The Return (Part 1)
It had begun as just another ordinary day. Though he had won a major championship a few days prior, nothing had really changed because of it. All he had done was finish his interviews, head home, drink himself into a stupor, and collapse into bed.
Yet when he opened his eyes, the entire world had changed.
The sheer impossibility of it left him in a daze, unable to gather his wits for quite some time. Only when he finally pulled himself together did Sanghyuk search out a mirror to see his reflection.
“T-This makes no sense...”
Staring back at him was undeniable proof that this absurd transformation was no hallucination. The figure in the glass was not the seasoned, thirty-six-year-old head coach Lee Sanghyeok who had just led his team to the pinnacle of competitive gaming. Standing there instead was an eighteen-year-old boy—an orphaned kid still living in the group home.
No matter how much I think about it, this is impossible.
It was not a dream. No matter how many times he checked, everything around him was stark, vivid reality. Desperate though anyone might be to turn back the clock, no sane person genuinely believed they could return to the past. Sanghyuk had been no different. To him, such thoughts had merely been empty delusions. Yet now, that impossible fantasy had become his reality, throwing his mind into absolute chaos.
“Whew. Calm down first. Figure out what's going on.”
Five hours had already passed since he woke up at dawn, reeling from this nonsensical turn of events. But he could not stay paralyzed forever. In his previous life, he had been known as the 'Ice Man' for his cold, unflappable rationality. Forcing his racing heart to settle, he methodically began assessing his situation.
One thing is certain: I’ve either regressed into the past, or I experienced my entire future in vivid detail through an impossibly long dream.
Neither premise sounded remotely plausible, but given the circumstances, he had no choice but to entertain the impossible.
If I had to pick the more likely of the two, regression makes the most sense. Whichever it is, the vital takeaway is that the future might unfold exactly as I remember. And if it does, I’ve been granted a second chance to live the life I always craved.
Shocking as it was, reaching that realization sent an inexplicable shiver of anticipation through him.
Did God grant me another shot because I wanted it so desperately?
Rational thought fell short of explaining such a supernatural phenomenon, forcing a man who had spent his life denying the very existence of a higher power to invoke the divine just to make sense of it.
“If you can’t avoid it, enjoy it.”
Sanghyuk muttered his personal motto as he gazed into the mirror. It was a phrase he had stumbled upon when his life had plummeted to absolute rock bottom. From his current vantage point, that was technically something that had yet to happen, but inside this eighteen-year-old body lived the mind of a thirty-six-year-old man; his perspective was fundamentally different. What had occurred defied belief, but sitting on his hands in disbelief would not change a thing. Now that time travel—the ultimate absurdity—had taken place, he had no choice but to accept it.
It took Sanghyuk a few days to fully come to terms with his reality. Interacting with half-forgotten acquaintances and high school classmates confirmed beyond any doubt that this was no dream, solidifying his certainty that he had returned to the past. Swallowing such an absurd reality had been far from easy, but possessing the mental maturity of a thirty-six-year-old rather than an inexperienced teenager allowed him to sort his thoughts faster than expected.
Once he accepted his new circumstances, his surroundings came into sharp focus. He knew the current year was 2026, meaning he was eighteen years old and in his second year of high school. The date displayed on his clunky, outdated phone screen read December 22, 2026.
Just before winter break of my senior year... That incident which shattered my life will happen in exactly eleven months.
Eleven months from now, catastrophe would strike, plunging him into a hellish abyss where he would flounder for five agonizing years. Reflecting on future events as if they were past memories felt bizarre, but if history repeated itself, that was the fate awaiting him. Naturally, Sanghyuk had no intention of walking into the same trap twice.
I have less time than I thought. To live this second life without regret... I need to change everything.
Under the orphanage’s regulations, any ward who turned nineteen and did not enroll in university was forced to leave. Sanghyuk had until February 2028, at most, before he would be cast out. Lacking the funds for college, he had been desperate for an alternative, which had ultimately driven his fateful decision in his previous life. Though it had proved to be the worst mistake of his existence, back then, he had genuinely believed it was his only lifeline.
I can't rely on that measly resettlement allowance. Those corrupt bastards were rotten enough to sell us off to human scum—there’s no way they’d hand over the settlement money in full anyway. I have to carve out my own path to survive.
Having already crawled his way up from rock bottom with his bare hands once before, the challenge ahead hardly intimidated him. Above all, one paramount fact stood out: Sanghyuk's physical and mental condition was completely intact.
“My talent. As long as I have that, I can achieve everything I ever wanted!”
The supreme talent that had not yet been stolen by those predatory scoundrels still belonged to him. With it, he feared nothing. After all, even after losing it in his past life, he had still managed to claw his way back to the top through sheer grit. He nodded to himself, his expression brimming with fierce confidence.
Though much of his youth was hazy in his memory, it posed little inconvenience. By nature, he had always been quiet and reserved, and armed with the sharp, thirty-six-year-old worldly instincts no teenager could possess, blending in without drawing attention was second nature. Having acclimated to his new reality in just a few days, Sanghyuk earnestly set to work designing his future.
He could not yet be certain whether his knowledge of the future was a hundred percent accurate, but after observing the world over the past few days, the flow of events aligned almost identically with his recollections. Sitting on such information without putting it to use would be utter foolishness.
What I need first and foremost... is money.
Facing the prospect of being cast out into the world completely on his own in just over a year, money was vital.
How do I make it, then?
Realistically, the options available to a high school sophomore were severely limited. At best, he could work grueling part-time jobs like a borderline indentured servant for pocket change.
“Part-time gigs won't ever earn me the kind of capital I need. Which means... making money through the Dream Network is the only answer.”
The Dream Network (DN) was a colossal parallel world established in 2020 on the back of rapid breakthroughs in virtual reality. Much like the early internet, DN had expanded at blistering speed, eventually absorbing almost every domain the old web once commanded, establishing itself as a true second world.
Eternal Life, the so-called revolution of DN, is still a little over a year away from launch, isn't it?
Released in March 2028, Eternal Life (EL) would conquer the global VR gaming market within four months of service, reigning unchallenged at the summit for over fifteen years.
“Before EL drops, I need to build a foundation that will let me dedicate myself to it entirely.”
Having returned to the past with nothing but the clothes on his back, his options were narrow. But Sanghyuk knew his unique talent better than anyone else, and he intended to leverage it to become the best of the best.
“What was the top VR title during this period?”
Ever since waking up in the past, Sanghyuk had been jotting down every significant event, date, and piece of information he could remember into his phone’s notepad. Scanning his notes, he spotted the title: Sword & Magic. Memory sparked—it had been the biggest hit on DN prior to EL's emergence.
“Right. That game dominated for quite a while.”
While not an expert, Sanghyuk had played Sword & Magic for about six months.
I was forced to play it just to avoid getting beaten, but at least that experience will pay off now.
Just recalling those days made his blood boil, but the practical knowledge he gained would serve him well.
At least capsule VR rigs haven't hit the market yet.
Capsule-type VR hardware had skyrocketed in popularity alongside EL; in fact, fully experiencing EL practically mandated one. Sword & Magic, on the other hand, was fully playable with standard headset-style VR gear, which could be purchased secondhand for around 400,000 won if he hunted for bargains.
“The issue is that I don’t even have 400,000 won right now.”
To make money in DN, VR equipment was a non-negotiable prerequisite. Which meant he had to slave away at a convenience store just to scrape together enough cash for the headset.
Working a teenager's part-time job with the mindset of a thirty-six-year-old was far more grueling than anticipated. Sanghyuk chose a convenience store shift—the easiest entry point and something he had done before—yet enduring the endless petty absurdities that a naive teenager would have overlooked proved infuriating. Still, making a scene would not fix systemic exploitation, and securing seed money took precedence over bruised pride, so he swallowed his irritation. After grinding out hourly shifts for a month to amass 600,000 won, Sanghyuk immediately purchased a solid, secondhand VR headset.
Possessing expert knowledge of virtual reality hardware, he easily bypassed the swindlers lurking on secondhand marketplaces. The real drawback was that running the device inside the group home was out of the question; for numerous reasons, he had to keep the purchase strictly hidden from the orphanage staff. Forced to play in secret, Sanghyuk struck a deal with the owner of a run-down VR cafe near the home, negotiating a corner spot for two months in exchange for 100,000 won.
Considering the dingy VR cafe normally charged 150,000 won for a standard monthly pass, the arrangement was somewhat steep, but diving in without delay took priority. He was already leaning toward dropping out of school anyway, intending to attend class just enough to prevent truancy notices from reaching the orphanage. Given the high concentration of delinquents at his school, showing his face once every few days would not raise any eyebrows. And so, in the grimy corner of that rundown VR cafe, Sanghyuk took the first step of his second chance.
The disorienting dizziness that accompanied logging into DN via a headset had plagued countless users. While the advent of capsule-type rigs in the future would mitigate it considerably, the sensation was never fully eliminated. Sanghyuk, however, felt not the slightest twinge of vertigo. It was not merely because he had acclimated to virtual reality in his past life. Rather, it was due to an innate, extraordinary gift.
With the maturation of virtual reality technology and the dawn of DN—a true digital frontier—an unprecedented caliber of talent emerged into the limelight. It was the ability to react and maneuver faster than anyone else in a simulated environment, paired with dynamic visual acuity that perceived what ordinary eyes could not. In the physical world, individuals gifted with such traits became elite professional athletes; in DN, they naturally rose to prominence as pro gamers.
This capacity was known as Virtual Reality Ability (VRA). Though dismissed at first as an abstract concept, relentless research by experts eventually yielded a precise quantitative metric. Measured within DN, the vast majority of ordinary users logged scores between 100 and 150 VRA. Those with poor virtual adaptability scored in the 70 to 100 range, while individuals with superior neurological synchronization hovered around 200.
The elite echelon known as VR pro gamers averaged an astonishing 250 VRA. A rating of 250 in virtual reality was equivalent to the biological reflexes and kinesthetic coordination of an elite professional athlete in the physical world. Sanghyuk, of course, was an anomaly far removed from ordinary human limits. Before his ruin in his past life, his highest recorded VRA score had reached a staggering 350. It was a figure that thoroughly eclipsed even seasoned professionals—a benchmark whispered to be on the cusp of an unofficial world record.
Of course, exactly four years after hitting that peak, he had been reduced to a broken shell, his score plummeting to a pathetic 40 VRA. But right now, at this exact moment, Sanghyuk possessed his pristine, overwhelming talent in full.
“Within six months... I'll earn enough to leave the group home and stand on my own feet.”
Sanghyuk muttered the vow like a solemn oath before connecting to DN. His plan was to amass his independence fund through Sword & Magic. Extracting profit from a mature game that had already been squeezed nearly dry would be no simple feat. Yet Sanghyuk had absolute faith: armed with secret future knowledge and his monstrous, uncorrupted talent, he would seize everything he set his sights on.