Exceptional Adaptation
“What’s this data?”
In the R&D department of Enk Technology, Executive Director Han Yongwoo had stopped by to inspect the project. He’d spotted something odd among the player data collected for RP gear development.
“Ah, that’s data brought in by an intern from Design Team 2.”
“An intern brought data?”
“Yes. It’s a hands-on internship... name’s Kang Hanbit.”
Listening to the employee’s explanation, Han Yongwoo examined the data again. As the project lead for gear development, he’d just wrapped up a new conference on related topics. That’s why he could immediately tell how anomalous the figures were.
“Design Team 2, right?”
“Ah, but I heard they got fired today.”
“Fired?”
“Yes. Not sure on the details, but it was something about moonlighting...”
The employee’s story continued a bit longer. Nodding as he reviewed the data further, Han Yongwoo said,
“Got it. Everyone, meet in the conference room in 30 minutes.”
After issuing the order, he headed straight out of the office. His destination: the floor where the design teams were located.
“Huh? Executive Director?”
A few employees who spotted him approached. He responded with a light nod and made for the innermost desk.
“Design Team 2 Leader.”
“Yeah?”
The team leader looked up at the curt summons. His face twisted in an instant.
“Executive Director, what brings you all the way here?”
“...”
The words dripped with sarcasm. Han Yongwoo, gazing at the other desks, asked flatly,
“I heard an intern named Kang Hanbit worked here. Fired for moonlighting?”
“Yeah, that’s what happened.”
“There might’ve been room for leniency with an intern.”
“What’re you gonna do, make exceptions for some hands-on temp? The guy had no manners anyway. Oh, not saying that to you, sir.”
“...Hoo.”
The reason for the ongoing snark was obvious. Han Yongwoo was the team leader’s junior but had risen far faster. The resentment was palpable, something he felt in his skin every time.
“Did you look at the data left by Intern Kang Hanbit?”
“What data?”
“The player data collection we requested from each department for RP gear. It was distributed to all team leaders.”
“I’m swamped as it is—when would I have time? I handed it off to the idle one. Ask that Lee Minho kid when he shows up.”
The team leader jerked his chin vaguely in a direction. But Han Yongwoo didn’t look away.
“The data left by Intern Kang Hanbit was strikingly different. It would’ve been a huge help for gear development.”
“He’s some hotshot streamer or whatever. Like being good at a game helps development? Bunch of show-offs, all the same level.”
“We derived a formula to calculate adaptation rates. And Intern Kang Hanbit’s was 1,500 times that of a normal player.”
“...Adaptation? What the hell’s a 1,500 times rate?”
“No idea why. If Intern Kang Hanbit were still around, we could’ve asked. Ah, but ‘intern’ doesn’t fit anymore.”
Letting out a short sigh, Han Yongwoo turned away. It was pathetic, but the company had blown its chance. No way Kang Hanbit would come back as an intern under that guy.
“I’ll report everything related to Mr. Kang Hanbit to the CEO. Your poor judgment as Design Team 2 Leader cost us a tremendous talent.”
“What the hell? You blaming me for this?”
“The decision will be based on objective review. See you later.”
“Hey, wait... Hey! Han Yongwoo!”
Ignoring the team leader’s flushed shouts of rage, Han Yongwoo left the office. He immediately contacted HR to grasp the firing process. It was enough to draw a sigh.
“Hoo.”
Contract interns didn’t require much procedure. That’s why a word from the team leader had made it a breeze.
“Could I get Mr. Kang Hanbit’s number?”
Han Yongwoo received the contact from HR. After entering it, he hesitated briefly before calling. It connected after a few more rings.
(Hello?)
A young man’s voice came through the speaker. Straightening up, Han Yongwoo spoke politely.
“Hello. Is this Mr. Kang Hanbit?”
***
‘...Executive Director?’
Kang Hanbit was caught off guard by the call. Enk Technology’s executive director. Why would someone like that be phoning him? It was too high up the chain just to explain his termination.
He had no clue why, but better to talk it out.
“Yes, hello. To what do I owe the call from you, sir...?”
(I’m calling to apologize.)
“Apologize?”
The unexpectedly heavy word raised questions. As if reading his mind, the executive explained.
(We uncovered excessive interference by Design Team 2 Leader in your disciplinary and firing process. It’s an unjust act that never should’ve happened.)
He gave a concise rundown of the process from discipline to firing. In short, the team leader had leveraged his buddy, the HR manager, to fast-track everything. Moonlighting should’ve been mitigated for an intern, but they’d ignored it entirely.
But it didn’t matter anymore.
“Thanks for letting me know. I wanted to quit anyway, so no need to worry.”
(As a company representative, I’m utterly ashamed.)
The executive’s voice sounded genuinely bitter. After another apology, he shifted topics.
(I hear you’re streaming RP. How’s the work going?)
“Ah, yes. It suits me, so I’m enjoying it.”
(Glad to hear it fits you. And you might be curious, but we found a new element in the player data you provided.)
“New element?”
(It’s called adaptation rate—an indicator of how well body and mind suit RP. Normal players are around 200, pioneers around 5,000. Yours was about 300,000.)
“...Pardon?”
The figure was bizarre beyond “high.” He didn’t know what adaptation meant, but it seemed tied to his past experiences.
(It’ll likely become a standard metric. It’ll get more precise, but I thought you should know.)
“Thank you. That’s incredibly useful info.”
(No, no. I’m sorry we couldn’t do more.)
His tone was so polite it didn’t sound like an executive. At this rate, a request was coming. But that expectation missed wildly.
(I won’t keep you long. Once again, I apologize for the poor experience due to our oversight. We’ll expunge the disciplinary record and process it as a standard resignation. I sincerely hope your future endeavors succeed.)
“...Yes, thank you.”
Click. The call ended with final apologies and well-wishes. The attitude—polar opposite to the team leader’s—was stunningly disorienting. What if he’d started as an intern under him? Even after quitting the company, he probably would’ve helped in some way.
Futile thoughts now, though.
“Hoo.”
A short sigh escaped as Hanbit shook off the thoughts and headed to the subway station.
***
‘Still ridiculously huge.’
Arriving at the Record Shop, Hanbit faced the massive building again—the one that had shocked him with the guidebook. Stepping inside, he slowly browsed the arrayed merchandise.
‘What’s with all this stuff?’
The sheer volume and variety of player-made goods was astonishing. Each brimmed with personal passion.
“Whoa, this guy’s got insane artistic flair.”
“That dude’s a total perv, though.”
Then voices from a nearby group. They were eyeing a map and illustration. Glancing over, Hanbit saw it rendered hyper-realistically, unlike the game.
“No one’s been there, right?”
“Ah, Death Lighthouse? Supposedly just a quest, not implemented.”
The talk shifted topics. The Death Lighthouse, rumored somewhere at sea. Even seafaring factions hadn’t found it.
‘I never made it there either.’
Hanbit had searched too, hearing of a sole sage there. He’d never found it, but the time invested probably tallied decades.
“Ah, but couldn’t Black Dragon find it?”
The conversation turned to Black Dragon. Hanbit casually shielded his face with a book.
“Sea’s a long way off. Anyway, they’re doing the Ifrit episode next, right? Totally different from Edlen?”
“Gotta be. Another reset chance maybe?”
“That too, but I bet they’ll hunt the field boss.”
“What, Snow Drake? That’s straight legend.”
Ifrit’s field boss. Legendary status, but real. Called the master of the snowfields, it was brutally strong and tricky. Most current preps were for taking it down.
“...”
Overhearing, Hanbit—with his face still covered—felt a man’s gaze. Someone tailing him since entering the building.
Flash!
A smartphone lit up in the man’s hand. He’d snapped a photo—of Hanbit, no less.
‘Not a fan.’
Didn’t feel like Avant-garde or the department store clerk. The eyes gave it away. Darting glances and shaky hands screamed unease. Probably new to this.
Typical for amateurs doing anything for cash.
Hanbit set the book down and casually moved. He descended to the first floor and exited.
‘Yep, following.’
The tailing man didn’t even hide well from afar. Hanbit kept walking, then ducked into an alley. As he entered the dim interior, the man peered around and followed.
Step. Step.
Footsteps synced to Hanbit’s. Listening closely, he suddenly bolted.
Tat-tat!
He veered into a side path. The startled pursuer scrambled after in a frantic sprint.
Thud!
Hanbit vaulted onto a box at the corner. The moment the man appeared—
Whoosh!
He leaped, wrapping both arms around the man’s neck.
“Gack!”
Subdued before reacting, the man panicked at the tightening choke. He thrashed to escape, but the arms didn’t budge.
“Who are you? Who sent you?”
“Cough, cough!”
Hanbit eased just enough for coughs. The writhing man sputtered,
“Just me... gack!”
Unwanted answer—Hanbit tightened again. Carefully calibrated; a slip could knock him out.
Another slight ease, then,
“Think your neck snapping would hurt?”
“...!”
Crack. Pressure on the joints made an ominous sound. Painless but vivid sensation spiked the man’s terror.
“Spit it out. Why the photo? Who ordered it?”
“I don’t know!”
“Don’t know?”
Hanbit tensed to squeeze again. The man flailed wildly.
“For real! I swear! I’m just a tip-off guy!”
“Tip-off?”
“Like a finder for detective agencies! They said 500,000 won if I spot someone like streamer Black Dragon...”
Finally, the man flicked his fingers toward his pocket. Rummaging inside yielded a cheap business card.
<Duksun Detective Agency>
From rats to corpses, we find them all.