A/N: This is an experimental chapter. Please let me know in the comments if you enjoy this style; otherwise, it will be the last one of its kind.
Peace.
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The sun was beginning to dip below the jagged horizon of Patrain, bleeding out in shades of bruised purple and molten amber across the cobblestone streets.
The city was transitioning from the frantic commerce of the day to the dangerous, velvet shadows of the night. In this twilight hour, the air usually hummed with the sound of closing shop stalls and the distant clink of mugs from the taverns, but today, the atmosphere felt charged with a different kind of tension.
Arthur walked with a steady, rhythmic pace that spoke of a man who had mastered his own center of gravity. On either side of him, Alfia and Meteria clung to his arms like twin goddesses of war and grace. Their faces were flushed with the healthy glow of a successful hunt, their silken hair catching the last rays of the dying sun.
Behind them, trailing like shadows of discontent, were Nana and Cecil. Though they were younger, their presence was no less striking.
However, a storm of petty jealousy brewed in their eyes. As the "juniors" who had joined Arthur's inner circle later than the twins, they felt the sting of their lower rank in the social hierarchy.
To them, the sight of Alfia and Meteria occupying the "prime real estate" of Arthur's arms was an insult they could only swallow with bitter silence.
Hidden behind a stack of rusted iron shields outside a blacksmith's stall, Shin Youngwoo—known to the digital world as Grid—squinted through the gloom. His fingers, calloused and trembling with a cocktail of hope and pure, unadulterated spite, hovered over his holographic interface.
He recognized Arthur immediately. In the real world, they were neighbors in a cramped, soul-sucking apartment building. Arthur was the guy who always looked a bit too polished for a man without a visible job, the kind of person Grid had long ago labeled a "fellow loser" to make himself feel better about his own mounting debts.
'He has to be a newbie,' Grid thought, his inner monologue a frantic prayer to the gods of RNG. 'I've been grinding in the Bone Valley for a month. I've died thirty-seven times. I've tasted the very bottom of the barrel. There's no way a guy like him, walking around like he's in a romance sub-plot, is higher than me.'
With a flick of his wrist, he pulled up his nearby player list.
[Nearby Player Scan]
Aron: Level 132 (Magician)
Shay: Level 110 (Blacksmith)
John: Level 104 (Priest)
Rat: Level 98 (Assasin)
Fog: Level 87 (Berserker)
Grid: Level 81 (Warrior)
Arthur: Level 73 (???)
Pop: Level 69 (Theif)
A wave of intense, toxic relief washed over Grid. It was better than any health potion; it was the ultimate elixir of the mediocre. He suddenly stood taller, puffing out his chest and ignoring the fact that his breastplate had a dent large enough to hold a bowl of soup and smelled faintly of a wet dog.
"Hah! Seventy-three? Level seventy-three?!" Grid's whisper was a jubilant hiss. "He's lower than me! I'm the senior here! I'm basically a high-ranker compared to this amateur! He probably spends all his time picking flowers while I'm out there wrestling with skeletal drakes! It's time for a 'Senior' to show his charisma."
Arthur stopped. He had been deep in thought, mentally cataloging the ore requirements for Khan's Smithy. He was supposed to collect a batch of Oricalcum today from a traveling merchant, but his concentration was shattered by a sudden, familiar spike of negative energy.
It wasn't the cold, sharp killing intent of a Red Knight, nor was it the predatory, mindless hunger of a Ghoul. It was something far more potent and uniquely human: the unmistakable, concentrated saltiness of a man who felt the entire universe owed him a refund and a formal apology.
Arthur turned his head. Emerging from the gloom was a man who looked like he had been dragged through a briar patch, sat on by an ogre, and then partially digested by a scavenger.
His armor was a chaotic mosaic of mismatched plates held together by hope and grime. His boots were audibly leaking swamp water, making a squelch-pop sound with every step.
"Grid?" Arthur asked, with a surprised voice. 'Shouldn't he be undergoing Ashur's secret request Quest?'
Grid squinted, his bloodshot eyes darting between Arthur's calm face and the four breathtaking women surrounding him.
Grid was a man of simple, mountainous tastes. He didn't care for the "intellectual" beauty of a library or the "subtle" charm of a flower. He liked high-spec, high-impact visuals. And the women... they possessed the kind of "divine proportions" that made Grid's heart race and his jealousy flare into a supernova.
'Beautiful... legendary-tier NPCs... and they're... they're huge!' Grid's eyes nearly popped out of his head, his internal "Waifu-Meter" shattering under the pressure. Even the two more younger ones, Nana and Cecil, though smaller in scale, possessed a budding elegance that promised infinite future possibilities.
'Why does this Level 73 loser have four world-class NPC beauties while I'm eating dirt in a canyon?! The Developers are definitely targeting me! They're giving the top-tier companion AI to the pretty boys to maintain the status quo!'
Grid smoothed down his greasy, matted hair and struck what he believed was a "dignified veteran" pose—which actually looked more like a man suffering from a severe case of scoliosis. He stepped into their path, blocking the way to Ozuna's Inn.
"Hey, Arthur! Fancy meeting you here," Grid said, his voice dropping into a forced, theatrical baritone. He ignored Arthur entirely, turning his full attention to the four girls, his gaze lingering on their "assets" with the subtlety of a sledgehammer.
"Ladies, you shouldn't be wandering around with such a low-level escort. Patrain is a den of vipers. There are ghouls, spectral assassins... things a Level 73 player simply doesn't have the 'stats' to handle."
Grid patted the rusted hilt of his broadsword, which rattled loosely in its scabbard. "I am Grid. Level 81. A veteran who fought in the Bone Valley daily. If you're looking for a real protector—someone with the strength to truly... appreciate your talents... you should look no further."
He gave them what he intended to be a suave wink, but given the grime on his face, it looked like he was having a stroke.
The silence that followed was heavy. A group of nearby mercenaries, leaning against a tavern wall, paused their drinking. A few passing players, noticing the Level 81 "Warrior" posturing in front of a Level 73, slowed down to watch the impending train wreck.
Alfia stepped forward first. Her emerald eyes swept over Grid with the clinical detachment of a biologist looking at a particularly unpleasant specimen of pond scum.
"Protection?" Alfia asked. Her voice was like fine silk pulled over a razor blade. "You wish to offer us protection, 'Warrior' Grid? I find it fascinating that a man who smells so strongly of failure, desperation, and moldy rye bread has the confidence to speak to us. Look at your equipment. It is mismatched, poorly maintained, and frankly, an insult to the very concept of metallurgy. Your presence isn't a deterrent, sir; it is a walking experience-point penalty."
Grid's jaw hit his chest. "Wait, I—"
Meteria sighed softly, stepping up to take Arthur's hand, lacing her fingers through his. "Sister, please be kind," she whispered, though her voice carried perfectly. "It is clear the poor man has suffered some sort of mental trauma. Perhaps he fell during his 'adventures' and struck his head on a fossil? Look at his eyes... there is no intelligence there, only a deep, abiding hunger for things he will never possess."
Seeing the seniors take their shots, Nana and Cecil realized this was their chance to prove their loyalty to Arthur—and perhaps vent some of their own frustrations.
Nana stepped around Meteria, her arms crossed over her chest. She looked at Grid's boots, which were still oozing gray mud. "Level 81?" she giggled, a sound that felt like a needle to Grid's ego.
"Is that why you're wearing those? Are they 'Legendary Grade' clown shoes? Because only a clown would think he could stand next to Arthur and call himself a 'protector.' Arthur kills monsters with more dignity than you use to eat that piece of moldy rye bread which is growing it's own ecosystem."
Cecil joined in, her voice dripping with a youthful, cold arrogance. "And he thinks he can 'appreciate' our talents? Sir, you can't even appreciate the concept of a bath. If you were our protector, we'd spend more time protecting you from the embarrassment of your own existence than we would fighting monsters. You're Level 81? That's embarrassing. To be that high level and still look like a mob that was rejected from a starter dungeon... it's a tragedy."
"Yeah!" Nana added, pointing at the dent in Grid's chest. "My father used better scrap metal to patch his pig pen than what you're wearing. You're not a veteran; you're a warning sign for what happens when a someone ignores their basic hygiene entirely."
The crowd of onlookers could no longer contain themselves.
"Pfft! Hahaha!" a nearby Level 110 Magician roared, slapping his knee. "Did you hear that? 'A walking experience-point penalty!' That's gold!"
"Look at his face!" a female player whispered to her friend, not bothering to hide her laughter. "He actually thought he was flirting. He looks like a goblin trying to imitate a knight."
"Hey, Level 81!" a mercenary shouted. "Maybe you should spend less time in the Bone Valley and more time in a laundromat! You're scaring the NPCs, and not in the 'scary warrior' way!"
Grid's face was turning a shade of purple that shouldn't be possible in a digital avatar. He was surrounded. To his left, the elite of Patrain were laughing at him.
To his right, the "pretty boy" Arthur was being held by four world-class beauties. And in front of him, the very women he tried to impress had just dismantled his soul with a vocabulary he barely understood.
"I... I have a hidden quest!" Grid screamed, his voice cracking. "I'm on a mission from an Earl! I'm going to be a high ranker! You'll all see! You'll all be begging for my help when I'll become the strongest in the world!"
"The Strongest?" Alfia asked, her eyebrow arching. "With those hands? You look like you'd struggle to kill a chicken, don't dream what isn't possible. Come, Arthur. The air here has become quite foul. I fear the 'salt' from this man is beginning to dehydrate my skin."
Without another word, the twins grabbed Arthur's hands—one on each side—and began to guide him toward Ozuna's Inn. Nana and Cecil followed closely behind, each giving Grid a final, synchronized snort of derision as they passed. They pressed close to Arthur, their figures brushing against his arms—a final, unintentional salt-rub into Grid's gaping emotional wounds.
Arthur looked back over his shoulder, giving Grid a small, genuinely apologetic nod. He knew what it was like to struggle, but he also knew that Grid's current path was paved with his own ego.
"See you back at the apartment, Grid," Arthur called out. "Good luck with the... bone stuff."
Grid stood frozen in the middle of the street.
The laughter of the players and NPCs echoed off the walls of Patrain.
A single crow flew above Grid and perfectly aiming its dropping on his head with it's lingering cawing.
Caw. Caw. Caw.
Grid trimbled, and wiped his head with his hand, "They... they ignored me," Grid whispered, his knees starting to tremble. "They insulted me with high-class vocabulary and then just... dragged him away. Why?! I'm higher level! I have more Strength points! I'm the senior!"
Behind a nearby alleyway corner, a shadow was doubling over in a fit of silent hysterics. Koren, the elite stealth assassin, was clutching his stomach, his face purple.
He had seen Grid die in thirty-seven different ways, including cranial impalement, but watching a Level 81 man get intellectually and socially dismantled by four beautiful girls while trying to "flex" his stats was the highlight of his career.
"This is it," Koren wheezed into his recording crystal. "My Lord Ashur... forget the book for a moment. This footage alone is worth its weight in gold. I've never seen a man lose his soul without a single point of damage being dealt to his HP bar. He is currently at 0% Social HP."
As Grid's screams of "UNFAIR! BROKEN GAME!" echoed through the digital streets of Patrain.
In the real world, inside a dimly lit, cluttered apartment that smelled of stale cup ramen and desperation, the lid of a high-end VR capsule hissed open. Shin Youngwoo sat up, his hair a bird's nest, his face flushed with a mixture of sweat and fury.
"DAMN IT! DAMN IT ALL!" he screamed, kicking the side of his expensive capsule. "Arthur! That lucky bastard! I know his secret! He probably spent all his starting gold on 'NPC Relationship' items! That's why he's only Level 73! He's a simp! A high-level, professional simp!"
Youngwoo sat on the edge of his bed, his heart hammering. He opened a forum on his desktop, his eyes darting across the screen as he typed with frantic, rhythmic energy: "How to attract high-spec NPCs fast without gold." He scrolled through the results, his teeth grinding. Every thread said the same thing: "High Affinity requires high Charisma, good Deeds, or exceptional Talent."
"Charisma? Deeds? I don't have time for that!" Youngwoo hissed, slamming his laptop shut. "I'll show them. I'll get Pagma's book, and then I'll demand Patrain from Ashur! I'll buy that inn and fire those girls! No... I'll make them work for me! I'll make them polish my shoes while I eat the most expensive steak in the game! Hahahaha!"
His manic laughter was suddenly cut short by a sharp, rhythmic knock on the wall from the neighboring apartment.
"Keep it down over there, Youngwoo Hyung! Some of us are trying to sleep!"
It was Arthur's voice—the real Arthur. It was calm, steady, and possessed a level of composure that felt like a bucket of ice water being poured over Youngwoo's head.
Youngwoo froze, his face turning an even deeper shade of purple. The realization that his "rival" was literally three feet away, probably resting after a day of being adored by digital goddesses, was too much to bear. He crawled under his thin, scratchy blankets, trembling with a mix of rage, shame, and a desperate, burning desire to find a "Big-Busted NPC" of his own to validate his existence.
"Just you wait, Arthur," he whimpered into his pillow. "Once I'm a ranker... I'll have six girls. No, eight. And they'll all be bigger than your girls!"