Closed Beta Preparation (1)
MMORPGs were a genre that had seen better days—way better days. That was the universal consensus among gamers in 2026.
Single-player content designed for enjoyment had gradually been relabeled as “homework,” devolving into outright labor. Multiplayer cooperative content earned the sticker of “cyber boot camp,” treated as nothing more than a particularly hellish group project.
On top of the players’ mounting fatigue, developers no longer had much incentive to pour serious money into MMORPGs. Why sink a fortune into a high-risk blockbuster when you could split that budget into three cheap “L-like” pay-to-win titles instead? The latter delivered far more profit with far less money and far fewer resources.
And so it went. Players gradually lost reasons to play. Developers gradually lost reasons to create. The two trends fed each other, accelerating the genre’s decline. Only a handful of already-completed games remained, carving up an ever-shrinking pie just to stay afloat.
But how could anyone not feel regret? Whether it was a masterpiece or a disaster, you had to release it before players could even taste-test and judge. You could sprint to the servers on launch day and mine a mountain of rice. To those gamers—or rather, those rice farmers—Blue Edge’s Project A had been a lifeline.
The moment word spread that Director Kim Ji-hyun, the man who held the absolute trust of the gaming community, was preparing a massive MMORPG after leaving his previous company, the reaction was immediate.
How are we supposed to hold back? I can’t. Growl. Bring out the rice chest! Not the one for holding people!
Unfortunately, that excitement didn’t even last three years. The virtual reality launch coincided with Blue Edge’s dissolution, delivering a decisive bad ending. Those who had hoped for an Aincrad of their own were ultimately betrayed by the excruciating realism of Galicia Online.
It was, without exaggeration, the dark age of MMORPGs.
And then…
A single video dropped on YouTube.
Vibrant landscapes unlike anything seen in previous virtual reality games. NPCs interacting with a naturalness that made them seem truly alive. Beyond those lively scenes stretched an unknown world that made the heart race, while monsters designed to inspire equal parts fear and curiosity roared from time to time.
And then—
Four people stood before a wooden fortress surrounded by a palisade. A sharp-featured beautiful girl knight holding a sword in one hand and a shield in the other, gazing up at the stronghold.
An adorable white-haired girl mage with flowing locks, floating a brilliantly lit magic orb in the air. A saintess clutching a staff, whose mere glance at her pouch of holy power seemed enough to restore anyone’s stamina. And a sword-wielding man who looked like he’d been born to love games.
The screen faded to black.
Like veterans who had rehearsed their coordination countless times, they carved a path through the endless goblins pouring from inside the fortress. A fireball floating in the air slammed into the forehead of a goblin aiming for the female knight’s flank.
The moment the swordsman staggered from a direct hit, sacred light enveloped his body, restoring his will to fight. They pressed forward, ever forward.
Every time the goblin lord—several times larger than a grown man—swung its massive club and struck the ground, the earth seemed to split apart with an illusion of shattering stone.
Even before that ferocious assault, the female knight silently raised her shield, deflecting light attacks and redirecting heavy ones. The mage’s flames continuously tormented the lord’s colossal body, while the swordsman’s strikes left trails of light in the air again and again.
And then, at last—
The goblin lord launched its massive frame into the air, carving a red X-shaped sigil onto the ground as it prepared to descend. Time seemed to stretch. The camera slowly zoomed in on a single figure.
A saintess of unreal perfection, hands clasped over her chest in a posture that somehow felt slightly uncomfortable, whispered softly.
"May the light..."
"...save us."
Brilliant light flooded the screen, then cut to black.
The game logo and message appeared.
Closed Beta Test Scheduled for 2026
The video ended there.
* * *
“Holy shit, did you guys see that? You saw it, right?! I told you a remake would blow the hell up!”
Streamer and gamer Lee Han-byul. Broadcast nickname ILikeZero, commonly called Zero or that crazy woman. A mid-to-large-tier streamer with several thousand live viewers, she was also…
“But honestly I liked Galicia Online from the start. Hmm. Still, that was insane. Right? Everyone agree? National Acknowledgment Association, please step forward.”
She had been a player of Galicia Online from the beginning. When everyone else spat on it and called it trash, she didn’t know anything about deer but skinned rabbits like her life depended on it until she finally crafted a full set of handmade leather armor.
When everyone abandoned the game, she memorized the complicated runes and absorbed the tiniest traces of natural mana into her body. And when the game had become so empty that not a single other player could be found, she succeeded in launching the first-ever fireball—the size of a golf ball. An achievement worthy of the top 0.001% of rankers.
In the process she had put countless viewers through so much secondhand stress that dentists made a fortune from all the grinding teeth, and she had even caused a statistically measurable uptick in undiagnosed cancer rates. A true dung-eater through and through.
But even a dung-eater knows good food when she tastes it. She had every confidence she could enjoy a masterpiece just as enthusiastically.
“Alright, let’s see. Closed beta test application? We’re doing that right now. How could anyone hold back? This is the first fully realized MMO, come on. Galicia Online was the first? Nah, that wasn’t an MMO. That was a survival game.”
She immediately began exploring the official homepage linked in the video description. Had they recruited a competent director and completely revamped the project? The system introduction checked every box a proper MMORPG should have, and she shed actual tears of emotion.
Just like in the video. She could finally fire off fireballs with a single click…!
Without hesitation, she applied for the closed beta test. She also sprinkled flyers to her fellow dung-eaters who had not yet been eradicated, as well as her viewers.
“Hey everyone! Let’s play together! Honestly, this one looks like it’s actually going to be fun? Feels like a masterpiece, right?”
Come on, just one bite?
“Olden Page my ass—get the hell out! Out, you bastard!”
* * *
“Serin, what are you watching so intently?”
“Ah, broadcast monitoring.”
Serin was watching Lee Han-byul’s stream, carefully observing the viewers’ reactions. Despite her somewhat youthful appearance, Lee Han-byul had spent years building a reputation as an RPG specialist streamer.
Whether it was a reboot server for a classic RPG or a brand-new title, she was always at the forefront of the opening rush, devouring games like a madwoman. She possessed enough influence that when she finished a game, the title’s entire weight class would shift. She had been a primary monitoring target ever since the days of Kim Ji-hyun.
『Yo, but the scale is insane? If you zoom in on that faint thing that appeared just now—yeah, that’s the entrance to the goblin dungeon from earlier. But the distance… wow. You’re telling me you have to run there in VR? There must be mounts, right?』
“Ah, mounts.”
Monitoring like this often revealed elements she herself had overlooked, making it surprisingly efficient outsourced QA.
“Hmm, is watching men’s reactions that entertaining?”
“Isn’t that because you spent too long playing god?”
“Is that it?”
After giving the little god who didn’t understand the human heart a gentle pat on the head, Serin briefly recalled the past.
In truth, it was no exaggeration to say that Serin—no, Kim Ji-hyun—had played a major role in helping Lee Han-byul reach her current level of popularity.
—NICE! Holy shit! WOOO! I did it—huh? Huh? What the hell! Why does it say invalid?! Invalid? What? There’s still more!
During her race for the first clear of a raid Kim Ji-hyun had designed, Lee Han-byul had been the first to reach zero and enter the hidden phase. Her incredibly rich reaction had ridden YouTube’s algorithm and doubled her channel’s size almost overnight.
When you considered how it had also raised the game’s recognition, it was a mutually beneficial relationship. They were each other’s benefactors.
—No, Director. The character balance is completely broken! The party next door just plants their feet and spams easy damage, while we have to run around like lunatics with our asses on fire…
Considering the tantrum she had thrown when invited as a guest on a live broadcast, they might also be considered mortal enemies.
Still, that much passion meant one thing.
“She’ll make an excellent promotional slave.”
Salary? The donations would cover it. Cheers.
Serin took the closed beta test, which had originally been planned as a random draw of one thousand people, and—mixing in a bit of personal interest—added a few more slots. Total: 1,004 participants.
That was the full number of people who would participate in the closed beta test.
And they would be the first heroes to set foot on the Galicia Continent.