What do I really want?
It was a question that refused to leave him. Kept repeating in his head—
Again.
And again.
Like a broken loop—never fading, never resolving—just replaying until even the silence around him felt crowded.
Zealth sat on a weathered stone overlooking a wide valley, posture loose, almost careless. The late morning sun stretched across the field in soft gold, warming the metal plates of his worn old armor. Heat settled against his shoulders, then slowly seeped through to his skin beneath. It felt… pleasant.
Too pleasant.
A breeze followed—cool, deliberate—threading through his black hair, brushing against the nape of his neck, slipping through the small openings in his armor like it knew exactly where to touch. The trees behind him swayed in quiet rhythm, leaves whispering as if sharing some secret he wasn't part of.
Zealth exhaled slowly.
It felt real.
So real.
Too dangerously real.
The warmth. The chill. The faint rustle of grass. Even the weight of his sword resting under his palm—solid, grounded.
Everything felt.
Then—
His eyes flicked upward.
A translucent digital clock hovered in the air.
9:34
Each second ticked with clinical precision.
And just like that, the illusion cracked.
This wasn't a field.
This wasn't wind.
This wasn't anything.
It was Jupiter01.
A world stitched together by code, polished to perfection, designed to fool the senses.
It was supposed to be a realistic virtual game.
And it was indeed.
He could see. Hear. Taste. Feel. And smell… yeah, smell.
Everything—
Except pain.
Zealth let out a faint breath through his nose, something between a scoff and a sigh.
"Right," he muttered under it.
A soft mechanical hum buzzed near his shoulder.
The drone hovered there—small, spherical, its twin propellers spinning with insect-like persistence. Its lens adjusted with quiet intent, capturing his profile before drifting upward to frame the timer, then easing back again like it knew its angles better than he did.
When it settled behind him, Zealth's gaze shifted to the translucent panel only he could see.
67 viewers.
His jaw tightened.
That's it?
The number sat there, unimpressive. Unmoved.
Half my loot… for sixty-seven people.
The reality landed him heavier than what he expected.
A year.
A full year of streaming.
Grinding. Experimenting. Smiling when he didn't feel like it. He tried everything—guiding beginners through their first quests, joining high-risk expeditions, even hosting his "challenge me and take my loot" events like this one.
At first, it worked.
The thrill.
The anticipation.
The rush when someone actually showed up.
The battle.
But now?
Now it felt like repeating a joke no one laughed at anymore.
His eyes dropped to the chat.
Messages crawled in—slow, uneven.
"Where are you exactly?? Give us a hint at least!"
"North valley? South valley? Blink twice if it's in Alphton Forest."
"Zealth pls I've been searching for 20 mins."
"Bro, just say the sector, don't be stingy."
Then softer ones slipped between them.
"Take your time, Zealth. Real fans will find you."
"Don't mind the others, your streams are still fun."
"You look tired today… you good?"
His gaze lingered there for a moment.
Then—
The sharper voices cut through.
"Probably hiding in some easy spot again."
"Yeah yeah 'random location' my ass."
"Bet his friends are already on the way."
"Half loot for free? Sounds staged."
Zealth's fingers curled slightly against the hilt of his sword.
Staged…
A thought flickered.
Maybe I should.
It wasn't even absurd anymore.
The drone drifted closer, hovering into its usual angle.
Zealth inhaled, shoulders rising subtly—then dropping.
And just like that—
He switched.
His posture straightened. His expression brightened, like a curtain lifting to reveal someone far more alive than the man sitting seconds ago.
"Zealthys…!"
His voice carried warmth—easy, playful. He dipped his head in a small, practiced bow, one hand resting lightly over his chest.
"My sincerest apologies," he continued, tone smooth and inviting. "But all clues have already been laid out. I believe I've been quite generous today, haven't I?"
A soft chuckle followed. He rubbed the back of his neck, feigning bashfulness.
"The first one to arrive gets a spar with me—and half of my weekly loot, as promised. But…"
His eyes flicked briefly to the timer.
Then back.
"Time is ticking. If no one arrives…" His smile thinned, just slightly. "I suppose today's event ends on a rather lonely note."
He held that smile.
Too long.
Too stiff.
Then—
A movement.
At the edge of the valley.
Four figures appeared.
Zealth's eyes sharpened instantly, instinct cutting through performance. His smile remained, but something behind it stiffened.
…No way.
The drone caught it too, zooming in.
The silhouettes approached without urgency.
No rush.
No caution.
Just… certainty.
As if they already owned the outcome.
The chat reacted faster than he did.
"Them? Again?"
"You've got to be kidding me…"
"Staged. This is staged."
"That Pangil guy again? So annoying."
"I'm out."
Zealth didn't need to read all of it.
He saw the number.
62.
61.
Dropping.
A cold pulse crept up his spine.
Not again…
His grip tightened—just for a second—before he forced his fingers to loosen.
Think.
Say something.
Maybe a joke.
Fix it. You bean head.
Nothing came.
Then—
A voice drifted up the slope, carried lazily by the wind.
"Hey…"
Drawn out.
Casual.
Like a man greeting someone he intended to dismantle.
Zealth's gaze locked forward.
Pangil.
He led the group like he had all the time in the world. His light blue robe—flashy, expensive, unmistakably from a limited event set—fluttered behind him with careless arrogance. His hood was down, revealing a grin that didn't pretend to be friendly.
He looked amused.
Behind him, the formation spoke its own language.
To the left, a heavily armored legion player advanced with measured steps. Spear in one hand, the other with shield angled forward—not toward Zealth, but toward possibilities. His eyes scanned everything but the obvious target. Disciplined. Professional.
At the rear, a green-robed druid adjusted his staff, muttering under his breath—tone low, precise—likely cycling through buffs or pre-cast sequences. His pointed hat dipped with each small movement.
And the last—
Crimson cloaked.
Hood on.
Watching.
Hands relaxed, fingers slightly curled—like someone deciding the exact moment to draw.
They didn't hurry.
Because they didn't need to.
Pangil stopped a few paces away, tilting his head as though inspecting something mildly disappointing.
"Rug knight," he said, voice thick with mock warmth, each word stretched just enough to irritate. "Waiting long?"
Zealth's smile held.
Adjusted.
Refined.
"Ah," he replied, tone still bright—though a thread of strain slipped through. "Pangil. What a… persistent surprise."
A light laugh followed.
"I was beginning to think this week might be different."
Pangil snorted, dragging a hand across his jaw, bored in the way only someone entertained could be.
"Different?" he echoed, glancing briefly at his team before returning his gaze. "Those leeches of yours were too slow to find you. Are they even trying?"
The chat exploded.
"How dare you call us leeches, you ugly monkey?"
"Let's report this bastard. I hope he'll like being punished, again."
"Yeah. This battle maniac psycho needs discipline."
Zealth caught enough of it.
Enough to try convincing.
"Bro," he said lightly, gesturing toward the drone with an easy smile, "looks like the Zealthys aren't too happy seeing you here."
He shifted his stance just a bit—subtle, diplomatic.
"How about giving others a chance first? Don't worry," he added, tone coaxing, "I'll spar with you another day."
For a moment—
Silence.
Then Pangil's expression darkened.
His eyes narrowed—not in anger, but in irritation at being inconvenienced.
"Tch."
Steel flashed.
Twin daggers slid into his hands with fluid familiarity.
"I followed every rule of your little event," Pangil said, voice dropping its playful stretch, sharpening into something colder. "Gave your precious leeches twenty minutes."
He stepped forward.
"Now you want me out?"
A grin cut across his face—wide, unrestrained.
"Screw you—and your Zealthys."
And then—
He moved. Without warning, without second thought.
Only intent.