, how fun and competitive it was, and how much he was investing in the company and the coin.
"What a load of bullshit..."
Of course the game was fun. I wasn't doubting that. The coin listing might've pushed development back, but the game had been great right up until I quit. Even a fraction of the NFT windfall—say, a tenth—pumped back into the game would make it shine again.
Digging around, I found more good news: major outlets citing the game, esports tournaments like the President's Cup adopting it, even Asian Games inclusion.
"Olympics? No way, is this game that big now?"
I knew it had gotten popular. I'd seen people playing it here and there, and online chatter popped up occasionally. But I hadn't heard about the coin exploding like this. I didn't read newspapers, and this wasn't the kind of topic casual YouTubers covered unless they specialized in finance or crypto.
"..."
Still, this upward momentum felt off. The price had climbed steadily, but lately, it was getting mentioned everywhere—way too much. I'd just missed it, but even terrestrial news had picked it up, along with foreign outlets.
I knew that game better than anyone—I'd sunk more hours into it than most. This wasn't right. It was unnatural.
I'd booted up the computer for something else entirely, but now my eyes were glued to the coin's bizarre surge.
"...Huh?"
In an instant, it crashed. The price that seemed unstoppable plunged straight down.
"Ugh!"
I reflexively dumped every last coin I had. Panic set in. It felt like it could all vanish into thin air. All those coins I'd hoarded seemed like illusions, the value people assigned them a collective hallucination. What if there was a glitch? I'd heard rumors of exchanges freezing trades during dips, blaming server issues.
But luck was on my side—the sell order went through fine. The confirmation showed zero coins left, all liquidated, and a jaw-dropping sum credited to my account.
Still, I couldn't relax yet. I grabbed my phone. I hadn't noticed until now, but my hands were shaking. The screen wobbled as I tapped my bank app and pressed my thumb for fingerprint auth.
The balance hadn't budged: 4.2 million won. Not bad for my age, but not all from my own sweat. Private tutoring wasn't a big deal, and my parents covered tuition, so no student loans. "Tell us if you need living expenses—save every won you earn," they'd said. That let me stash most of my paycheck, though life chipped away at it, and I hated asking for handouts. A little over a million a month in savings, give or take.
But I knew it wasn't purely "my" money from pure grit. It was compensation for doing shit I hated.
I slid the screen down to refresh my assets.
"Ah."
It flooded in. My pitiful sub-ten-million-won pile got swept away by a tsunami of cash, shattered, reformed, dwarfed.
"So... this is it."
I couldn't believe it. It didn't compute.
"What a fucked-up world..."
Letting out a hollow chuckle, I glanced back at the monitor to check the Clear Battle Coin charts. In that split second—the moment I'd learned the truth and dumped without hesitation—I could've sold higher. A quick calc showed about 100 million won difference.
"Ha..."
Truth be told, the instant I saw the price, I'd thought about selling right then. Even at that level, it was more than enough—hell, way more than enough—to change my life.
But I hadn't. It felt like it would keep climbing. I hesitated.
"Whatever. It's fine."
It was more than enough. Compared to what I'd earned before, 100 million was dust. I couldn't even fathom what to do with this kind of money. Too massive, too unreal. My brain refused to process it.
I flopped onto the bed from my chair, obsessively checking my account.
"What the...?"
A bit empty, sure, but I couldn't help grinning. No more job hunting. No more stressing over tomorrow's meals or buys. The interest alone would keep me living comfortably forever.
"...Ha."
Snapping out of it, I calmed my racing heart and returned to the monitor. No matter how loaded I was now, I didn't need the PC and fluorescent lights on all night. Even if I was tired, better shut everything down to avoid pointless wake-ups.
"What the?"
Before powering off, the coin exchange homepage caught my eye—it was spiking again. Higher than the peak I'd sold at.
"Bullshit..."
I laughed, closed all the tabs, killed the PC and lights, and crashed into bed. Tomorrow was gonna be busy.