Seoul, South Korea – 2024
The coffee from the convenience store tasted awful—burnt rubber and disappointment—but Yoo Seung-yoon drank it anyway. It was 3 AM, and his eyes burned after staring at the same lines of code for fourteen hours straight.
But he was so close. Just one more piece of the character progression system, and he could finally call it done.
"Just one more function," he whispered, fingers flying over the keyboard like they had a mind of their own. "One more thing to finish..."
His tiny apartment was a mess. Empty ramen cups stacked like a wobbly tower, energy drink cans piled high by the trash, sticky notes everywhere, covered in frantic scribbles and half-formed ideas.
His phone buzzed softly. A familiar text from his grandmother: "Seung-yoon-ah, are you eating well? Come visit soon."
He smiled, tired but hopeful, and typed back, "I will, halmeoni. Promise, almost done with the big project."
A lie.
He wasn't close to done at all. Investors were breathing down his neck. His partner had quit last month. His bank account was nearly empty—just like his fridge. But the game… it had to be special. He knew it in his bones.
It wasn't the flashy graphics or insane combat mechanics he cared about. This was about the story. About giving players real choices that mattered, about a world that changed with their decisions. A world that felt alive.
He chuckled dryly, rubbing his sore eyes. "What a stupid dream. Who am I kidding? Just some broke developer in a cramped little apartment."
But he kept typing anyway because what else was there? Give up? Find some boring office job? Live wondering "what if"?
Click.
The function compiled.
"Yes!" He raised a fist in victory. "Okay, okay… now to test the skill trigger and—"
His phone buzzed again. Battery warning. 5% left.
"Crap." He glanced at the clock. 3:47 AM. The convenience store was still open. Just a quick break for a charging cable—and maybe more coffee.
He grabbed his wallet and left, his mind still tangled in code as his feet took him down the stairs. The night air was cold, but he barely noticed.
Three blocks and he'd be back, maybe a little closer to finishing.
Then—
Shouting.
He stopped. Down a dark alley near a closed restaurant, shadows moved. Angry voices mixed in Korean, Chinese, Vietnamese—he couldn't tell.
Not my business, his brain said. Cross the street and ignore it.
But his feet kept walking forward.
Curious? Stupid? Maybe both.
Just as he reached the alley, a gunshot cracked the night.
Pop.
Such an insignificant sound, like a firecracker—yet everything shattered.
Screams erupted. Feet pounding, people scattering.
Seung-yoon froze. His exhausted brain struggling to make sense.
Two groups. Gang colors he vaguely recognized from news reports. One chasing, one shooting.
Move! his mind screamed.
He tried to run, dive behind a parked car, but his body betrayed him. His legs wouldn't respond. Caffeine and fatigue had dulled his reflexes.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
The second bullet hit his chest.
No sharp pain. Just a heavy pressure, like a punch.
He stumbled, hand rose instinctively to his chest.
Fingers stained dark, sticky.
"Oh."
His legs gave out, the concrete rushed up.
Blood spread warm and sticky.
Silence returned. The gangs vanished, sirens calling from far away—like they belonged to another world.
This is it.
Twenty-eight years old, Broke and alone. A half-finished indie game his only claim to fame.
His grandmother would get the terrible call, blame herself for not visiting more.
He whispered, barely a breath, "Sorry, halmeoni... I wanted to finish..."
Cold spread, slow and relentless, stealing his warmth.
His mind grasped at fragments—code, stories, dreams—slipping through his fingers like water.
The lights of the streetlamp above flickered like a dying star.
It's not fair.
So much left undone.
Then, nothing.
But death was not the end.
His thoughts, memories, feelings—scattered like seeds scattered on the wind.
Floating in a cold black void beyond human reach.
Here, time means nothing.
Here, pain and hope blend into one strange absence.
Satisfaction debugging code.
Taste of his grandmother's cooking.
Frustration at doors closed.
The moment he knew it was over—and wasn't ready.
How long did he drift?
Hours?
Centuries?
No one knows.
Until...
Something swept across the void.
Two ancient forces clashing far beyond the stars—Order and Chaos—sending ripples through dimensions.
His scattered pieces caught in their cosmic net.
Fragment by fragment, memory by memory, pulled back together.
Until Yoo Seung-yoon was more than just a man again.
Something new.
Something beyond.
And far away, on a small blue-green planet just reaching its golden age—
The cosmic game was about to begin.
823 years later...
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