Blood & Flag (4)

The next day, the moment it was officially announced that Go Tae-min would compete in Ashmoon Night 193, the American Nova Arena community answered fast.

"……Overall, the reaction's bad."

A cold tide of opinion kept pouring past the monitor. Chae Geon-wook clicked his tongue and spun his chair. Provocative lines still doubting Go Tae-min's level were climbing the screen in real time.

At that, Go Tae-min — parked in the corner with his circle lenses already on — didn't so much as lift his head.

"What are they saying? Somebody bet money on me dying?"

"They're just not expecting anything. Treating you like a clearance-bin special about to hit its expiration date."

"Well. They're not wrong. I am getting paid to be sold off."

As if it hardly mattered, Go Tae-min went back to seating the circle lenses. The care in his fingertips as he eased them in was absurdly peaceful — the look of a man deciding which convenience-store rice ball to buy. That unreal calm finally broke Chae Geon-wook. He clutched the back of his neck and let out a long sigh.

"You think this is funny? These bastards are running bets that you won't even last an hour."

"It's a bet? Can I put money on myself? The payout looks juicy."

"Figure of speech, you bastard! And you actually need to be careful. Some pretty famous guys are fighting in this one."

Chae Geon-wook rolled the mouse wheel, and three profiles rose side by side across the monitor.

NAA had picked Go Tae-min — bearer of the tidy title undefeated promotee out of the Japanese league — as prey, something flashy to launch those three warriors into the sky. …Maybe I should have just turned this offer down. However Chae Geon-wook turned it over, a junior who had survived every kind of hell as a seasoned mercenary still didn't look like a man who could handle all three. Anyone who had watched them play would have said the same. Which was exactly why the sight of that junior, perfectly at ease, set his stomach burning.

Whether he knew any of that or not, Go Tae-min finished seating the lenses and turned his head.

"Ta-da. How's this?"

"……You're seriously walking out like that?"

"What? Don't I look cool?"

"You'll show up way too well in the dark."

"The presence makes up for it, though."

Go Tae-min beamed at his reflection. He wasn't wrong. The red glow leaking from beneath the demon mask was fiercely oppressive, and over the black leather armor hung a robe of solid black. Seen in the dark, it would look like nothing but the demon mask floating in empty air.

He didn't stop there. He drew the sword from its sheath, ran his eyes up and down the blade, and nodded, satisfied.

"See? Domestic is the best. The last one was Chinese, right?"

Chae Geon-wook answered with a thoroughly unimpressed face.

"……That one was Japanese."

"I knew it! If it'd been domestic, it wouldn't have snapped."

"Hey, you punk. Korean steel breaks too if you bring it down on a rock."

"Quit slandering it! Is this you disrespecting K-steel?"

Go Tae-min snickered and sheathed the sword again. He had torn through every shopping site to find it for this match — the best value Korean blade money could buy. It wasn't one of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the fortune-priced masterworks the pros carried, but it looked like more than enough to paint tonight's match in blood.

"Ugh. If only you couldn't talk."

Faced with a junior puffing his chest in shameless pride, Chae Geon-wook finally shook his head. He couldn't tell whether that baseless confidence was actual skill or just greed risen so high it had blinded the man. One thing, though, was certain. Tonight, the Americans were going to meet one uniquely insane bastard.

"Fine. Get out there and give them a proper taste of that precious K-steel."

"Don't worry. I'll make the stake back and come home with a fat bonus on top. Oh — it's time."

Go Tae-min pointed at the clock on the wall. Match 4 of Ashmoon Night 193 began at 3:00 p.m. Eastern. In Korea, that was 4:00 a.m. He was about to dive into a blood-spraying battlefield at an hour when everyone else was dead asleep, and his face was as flat as a man heading out for a convenience-store night shift.

Then a question surfaced in his head.

"But what if the match runs ten hours? Do you have to sit here waiting the whole time, hyung?"

"……I explained this already. No matter how long you fight in there, only an hour passes out here."

"Oh. Was that a thing?"

Chae Geon-wook let out a deep, weary sigh.

"Time doesn't mean anything inside virtual reality. Same goes for anyone who logs into a capsule to spectate."

"Then what about people watching on a computer or a phone, no capsule? Does one hour feel like ten to them too?"

"Why would it? They get a live-edited feed, like a video stream. The AI pulls the highlights and serves those up."

"Aha."

"Don't aha me, you bastard. The footage we watched earlier was all edited the same way."

Even under the scolding, Go Tae-min only scratched the back of his head and smiled, bright as anything. There wasn't a shred of tension on him if you searched with a microscope, and somehow that eased a little of Chae Geon-wook's unease.

"Then I'll go have a hell of a time. Get some rest."

A moment later, the appointed time arrived. Go Tae-min gave a light wave and slid his body into the capsule. With a low hum, the lid closed softly. Watching him go, Chae Geon-wook murmured.

"……Go show them properly. And don't come back whining that you snapped another blade."

With that, Chae Geon-wook lay down in his own capsule. The two capsules in the office lit up together and began to run.

When I opened my eyes, a dense jungle spread out in front of me. Sunlight shattered into fragments through branches tangled so thick the sky was gone. Air heavy with moisture pricked the tip of my nose.

A bright chime rang.

A damp heat closed over my whole body. The hot, humid air went past mere warmth — it struck the skin with a sticky pressure, like a wet towel clamped over my face. Even standing still, sweat seeped out inside the leather armor and clung to my hide with a tacky grip. Now this is an interesting map.

The jungle's sightlines were short, thanks to giant trees rising tens of meters and vines netted between them. Everywhere I looked, the scenery was the same, and without a compass it was easy to lose all sense of direction after a few steps.

Worst of all were the hides and cover strewn in every direction. Trunks thicker than a man's torso, and ferns grown to adult height, made viciously ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠difficult ambush ground. Even if an enemy walked up to your nose, fail to hear the brush stir and your head was simply gone. For staging a cruel show under the name of survival, there could be no worse stage than this.

To me, though, it was a thoroughly familiar space. What I'd lived through over and over in Africa was exactly this — jungle. And yet…

What is this?

I tilted my head. White solid lines filled my vision. Up to there, it was no different from usual. These lines, fluttering around me like ghosts, were something I always saw. The thickness, though, was on another level. If the ones I normally saw were loose threads, the ones cutting across my sight now were — with only a little exaggeration — as thick as rope. I had no idea why the difference existed, but thanks to it, there was no chance I'd ever mistake reality for virtual reality.

The instant the message appeared, the taut silence hanging over the jungle snapped. From every side came the sound of bodies crashing through brush, and screams.

First, let's get a read on the map.

I slid between the thickets. In this jungle, the ones who ran while advertising their presence were amateurs. The suck of mud underfoot, the scrape of a single leaf along a collar — in this forest, every one of those sounds was as good as a signpost giving your position away. I passed flexibly through gaps in the vines and took in my surroundings. Everyone's moving way too impatiently.

The white lines, thick as rope and crossing the empty air, had already grown as familiar as the terrain of the map itself. I dropped my stance and slowly drew my sword. At the same moment, a rustle reached me from the brush off my left rear.

A hiss of air. In that fraction of a second, my vision changed. Through empty space where there had been nothing, one blood-red line drew itself — as thick and vivid as the ropes — aimed dead at the nape of my neck. I didn't even turn my head. I simply brought the sword up across the end of that line.

Steel screamed.

Through the brush, my opponent's silhouette showed itself. A black cloak, twin swords, and a face gone visibly stiff. He clearly had never once considered that I might block it.

Steel rang again, twice in a breath. But a pro is a pro. He hitched for only a moment, and then both swords poured in at once — a crossing cut aimed at my left flank and my right shoulder together. Two branches of blood-red line slashed across my vision. He was trying to bury the shock of a failed ambush under an aggressive chain of blows.

I didn't bother swinging back to meet him. A slide. The smallest movement I could make. I twisted my body by a gap no thicker than a sheet of paper, and the keen twin blades only grazed my collar as they passed, close enough to raise the hair on my neck.

"……!"

The man's eyes blew wide. He looked unable to believe that an attack thrown with everything he had had missed so cleanly. In that instant, a gap opened across his chest.

A wet, shearing sound. I laid the raised sword flat and drove it in on the level — one thrust through the origin of the red line, straight into his heart.

"Guhk……!"

The body of the man who, a moment ago, had been swinging those twin swords with such momentum locked where it stood. His face said he didn't understand why the sword he'd swung had missed, or even when my blade had buried itself in his heart.

A moment later, his form broke apart into fine white particles of data. Easy money. I shook the blood off the sword and started walking again.