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Translator: 8uhl
Chapter: 1
Chapter Title: Memories of the Sword God
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Sometimes memories of my past life surface.
Unwanted ones, at that.
"Child, won't you come with me?"
A robe embroidered with red flowers on the sleeves caught my eye.
The robe fluttered yet remained impeccably neat, and the middle-aged man's smile brimmed with playful warmth to set the child at ease.
In the dead of night.
The middle-aged man approached the child bound in chains and slowly extended his hand.
The child pressed against the floor and shrank back.
The rough stone felt ice-cold against the palms.
A black market that opened only under the full moon.
And among its wares, at the very bottom, was the child.
"Hahaha. No need to worry. I've come to take you home."
The middle-aged man offered a benevolent smile, hand outstretched, waiting patiently.
Time passed, and once the child realized the man before him meant no harm, he lifted his head.
But the child couldn't meet the man's gaze directly.
Seeing this, the man assumed it was from repeated beatings and averted his eyes to glare coldly at the black marketeer's fresh corpse.
Yet the child's hazy gaze, past the hand, clearly fixed on something else.
Not the extended hand, nor the kind smile, nor the red plum blossoms—but the sword hanging at the man's waist.
The child was staring at the sword.
And in that instant of recognition, that he had been that very child in the memory.
Seo-jun woke up.
"Ah..."
Morning sunlight pierced the curtains, twisting his face into a grimace as a matter of course.
Not just the sunlight, though.
"It's been ages since one showed up in a dream."
Jin Seo-jun.
He didn't know the why, who, or how, but at a young age, he'd recalled his past life's memories.
The child prodigy's salvation by a passing Taoist, the promising young swordsman's grueling efforts amid envy, the crushing responsibility as a pillar upholding the righteous sects.
And in that past life, he had been.
The Sword God.
So called.
"What's the point of a past life as the Sword God?"
Seo-jun chuckled dryly as he drew back the curtains and began tidying the bed.
Twenty-three years old, in the fall.
The start of an ordinary day.
Or so he thought.
Ding.
Until that one message arrived.
Recalling a past life isn't exactly a good thing.
"Hey, capsule cafe after lecture?"
"Today too? We went yesterday."
"Yeah. So, you in?"
"Obviously. Why even ask?"
Seo-jun, an utterly ordinary college student aside from his past life memories, pondered as he overheard the whispers from the students in the back row.
"That concludes today's lecture..."
Class was over.
As always, the professor's parting words drowned in the shuffle of bags and rising students.
Seo-jun leisurely packed his things and stood from his chair.
"Hey, hurry up. Get there late, no pods left."
"What are we, middle or high schoolers rushing after school?"
"Then?"
"Pods here are always gone, early or late. Chill."
That popular, huh.
Well, yeah.
Seo-jun nodded, recalling seven years back.
Snagging a pod then had been hell.
'And the hype just keeps climbing every year... Nah.'
He shook off the thought and headed home.
He opened the door to find his roommate—his one and only real friend—lounging on the sofa, glued to the TV.
"Yo, back? All-Star match. Wanna watch?"
Kim Tae-woo.
Seo-jun's high school classmate and a seven-year veteran streamer holding steady at ten thousand average viewers.
Tae-woo had crashed at school and streamed from home since high school.
Come exam season, he'd get booted from home and bunked at Seo-jun's place. After graduation, when Seo-jun went independent, they'd ended up roommates.
"Pass. Watch it solo. It's boring."
Seo-jun replied curtly.
"Boring? Like you know fun."
"Ain't it all predictable?"
"Yeah, predictable. Play enough VR, it all feels samey. I get it. But listen, Seo-jun."
Tae-woo sighed.
"Yeah?"
"You never even tried a pod. Dude, I've begged you—just log in once—and you always bail!"
Virtual reality: a device letting your whole body dive into another world.
The capsule.
The world had been swept up in capsule fever for years now.
They recreated real-world hotspots to sate busy modern folks' travel cravings.
Shopping, education, medicine, cars—VR fused into countless industries, reshaping the world.
But the hottest sector? Entertainment, hands down. Games.
Overwhelming realism laced with flashy skills—games poured out nonstop, and capsule gaming's popularity soared daily.
The All-Star match Tae-woo was watching was an event from the famous VR game The League.
"I tried capsule games back in the day."
"Then why not now?"
"VR's dangerous."
"Dangerous how? One guy collapsed worldwide. Ever!"
Seo-jun kept his expression neutral and pivoted the topic.
"Yeah? Anyway, dinner out later. Mom made braised short ribs."
"Ribs? Can't say no."
Tae-woo beamed like an idiot.
Simpleton.
Seo-jun shook his head and retreated to his room.
He packed up, changed clothes, sat at his desk, and booted the computer. He clicked into the search bar.
Wondering if Tae-woo was right.
Capsule, virtual reality, accident.
He combined the terms and scoured the net.
'One for real.'
An article from seven years ago: a sixteen-year-old collapsed mid-session.
No need to click for details.
'No one knows better than me.'
He sighed and leaned back in his chair.
'Why'd I even game?'
So yeah.
Recalling a past life ain't great.
If it'd been some peaceful Taiping farmer harvesting rice, maybe.
But no—a savage world where a glance sparked fiery sword dances like bandits at a feast. And he'd been smack in what you'd call the eye of it.
'Savage for sure.'
Death clung closer than a shadow in that life.
Loss was commoner than roadside pebbles.
Especially as a kid—no choice but to doubt the memories' truth.
No proof he wasn't nuts.
Then at sixteen.
He dipped into VR by chance and gripped a sword inside.
That moment? Crystal clear even now.
Awkward, yet utterly familiar grip.
The motions.
The grain.
He swung following the loops burned in his brain.
That day sealed it: memories were real.
'That the reason?'
VR games were fun, freewheeling.
But.
Less than a year in, blood streamed from nose and mouth. He blacked out and collapsed.
In the capsule.
Cause: congenitally low assimilation rate.
Assimilation rate measures how realistically you perceive the VR world. Higher means better adaptation, less fatigue.
'Unfortunately, Seo-jun, your rate's too low—link unstable.'
What he heard after precise scans at the lab.
'How low?'
'Ten. Lowest worldwide. Dizzy spells must've been brutal... how'd you even play?'
Ten.
Average sixty, next lowest forty-two. His was abysmal.
'Any more VR dives... brain risk. Voltage mismatch fries circuits—your brain just doesn't sync with VR. Serious damage possible.'
Because of the past life quirk?
Or weird constitution?
Either way, he became that one global collapse case.
'Sorry. For your safety, we must halt VR service. First time for this.'
He took it in stride.
Can't game? Not dying.
Still, this feeling now.
Regret?
Or.
"...Dunno."
As he muttered and powered down the PC.
Ding.
Phone buzzed. He checked, eyes widening.
"Huh?"
Hello, Seo-jun. This is Oh Ji-hye, Surface Korea R&D Director. Got time? Swing by the lab sometime?
Next day.
Whirr.
The capsule lid rose, and Seo-jun opened his eyes.
"How'd it feel stretching in VR after so long?"
Still woozy from the dive, a woman in her late thirties approached.
Oh Ji-hye.
The lab director he'd bonded with during past exams.
He flexed his hand a few times, then shared his take.
"Feels fine. Definitely less dizzy than back then."
Her reason for summoning him was straightforward.
A way for him to dive VR sans brain damage.
First time in seven years!
"Hehe, right? That new model's tuned to minimize dissonance for low-rate users, max performance for high-raters!"
"I see."
"This way?"
She led him to her desk and sat him beside her.
"Check this graph..."
Graphs weren't his thing, but her rundown boiled down to this:
Daily time cap? Fine to use.
One more condition, though.
"Sadly, only this new model's safe. We ignored price, cranked perf to insane levels."
Only that beast made it barely viable.
Seo-jun smiled wryly and asked the price.
"How much?"
Her "price ignored" line nagged.
And yep—the number she dropped was beyond imagination.
"Well... one hundred million. Haha, steep, huh?"
Steep.
Budget models few million, premium under thirty.
'Hundred mil.'
Pro gear. For pros where tenths decide wins, investment made sense.
"What'll it be?"
Too pricey for a hobby, he figured.
About to decline politely, Oh Ji-hye spoke cautiously.
"Hundred mil's a haul, sure. So... know the League of Streaming on Travel?"
League of Streaming.
RIOS for short.
Streamers battling in The League—biggest tourney outside pro leagues.
He knew the basics from Tae-woo and nodded.
"Surface is sponsoring. Added this new capsule to winner's prize."
"Ah..."
"Enter the tourney, and I'll loan you one free till it ends."
His mind tangled.
Take and repay, huh?
Streamer.
Guy right next door was one, yet he'd never considered it.
"But no pro gaming thoughts. Pros live in pods, eat-sleep-game, monthly checks. That lifestyle? Your brain won't last. Even better pods later."
Got it.
He pondered, then picked the safest reply with a smile.
"Thanks. I'll think it over."
"Director, why'd you do that?"
Lab after Seo-jun left.
A staff researcher who'd eavesdropped approached.
"Do what?"
She played dumb.
"Free loan? For a streamer tourney? Why? Kid's special case, sure, but no need."
"Hey, Surface doesn't lose a single customer."
"You threaten service cuts on whiny pros citing risks, and now this?"
The researcher sounded baffled; she brushed it off.
"Guess I hate wasted talent."
"Huh? Benefits or not, kid winning RIOS? Even entering?"
Oh Ji-hye recalled seven years back, first meeting Seo-jun.
How stunned she'd been at that prodigy user's measly ten assimilation.
And now.
'Skills unrusty. No... sharper.'
Her eyes drifted sideways.
Today's data on Seo-jun glowed there.
Not just physical responses—results from simple VR tests. Simple, yet telling.
"Entry might be tough."
Needed streamer cred first.
But mere entry?
"Winning... feels possible."
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