Lee Joon-ho stared at the eviction notice taped to his apartment door, the red ink glaring like a fresh wound.
"Three days," it read, the bold letters slicing through what little hope he had left.
Three days to scrape together rent with a bank account barely holding a thousand won and a stomach that hadn't known a proper meal in weeks.
Once a kendo prodigy, now a 27-year-old wreck—confined to a wheelchair and shackled to a life that felt like a cruel punchline.
Rustle. Creak.
He wheeled himself inside, the door groaning shut behind him. His one-room apartment was a graveyard of failure: a thin mattress shoved against the wall, a desk buried under unopened bills, and a pawn-shop VR headset gathering dust on a shelf.
He'd bought it on a whim a year ago after seeing some StreamSphere ad that promised "a new life in VR." Back then, he'd scoffed.
Now, with no job—fired from a soul-crushing data-entry gig two weeks ago—and no options, it didn't seem like a gimmick anymore. It looked like a lifeline.
Joon-ho wheeled over, grabbing the headset. The cracked plastic was cold against his palms, cheap and fragile, much like his future.
He hadn't touched VR since the accident, hadn't dared to feel a blade he could no longer hold in reality. But desperation had a way of smothering pride.
Click. Whirr.
He powered it on, the screen flickering to life. A login appeared for Sword Realms, a free-to-play game he'd downloaded months ago and immediately forgotten.
Medieval battles, basic graphics, but a physics engine that claimed to give weapons real weight. Maybe he could sell an account. Maybe he just needed to swing again.
[SYSTEM: "Enter Username."]
He hesitated. His fingers hovered over the keyboard. The word formed in his throat before his mind caught up.
"Razor," he typed, the word cutting into him like glass.
The game loaded, dumping him into a forest clearing. The world was a patchwork of stiff foliage and low-res textures, but none of that mattered.
A wooden sword appeared in his hands—light, balanced, familiar. His fingers curled around the hilt, and for a brief moment, he forgot he was sitting. The neural-link bypassed his broken body, firing signals straight to his brain.
In here, he could move.
Swish. Swoosh.
A goblin shuffled out from the underbrush, snarling with rubbery, green lips.
[SYSTEM: "Swing to attack."]
Joon-ho's lip twitched. He didn't need lessons.
His feet shifted—virtually—and his shoulders squared into a stance etched into his soul. His grip tightened. The blade cut through the goblin's neck in a clean, fluid stroke.
Slish. Thud.
The head hit the ground before the body did. Perfect.
"Still got it," he muttered under his breath, a flicker of warmth sparking in the hollow cavern of his chest.
The headset's streaming feature blinked at him—low-res, no frills, but functional. On a whim, he clicked "Go Live." No mic, no face, just the feed. If he was wasting time, he might as well let someone see it.
Viewers trickled in. Five, then ten.
[Viewer: "Clean cut."]
[Viewer: "Wooden sword? Lame."]
Joon-ho ignored them, pushing deeper into the forest. Goblins poured out—snarling and screeching—but he moved through them like a storm.
Slash. Thrust. Swish. Thud.
Each strike came fast, precise—muscle memory guiding his hands. He didn't even have to think. His body knew the rhythm. The count climbed: 20, then 50.
Then the wolf boss appeared, its black fur bristling, claws glinting in the dim light. It let out a guttural snarl and charged.
Snarl. Thump.
Joon-ho exhaled sharply, rolling his virtual shoulders. His grip loosened—just slightly—the way he used to before a decisive strike. The wolf lunged, but he was already moving. He sidestepped, blade arcing upward in a single, merciless slash.
Slish. Crack.
The wolf's skull split with a sickening crunch. It hit the ground before it even realized it was dead. Critical hit. Overkill.
[SYSTEM: "Boss defeated."]
Chat lit up.
[Viewer: "What the hell?"]
[Viewer: "One-shot a boss?"]
[Viewer: "Who's Razor?"]
The viewer count jumped—100, then 200. A notification pinged.
[SYSTEM: "StreamSphere: 1,000 won tip received."]
Joon-ho blinked. A tip. Barely anything, but real. Tangible.
He leaned back in his wheelchair, breath uneven. His hands still trembled faintly, clenching and unclenching as if the sword was still in his grip. Eight years of rust, and he still cut through like nothing had changed.
Maybe he wasn't finished.
Maybe the sword master could still swing his sword—even if only in a world that wasn't real.