The Contract
The wind howled across the river.
“Ugh, it’s only October. Why is it already this cold?”
The autumn breeze over the Han River still carried the last traces of summer warmth, but for Jinwoo, unemployed for the past two days, it cut straight to the marrow. His stomach let out a loud growl, demanding food, yet he couldn’t muster the will to eat. After all, he was now a free agent.
He had spent a full nine years as a professional gamer. Five years ago he had reached the semifinals of the LDK World Championship. But at twenty-seven, with his recent slump, no team offered him a new contract. Overnight he had gone from pro to nobody.
He had interviewed with another team today, but his age was clearly a problem. Truth be told, being a “free-agent pro gamer” sounded respectable, but it was barely different from being a game-addicted bum who played all day. They said the worst kind of unemployed person was a gaming addict, and he had apparently become the poster child for it. The realization left him depressed.
Deep down, a dark voice whispered that he should just walk into the Han River and check the bottom for himself. But thoughts of his family scattered the idea like smoke.
“Sigh… What the hell am I supposed to do with my life now?”
As he sat on the riverbank, lost in worry, one obvious answer stared him in the face. Nine years of living alone, a degree in food and nutrition, and his time as an army cook all pointed in the same direction.
The restaurant business. In plain terms, selling food. He even held a chef’s license from his military days, so employment was possible immediately. Still, right now he preferred games over pots and pans.
Pick up the phone~! Pick up the phone~!
He checked the screen. It was Kang Il-hyung, supervisor of the gaming team. Their professional relationship had ended, but after nine years of shared hardship, Jinwoo cleared his throat and answered.
“Yeah, hyung.”
“Where are you? Get to the team office right now. Hurry—it’s urgent.”
“Why?”
“You’ve been with us for nine years. If you’re retiring, the least I can do is set you up with a decent gig.”
“Thanks, but coaching isn’t a good fit. The kids will riot if a hikikomori like me tries to coach them.”
“Come on, how many people in this industry aren’t hikikomori or otakus? Besides, it’s not a coaching position, so stop whining and get over here. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”
Kang Il-hyung hung up after saying his piece. Jinwoo briefly considered ignoring him, but the memory of his custom-ordered gear sitting in the team locker forced him to his feet.
“Hahaha. He’s a bit on the skinny side, isn’t he? This is the Park Jinwoo you asked for, sir. He even showed up in a suit.”
The moment Kang Il-hyung saw him, he grabbed Jinwoo by the back of the head and forced a ninety-degree bow. Sitting in a wheelchair in front of them was a white-haired Caucasian elder.
“Huh?”
The old man’s sharp, cold eyes looked strangely familiar.
“Wait—Changing Group’s Elon Busker?”
The name slipped out before Jinwoo could stop himself.
“Yah!” Kang Il-hyung jabbed him in the ribs, snapping him back to reality.
“Ah, I’m sorry. It just came out.”
“Hahaha, it’s fine. The kid looks like a nerd who barely passed his classes—perfect.”
Automatic translators had become practical by 2035, so Jinwoo quickly slipped in an earpiece. While Elon Busker gazed at him with satisfaction, Jinwoo whispered to Kang Il-hyung.
“Hyung, what the hell is going on? Why is one of the richest men in the world here?”
“He wants to scout you as a game tester.”
“What? A game tester? Me? Why? There are plenty of world-champion pros or highly educated gamers out there. Why me?”
“I can hear everything you’re saying.”
“S-sorry.”
“I’ll tell you the reason. There are several factors that make you, specifically, necessary. You run a blog, correct?”
The secretary beside Elon unfolded a screen displaying Jinwoo’s personal blog where he occasionally posted rambling thoughts.
“Yes, that’s mine.”
“Your posts about classic online games were quite interesting. On top of that, reaching the global top four as a pro gamer proves your skill.”
Jinwoo listened, but something still felt missing. Plenty of other pros had similar credentials.
“And the most decisive reason is this custom equipment. You had it modified by Japan’s Yasuke Yamashiki, yes?”
In Elon Busker’s hands were the helmet and gloves that should have been in Jinwoo’s locker.
“Yes, sir. I paid forty million won to have Yasuke Yamashiki customize it.”
To someone like Elon, forty million won was pocket change, but Jinwoo had saved for two years to have the gear tuned perfectly to his reaction speed.
“The head of our game hardware development team is Yasuke Yamashiki. He strongly recommended you as a tester. Said your senses are freakishly, almost pathologically, sensitive to even the smallest details.”
Jinwoo couldn’t tell if it was a compliment or an insult, but hearing that the hardware team leader had personally recommended him felt pretty good. Last year when customizing the gear, he had hounded Yasuke for over a month with endless revisions. Even that craftsman had been left speechless by the sheer number of demands.
“After his recommendation, I looked into you and learned your gaming contract had ended. That’s why I came in person. Sign a tester contract with us.”
The secretary handed over a Korean contract. The moment Jinwoo saw the salary figure, his eyes widened.
“One million dollars… annually?”
He had never heard of a game tester earning anywhere near that.
“Do testers have to donate organs or something?”
“Even if we took your organs, would they be worth a million dollars?”
“No, sir. Definitely not. Haha. The amount was so large I had trouble believing it, that’s all.”
An hour earlier he had been contemplating the riverbed, and now he was being offered a million-dollar contract. It didn’t feel real.
A high-salary game tester. For a gamer, it was practically a dream job. Of course, tester careers were short-lived. But even if he was fired after a year, fifteen billion won in Korean currency was more than enough to open his own restaurant.
“Separately from the contract, we will be taking this custom equipment. The forty million won will be deposited tomorrow.”
“Ah, that forty million was only for the customization—the base gear itself cost another two million… Well, two million isn’t important at this point. Hahaha. But why are you taking it? It was fitted specifically for me.”
“Yasuke Yamashiki said he has something to test with its maximum sensitivity. The secretary will explain the rest about the tester position.”
Having finished his business, Elon Busker turned his wheelchair and left. The Korean secretary remained behind to explain the contract and obtain Jinwoo’s signature.
“Here is my card. Tomorrow, Changing’s in-house developed Game Gear will be delivered to your home. See you then.”
“Yes, thank you.”
Once the Changing Group people had left, Kang Il-hyung clapped him on the back, quoting the old saying about an old man’s horse being a blessing in disguise.
“I don’t know how long development and launch will take, but stick it out for at least two years. And of course, you’re buying me a proper meal sometime.”
“A meal? I’ll buy you meat and drinks too. But honestly, I still can’t believe I just signed a million-dollar contract. It feels like an impersonator showed up and I’m being pranked for a YouTube video.”
“Whoa, then we’d end up on the channel! Hahaha.”
Even after eating with the ever-positive Kang Il-hyung and heading home, Jinwoo still couldn’t tell if it was all real. He worried he had simply been scammed out of his expensive custom gear.
Ding-dong! 42,000,000 won deposited
“Holy crap, it’s real.”
He had gone to sleep still doubting yesterday’s events, but seeing the money actually hit his account made it sink in. In the afternoon, the hardware team showed up at his door carrying an absurd amount of equipment.
“Is that… a capsule-type device you climb inside?”
Most VR gear still used helmets. No capsule-type systems had been commercially released yet.
“Excluding the development staff, you are the first person in Korea to use this device, Mr. Park Jinwoo. Please keep it absolutely confidential.”
Being told he was the nation’s first game tester put a smile on his face. But when the equipment filled his fifteen-pyeong two-room apartment to the point there was nowhere left to sleep, and they even installed an emergency UPS power unit, the situation became problematic.
“Wouldn’t it be better to install this at Changing’s Korean branch instead of a private home? It seems more stable that way.”
“It’s still highly classified. A few people know Changing is developing a game, but almost no one knows about this capsule-type gear.”
Because it was top secret, they were installing it in a tester’s home.
“You may only play up to eight hours per day. The support team will check that you maintain proper hydration and nutrition. This is policy to prevent gaming addiction, so please follow it.”
They had paid a fortune to hire him, so of course they would manage him to prevent addiction or skipped meals.
“Understood. Can I log in right away?”
“Yes. First, please watch the chairman’s video.”
“From your blog posts, it seems we think alike. Do you remember the article you wrote about the shutdown of classic online games from the 2000s?”
“I poured my heart into a game called EverQuest back then. But when service ended in 2025, I felt deep regret. Then I read your post and began thinking about selling those discontinued online games in packaged form.”
“So the direction of the game we’re developing will be individual downloadable packages that let users run their own private servers. You can enjoy it alone or invite friends to play in a closed, private party. It’s an open game that can be completely sealed off.”
“The first game we’ve developed is a basic package that weaves together features from many different online games. Later DLCs will let it transform into the style of EverQuest, World of Warcraft, and others.”
“Enjoy the game as our tester!”
“Cliché World? So you’re bypassing copyright through clichés?”
Jinwoo couldn’t help but admire Elon Busker’s crafty mind. EverQuest and World of Warcraft were already over thirty-five years old. The status windows, HP, MP, and similar systems they pioneered had been copied by nearly every MMORPG since. Developers and gamers alike treated those mechanics as clichés. As long as the game wasn’t making revolutionary changes, similar control schemes and screen layouts didn’t trigger copyright claims. In fact, the original creators had been delighted to see their systems used elsewhere.
Elon Busker was deliberately using that very concept of “cliché” to avoid legal issues. The title itself being Cliché World was proof. Even if someone tried to sue, they could boldly respond, “Don’t you know what a cliché is? It’s an obvious parody. Every game does this—why are you upset?”
Different scenarios, different protagonists, and DLCs that shifted the flavor toward “EverQuest style” or “World of Warcraft style” would likely let them legally navigate the problem through cliché and parody.
“The company’s lawyers have already completed their review, so copyright will not be an issue. Inside the capsule you’ll find body sensors. Put them on, log in, create your character, and then come back out.”
Following the secretary’s instructions and with help from the hardware team, Jinwoo put on a crown-like headset and attached sensors to his wrists, ankles, and various other points on his body. Since he would have to do it alone next time, he made sure to learn the process properly.
When the capsule closed and he lay down, the login screen appeared immediately before his eyes. The pointer moved according to his gaze. He clicked the connect button with his eyes.