Seoul, South Korea.
Arcade Headquarters Building – Programming & Support Department.
9:30 A.M.
The air in the office felt dense, though no one seemed to notice.The rhythmic sound of keyboards, the constant hum of cooling fans, and the soft ticking of the wall clock blended into an almost hypnotic routine.
The team worked as usual, immersed in their tasks—lukewarm coffee cups nearby, dark circles under their eyes from rotating shifts.
Then suddenly, on a monitor in the back, the monotony broke.
On Elvis's screen, a sequence of red messages flickered violently:
[Major distortion detected]
Elvis frowned, leaning closer as the crimson glow painted his face.
Elvis: —"What… is this?"
[Multiple narrative lines have been deliberately altered]
[Calculating damage… excessive dissonance]
[Source of narrative distortion… Mob NPC 858191]
[Subsidiary system unable to repair distortion]
Elvis straightened in his chair, his frown deepening.He moved the mouse quickly, trying to refresh the screen—but the messages remained.
Elvis: —"Bug? System error? Hey, Carl, look at this…"
Carl, who had been reviewing code a few meters away, approached with a cup of coffee in hand. He leaned over the back of Elvis's chair, studying the messages with a skeptical expression.
Carl: —"Why is this only showing up on your monitor?"
Elvis: —"No idea…"
Carl: —"Wait… those are the key numbers of the Mob connected to Erling."
Elvis: —"What?!… Dude, do you know what that means?"
Carl: —"It's official. This got out of hand."
Elvis: —"No, it didn't! First, we locate it."
Carl: —"Locate it?"
Elvis: —"Of course. You don't alter the fate of the world if an NPC is static, right?"
Carl: —"According to General Supervision tracking, the Mob was in Cartag."
Elvis: —"Who told you that?"
Carl: —"My friend, Lodeira."
Elvis: —"Whatever. Let's see what actually happened."
The two moved with the speed of elite hackers.But after several minutes of trying…
Elvis: —"What the hell?! Why is its last recorded location Ataxia… but its current location unknown?"
Carl: —"Maybe… besides developing autonomous AI… it altered its own code?"
Elvis: —"That's impossible. The source and structural code of every NPC gives us access to their location and POV."
Carl patted his shoulder, swallowing hard.
Carl: —"Dude… there are only two explanations. Either that Mob took over the system… or it rewrote its own source code. That's it."
An uncomfortable silence settled in.The hum of the AC suddenly felt louder.
Then Han So-mi, who had been sitting across the row, approached quietly, brows raised as she tried to read over their shoulders.
Han So-mi: —"Guys… you've been really quiet. What's going on?"
The moment she finished speaking, Elvis's monitor went black.
A deep void reflected on their faces—followed by a burst of neon-green symbols and code flashing in erratic sequence.Like a living language.Unreadable.Almost organic.
The three froze, watching as the characters danced—then vanished within seconds, leaving the screen completely blank.
They blinked.
For a moment… everything seemed normal again.
Until Han So-mi spoke, her voice trembling.
Han So-mi: —"How did I get here? I was at my desk a second ago."
Carl: —"I was about to say the same thing… (That's weird.)"
Elvis: —"I think we were talking about what to do after work."
A cold silence spread through the room.
Then, as if normalcy had been rebooted, a casual voice broke the tension from another cubicle:
Seop Ming-Jae: —"I'll buy drinks later." (I need to report to number 1.)
The words went unnoticed.
The rest of the team nodded or muttered something irrelevant, and slowly, the usual sounds of typing and clicking filled the room again.
As if nothing had happened.As if nothing ever did.
Meanwhile — Content Development Department.
9:45 A.M.
On the seventeenth floor, the atmosphere was completely different.
Nothing like the methodical silence of support—here, the air smelled of fresh coffee, digital markers, and glowing screens filled with sketches, concept maps, and floating dialogue windows.
The creative team—the so-called "narrative architects"—stood gathered before a wall-sized virtual board.
Across it, colored lines intertwined like a living organism:
"ENATH WAR VS NORDKRIEGER"
"TECHNO-MAGICAL MECHAS VS BERSERKERS"
"METSO–AZTLAN CONTINENTAL TENSIONS"
"THE TENTH HERO"
"CORRUPTED ROOTS & MONSTER EVOLUTION"
Each one connecting names, events, and symbols like a digital mythological scripture.
A woman with short hair and round glasses—likely the team lead—held a stylus, circling upcoming arcs.
—"We need consistency in the political progression of divine NPCs. When players arrive, there can't be sponsorship conflicts."
The words sank into the team.
Then she added:
—"Let's be honest—we don't want Osiris, Hades, Hela, Nergal, and the rest of the underworld gods competing while tensions are already high. They can't clash if they're interested in the same LIG rankers."
Another writer raised his hand enthusiastically:
—"But isn't the next war after the tutorial the Empire's invasion of Kemet? Or do we build continental tension with Yidra Island?"
The room turned electric.
Ideas flew—some brilliant, others absurd—driven by pure creative frenzy.
Holographic keyboards echoed like light rain as the board expanded, reshaped, and reorganized itself under voice commands.
A third developer, headphones hanging around his neck, added more cynically:
—"That sounds interesting… but what if we convince the VP to give the divine system a third function? That way we can level up the game's main NPC—the Tenth Hero. Remember I told you a friend mentioned Mr. Wonyoung's interest in Mob 858191?"
The lead sighed, spinning the stylus in her hand.
—"I like the idea… but the VP is busy showing Mr. Velazquéz around. What if we test it on Arcade's new Creative Advisor? If he pulls it off, he's earned the title—even as a newcomer."
Soft laughter followed.
Stress lingered—but so did pride.
They all knew their stories weren't just lines of text.They were the threads and soul of [War Of Kingdoms].
Outside — Near a vending machine
9:50 A.M.
Far from the department's noise, Hakari Ozawa—one of the project's lead writers—sat on a minimalist terrace, laptop open, a cup of steaming tea beside her.
Sunlight reflected off the screen, casting shadows over her tired eyes.
A call vibrated on her smartwatch. She answered casually, still mentally reviewing a war scenario.
—"Yeah, it's me, Harin… Did you pick Hannah up from kindergarten?"
Her voice sounded gentle—but carried an invisible tension.
She paused, listening.
Her gaze drifted to the city skyline, traffic flowing like streams of data.
—"Ah… good, thank you. Tell her Mom will be home early today, okay?"
A faint, almost melancholic smile crossed her face.
She hung up, exhaling slowly, staring at the floating board on her laptop where the words blinked:
"THE CHAOS ORGANIZATION – DARK ENERGY."
The distant sound of school bells reminded her of someone.
For a moment… she thought of the friend lying in a coma in a private hospital in Kyoto.
Her heart had already begun planning it—though she didn't know it yet…
Her daughter, Hannah Ozawa, would soon meet her family for the first time.
Top Floor Arcade Presidential Office.
10:00 A.M.
The silence there was different.
Heavier.
The faint hum of server cooling systems filled the room. At the center of the minimalist, perfectly ordered office, Arcade's president—Shimamoto Mitsuki—spoke quietly in front of his monitor.
His fingers tapped against the desk.
The screen was completely black—until lines of code, symbols, and text aligned in perfect columns.
As if something invisible was responding to him.With both voice and text.
Shimamoto Mitsuki: —"Narrative issues, huh… I suppose that department will finally be useful fixing this, Org."
On the monitor, words wrote themselves—perfectly precise, mechanical… yet carrying authority.
[This was my negligence. I should have never allowed that anomaly so much freedom…]
[Even within the simulation, eleven days were enough for him to create near-irreversible effects…]
[Regardless, I will initiate an intervention. If successful, the anomaly will be reset starting from Day 13.]
Mitsuki narrowed his eyes.
The neon-green glow illuminated his face, giving him an almost solemn expression.
Shimamoto Mitsuki: —"You help the Master oversee everything. I understand why you neglected it."
[Listen carefully, Number 1…]
[YOU ARE NOT WORTHY OF CALLING HIM MASTER.]
[I will handle this personally… we will simply reorganize this mess, and for that, the Nexus's son will be key.]
Mitsuki swallowed, jaw tightening.
For a moment, the air itself seemed to vibrate—as if the presence behind the screen could hear him breathe.
Shimamoto Mitsuki: —"Understood. I'll use the others in that department as a cover… once it's done, what will you do with the real ones?"
The screen flickered.
The response appeared letter by letter—rhythmic, almost like a heartbeat.
[I will erase their memories of everything related to the Anomaly.]
[And I will adjust the memories of anyone who suspects anything unusual about Arcade.]
[No one is qualified for the truth.]
Mitsuki nodded slowly, staring at the screen with a mix of respect… and fear.
Shimamoto Mitsuki: —"Understood… do as you will."
The monitor went dark.
In the office's silence, only the faint reflection of the city remained on the windows…
…and the ticking of a clock that, for some reason, had begun to slow down.