The King's Return

A thrill ran the whole length of my body. Cold air. The feel of a battlefield where an enemy might come crashing in at any second.

One hour.

One hour left before Raider—the god-tier game of the cosmos, the one that would carve a line into history—took its first step toward being etched into the game industry.

Not just one hour. A whole hour.

By feel, I'd had the stream up for three hours at the bare minimum, but a glance at the clock said only thirty minutes had passed.

What is this? A time-duplication bug? Time is supposed to pass the same for everybody, so why am I the only one with a six-times event running?

For the record, those thirty minutes were the ones I'd spent with the broadcast on, waiting together with the viewers. I'd gotten up at six this morning, so if you folded in the lonely, miserable stretch of hugging my blanket in bed before the stream even started, a miracle occurred in which thirty minutes swelled into four hours.

I'd ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠wanted to close my eyes again. I just couldn't bring myself to pick that option—I had the distinct feeling that if I did, I wouldn't wake up before launch.

I checked the time once more. ...Forty seconds. That's all.

"I don't even care if I miss a two-digit UID, so please, early server open... even thirty minutes would do, just open early...!"

I muttered it and tried to connect one more time, but reality was merciless. A message window informed me it wasn't official launch time yet, and the door slammed shut in my face.

And whether I was thrashing around in the agony of waiting or not, the viewers were busy talking among themselves. The empathy boot camp had pretty much worn off, by the look of it. Either that, or a wave of new recruits who'd never received the training had just been deployed.

I was starting to think I ought to pick a day and run empathy boot camp again. ...Seeing as the effect died in a month, I'll have to make it harsher than last time, won't I?

While I was thinking that, a donation came in from a comrade waiting on the game just like me.

"Ah, don't worry. I'm dumping the first-purchase bonus and every package they have before I even start, too."

No—of course you buy the first-purchase bonus and the packages.

"Do you have any idea how much I've talked about Raider on stream? If anything, spending at least this much is just good manners, isn't it? And honestly, it's been forever since I felt like this. This ache of waiting on a game you're dying to play... Personally, I think it's a rite of passage every gamer ought to go through at least once. What do you all think?"

"...That's on me for asking."

Why was there not a single person giving me a straight answer?

Even if a six-times time-giveaway event had opened for me alone, time still had to pass.

So this moment was one that had to come.

Time remaining until Raider opened.

One minute.

"Fifty-nine, fifty-eight, fifty-seven..."

Chat looked like it was rocketing upward, but this was not the moment to spare it a thought.

I had to hit the left mouse button on the exact tick, without the slightest slip. Get distracted by chat and miss the timing? I might regret it for the rest of my life.

"Thirty, twenty-nine, twenty-eight..."

The instant it hit eleven, should I click? Or trust the heart of a beast and click at 10:59:59? Or was the safe play to wait until 11:00:01?

I was nervous. The hand on the mouse had gone damp with cold sweat. ...If I'd known, I would've taken half a cheongsimwon, one of those little traditional calm-down pills.

"Ten, nine, eight, seven..."

I stopped looking at the clock.

I left everything to my own senses.

"Six, five, four..."

I hold my breath.

The moment feels like eternity.

"Three, two, one."

And.

"Zero."

Like pulling a trigger, I double-clicked the left mouse button.

...The loading screen welcomed me.

The very same loading screen I had seen for the first time 101 days ago.

An in-game cinematic welcomed me—footage that had overturned, in a single stroke, everyone's certainty that this would be trash, carrying graphics you could call the finest of any otaku game in existence and not be ashamed of the claim.

And then Raider's protagonist greeted me, wearing armor perfectly identical to the set on display in a corner of my room.

"...Black."

The black panties were exactly the same, too.

Only then did it feel real.

I didn't swallow the feeling. I let it straight out of my mouth, both arms flung toward the sky.

For the record, the UID was 100000069. Sixty-ninth through the gate.

"How's the queue looking out there? Past three digits yet?"

I let out a small sigh of relief. The odds of getting booted mid-game for an emergency maintenance or whatever had just dropped.

In truth, I'd already hit the minimum goal of a two-digit UID, so even if the server blew up it wouldn't really be a problem.

Still, this was a game I'd waited on hard enough to post a launch prayer on the fan cafe. Enjoying myself, only to get kicked for maintenance and left twiddling my thumbs? Getting cut off halfway through taking a dump would be less unpleasant.

"Graphics don't seem to have changed much, at least. ...Anyone playing on their phone right now? How's the optimization?"

Reading the verdict that it wasn't some flaming disaster of bad optimization, I set down the weight that had been sitting in ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠one corner of my heart. At this rate, you could call it an excellent start.

...Good. Time to relax and actually enjoy the game?

I connected the controller and took it in both hands. A grip on a completely different level from keyboard and mouse settled something in me—the feeling of closing my hand around the hilt of a famed blade I hadn't drawn in a long time.

I shuddered, drew one deep breath, and spoke in a voice pitched just a little lower than usual.

"A thrill running the whole length of my body... Cold air... The feel of a battlefield where an enemy might come crashing in at any second..."

I let the viewers' paid heckling go in one ear and out the other, and pinned to a corner of the broadcast feed a photo I still sometimes set as my phone wallpaper.

An utterly unedited selfie, verifying my First Clear medal.

Then I crossed my right leg over my left, tipped my chin up, and declared it in the most arrogant tone I could manage.