Master Swordsman’s Stream - Chapter 1

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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Prologue

Sometimes memories from a past life surface unbidden.
Not that I asked for them.
“Child, won’t you come with me?”
A crimson-embroidered robe caught my eye, its sleeves adorned with delicate flowers.
The fabric billowed softly yet retained its neat appearance,
and the middle-aged man’s smile brimmed with playfulness meant to calm the child.
In the silence of the late night.
The middle-aged man approached the chained child and slowly extended his hand.
The child flinched backward, bracing against the rough ground.
The cold stone floor pressed against her palms.
A black market that opened only under the full moon.
And the child was the lowest commodity within it.
“Ha, ha, ha. Don’t be afraid. I’ve come to take you home.”
The middle-aged man smiled kindly, his hand still outstretched, waiting with patience.
After time had passed, the child, realizing the figure before her meant no harm, lifted her gaze.
Yet the child could not look at the man directly.
Seeing this, the man assumed the child’s averted eyes were a result of the repeated beatings, and turned his gaze to the corpse of the black market trader, now cold in death.
But the pupils that appeared blurred to him held something else in sharp focus beyond his outstretched hand.
Not his extended hand. Not his benevolent smile. Not the crimson plum blossoms. It was the sword hanging at the man’s waist.
The child was looking at the sword.
And in that moment, remembering that I—the child in my memory—had been gazing at it then, I became aware.
Seo Jun woke.
“Ah…”
Morning light filtered through the curtains, naturally drawing a grimace across his face.
It wasn’t only the morning light’s doing.
“It’s been a while since a dream like that.”
Seo Jun.
He didn’t know why, who, or how it happened, but from an early age he had recalled memories of his past life.
A Taoist priest passing by had
saved him, and in that salvation he glimpsed the past of a prodigy,
the efforts of a promising rising talent who would be both praised and envied, the weight of responsibility borne by a great pillar supporting the orthodoxy.
And the him of that past life was.
The Sword God.
That was what they called him.
“But what good is it if my past life was the Sword God?”
Seo Jun smiled faintly and drew open the curtains, beginning to tidy his bed.
Twenty-three years old in autumn.
The start of an ordinary day like any other.
Or so I thought.
Ding.
Until a single message arrived.

Episode 1

Remembering a past life is hardly a blessing.
“Hey, want to hit up a Capsule room after class?”
“Again? You already went yesterday.”
“Yeah. So what’s your answer?”
“Of course we’re going. Why are you even asking?”
Seo Jun, an ordinary university student except for the fact that he remembered his past life, listened to the whispered conversation of students in the seats behind him and thought.
“That concludes today’s lecture……”
Class was over.
As always, the professor’s trailing words were drowned out by the sound of students gathering their bags and standing.
Seo Jun unhurriedly collected his things and rose from his chair.
“Come on, if we’re late there might not be any Capsule slots left.”
“What are we, high schoolers? Racing to get there after school ends because the seats fill up?”
“Then?”
“Here’s the thing—there’s never any seats left whether we go early or late. So just relax.”
So the Capsules are that popular?
Well.
Seo Jun acknowledged this, thinking back seven years.
Back then, getting a Capsule slot was also absolute hell.
‘But if the Capsule’s popularity keeps rising every year…… No, forget it.’
Seo Jun dismissed the thought and headed home.
Opening the door and stepping inside, his roommate—and practically his only friend—was sitting on the couch watching television.
“Hey, you’re back? It’s the All-Star Championship. Want to watch with me?”
His name was Kim Tae Woo.
Seo Jun’s high school classmate and a seven-year veteran Streamer who maintained an average viewership of around ten thousand.
Tae Woo had slept at school during high school and broadcast from home.
Because of that, he’d been kicked out during exam periods and ended up crashing in Seo Jun’s room, which eventually led to both of them moving out together after graduation.
“Nah. Watch it yourself. That stuff’s boring.”
Seo Jun replied curtly.
“Boring? Do you even know what fun is?”
“It’s probably just the same predictable thing.”
“Yeah, it’s predictable. If you try it, you might end up feeling like Virtual Reality is all the same anyway. That’s what I thought too. But here’s the thing, Seo Jun.”
Tae Woo let out a sigh.
“Yeah?”
“You’ve never tried a Capsule. You! The guy I keep asking to just come in once and try, and you keep dodging!”
Virtual Reality is a device that lets your entire body dive into another world.
The Capsule.
It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say the world has been swept up in a Capsule craze for years now.
Capsules implement real-world attractions and fulfill busy modern people’s travel desires for places they have no time to visit.
They’ve revolutionized countless industries—shopping, education, healthcare, automobiles—by blending Virtual Reality into these sectors.
But the most popular field by far was entertainment, which is to say, gaming.
As gorgeous Virtual Reality games with spectacular skills poured out endlessly, Capsule gaming’s popularity continued to soar.
The All-Star Championship Tae Woo was watching right now was an event match for the famous Virtual Reality game The League.
“You said you tried a Capsule game back in the day, though.”
“Yeah, so why don’t you do it now?”
“Virtual Reality is dangerous.”
“What’s dangerous about it? Across the whole world, only one person has collapsed from using a Capsule. Just one person!”
Hearing this, Seo Jun put on an unbothered expression and changed the subject.
“Is that so? Anyway, let’s go out for dinner later. Mom made galbi-jjim.”
“Galbi-jjim? I’m in.”
Tae Woo broke into a grin.
A simple guy.
Seo Jun shook his head and went into his room.

* * *

After unpacking and changing clothes, Seo Jun sat at his desk, turned on his computer, and clicked the search bar.
He wanted to verify whether Tae Woo’s claim was true.
Capsule, Virtual Reality, accident.
Seo Jun combined three keywords and dug through the internet.
‘It really was just one.’
He found an article from seven years ago about a sixteen-year-old student who collapsed while using a Capsule.
There was no need to click and read the full details.
‘No one would know it better than me.’
Sigh.
Seo Jun sighed and leaned back in his chair.
‘Why did I even play the game?’
I mean.
Remembering a past life isn’t really a good thing.
If my past life had been a farmer born in some peaceful era, harvesting grain, it would be different.
But I lived in a place that could be called the center of a world where savages fought with fiery sword dances at the slightest eye contact, like dancers in a martial gathering on a street.
‘It was definitely savage.’
In my past life, death was closer than a shadow,
and loss was more common than a pebble rolling along a roadside.
Besides, when I was younger, I couldn’t help but doubt the authenticity of the memory.
After all, there was no proof I wasn’t crazy.
Then when I turned sixteen.
I happened to step into Virtual Reality for the first time and held a sword in my hand.
I remember that moment vividly even now.
The sensation was awkward, yet strangely familiar in my hands.
The movements.
The sword paths.
I swung the sword following motions that had lingered in my mind, and
in that moment, I could be certain the memory was not fiction.
‘Is that why?’
Virtual Reality gaming was quite enjoyable and freeing.
But.
Seo Jun, who had been enjoying Virtual Reality, hadn’t even made it a year before blood poured from his nose and mouth, and he lost consciousness and collapsed.
Inside the Capsule.
The cause was a congenitally low Synchronization Rate.
Synchronization Rate is a metric measuring how realistically one perceives the Virtual Reality world compared to actual reality; a higher rate means better adaptation to Virtual Reality and lower fatigue, they said.
‘Unfortunately, Seo Jun, your Synchronization Rate is too low, making the link unstable.’
That’s what they told me after I underwent a precision scan at the research center.
‘How low?’
‘It’s 10. I believe it’s the lowest in the world. You must have felt dizzy this whole time. I don’t understand how you managed to play the game in this condition……’
A Synchronization Rate of 10.
Considering the average was 60 and the second-lowest rate excluding me was 42, my Synchronization Rate was extremely low.
‘If you enter Virtual Reality again, your brain could be at serious risk. Just as a charger and electronic device with mismatched voltage can damage the device’s circuits, since your brain and Virtual Reality don’t mesh well, severe damage could occur……’
Perhaps because I remember a past life?
Or maybe it’s just an unusual constitution.
And so I became the one and only person in the world who collapsed from using a Capsule.
‘I apologize. For your safety, we have no choice but to halt Virtual Reality service. I’m truly sorry.’
She explained that this was the first case of such a collapse and the first time they’d had to stop service.
It was a reasonable decision, and I accepted it calmly.
It’s not like I’d die from not being able to play games.
Yet this feeling I have now.
Is it regret?
Or perhaps.
“……I don’t know.”
The moment Seo Jun muttered that and turned off his computer.
Ding.
His phone chimed with a notification, and his eyes widened as he checked it.
“Huh?”

[Seo Jun, hello. This is Oh Ji Hye, director of the Surface Korea R&D Center. Would you have time to visit our research center again sometime soon?]

* * *

The next day.
Whirrr.
The Capsule’s lid rose, and Seo Jun opened his eyes.
“How did it feel to limber up in Virtual Reality after so long?”
A woman who appeared to be in her late thirties approached Seo Jun, who was still somewhat dizzy from just exiting Virtual Reality.
Oh Ji Hye.
The research center director who had examined me seven years ago and thus forged this connection.
Seo Jun flexed and clenched his fists for a moment, then shared his impression with her.
“It felt fine. Definitely less dizzying than when I used to play.”
The reason she’d invited him to the research center was straightforward.
It was because they’d found a way for Seo Jun to dive into Virtual Reality without suffering brain damage.
After a full seven years!
“Ha, ha. Right? The New Model Capsule you just entered is designed to minimize discomfort for people with low Synchronization Rates, while allowing those with high rates to achieve maximum performance!”
“I see.”
“Yes. Would you come over here?”
She led Seo Jun over to her desk.
And seated him in the chair next to hers.
“If you look at this graph here……”
Though he wouldn’t understand the graph itself, her explanation went like this:
As long as you don’t exceed a set amount of time per day, you can use the Capsule.
But there was one more condition besides the time limit.
Namely,
“Unfortunately, only this new model coming out will be safe. It’s a device where they disregarded price entirely and pushed performance insanely high, specifically for this.”
So I can only use it if they make something that extreme?
Seo Jun smiled bitterly and asked about the price.
“How much?”
He couldn’t help but notice her earlier comment about disregarding price.
Sure enough, when she spoke the Capsule’s price, it exceeded imagination.
“Well…… it’s 100 million won.
Ha, ha, the price is a bit steep, right?”
Steep.
Budget models went for a few million won, and even premium models didn’t exceed 30 million won, they said.
‘But 100 million…’
For professional-use equipment—say, for pro players where victory or defeat hinges on 0.1 seconds—such an investment might be worthwhile.
“What will you do?”
But for a mere hobby, Seo Jun thought it was too expensive.
Indeed.
Just as he was about to say it seemed impossible, Oh Ji Hye carefully opened her mouth.
“100 million is certainly a heavy sum. So, this is a question—do you happen to know about The League Championship held at Travel?”
League of Streaming.
Abbreviated as RIOS.
It’s a competition where Streamers compete in a game called The League—the largest competition held outside what is, in effect, a professional league.
Seo Jun gave a nod, as he had shallow knowledge thanks to Tae Woo.
“We at Surface have become a sponsor for this event. So a New Model Capsule has been added to the championship prize.”
“Ah…”
“If you decide to enter the competition, I’ll specially provide you with a free Capsule rental through the end of the tournament.”
Seo Jun’s mind grew complex.
In other words, they’re telling me to win and pay them back?
Streamer.
Even though someone close to him had this profession, it was a job he’d never once considered.
“But don’t even think about becoming a pro gamer. Pros basically live in Capsules eating only meals, and undergo regular check-ups monthly. If you took on such work, your brain wouldn’t be able to handle it. Even if a Capsule better than this one comes out.”
Is that how it works?
Seo Jun pondered for a moment, then smiled and chose the safest answer.
“Thank you. I’ll think about it.”

* * *

“Why did you do that, Director?”
In the research center after Seo Jun left,
a research staff member who had been eavesdropping on the conversation between Seo Jun and Oh Ji Hye approached and asked.
“Do what?”
Oh Ji Hye pretended not to know at first.
“The free rental. And a Streamer competition? Why would you say something like that? I understand he’s an unusual case, but there’s no need to go that far, is there?”
“Listen, at Surface we never let a single customer slip away.”
“But you threatened to cut service the moment a pro player checked for a scan and got even slightly annoyed, saying safety was at risk.”
The staff member spoke in disbelief, and Oh Ji Hye dismissed it lightly.
“Well, I just hate seeing talent go to waste.”
“Pardon? But even with those benefits, would that student actually manage to even participate in League of Streaming, let alone win?”
Oh Ji Hye recalled the first time she’d seen Seo Jun seven years ago at the researcher’s words.
She’d been so shocked to discover his Synchronization Rate was merely 10, despite how remarkable he’d been as a user.
And now,
‘His skill hasn’t gotten rusty. In fact……’
Oh Ji Hye’s eyes shifted to the side.
There lay Seo Jun’s data from today’s measurements—not only his physical responses but also the results of the simple, yet because of that simplicity, incredibly clear tests he’d conducted in Virtual Reality.
“Honestly, participation might be difficult.”
He’d need to establish himself as a Streamer and build some notoriety.
But if he could just participate……
“Winning seems possible, doesn’t it?”

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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