Sang-hoon sat on the edge of the designer armchair, the cool blue glow of his smartphone the only light in the now-silent penthouse. He didn't look at the capsule where Ye-rin lay submerged in a digital trance. He couldn't. Instead, his thumb hovered over the refresh button on the "Nobody" channel.
He tapped it.
The screen didn't just load; it exploded.
The chat was a chaotic waterfall of text that moved too fast for the human eye to track.
[ ● LIVE ]
[ VIEWERS: 13,457 ]
————— *** —————
[ CHAT ]
LoreChaser: SHE'S BACK. SHE ACTUALLY LOGGED BACK IN.
Newbie_Watcher: I was in that stream when it was just 1 viewer. Everyone called me a liar in the forums.
DungeonRat: Look at the background. Where in the world is she?
Lvl1_Peasant: @DungeonRat, she's in the Drakenhof Dungeon. That's what we believe for now.
V_Gamer: Is she going to die again? That NPC sister is literally outside the door. 14k viewers, btw.
HiddenPiece_Hunter: If she clears this, she's officially the most cracked player in Aethelgard history.
————— *** —————
Sang-hoon leaned back, his eyes widening as the viewer count flickered and jumped, climbing by thousands every time he blinked. The "Nobody" channel, which had been a ghost town just hours ago, was now a digital roar that vibrated in the palm of his hand. It wasn't just a stream anymore; it was a global surveillance feed.
"Fourteen thousand people watching a girl stand in prison," he muttered, a dry, hysterical laugh escaping his lips. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, feeling the onset of a massive migraine. "And here I was, worried about selling out a stadium tour. I should have just put you in a dungeon years ago, Ye-rin. The marketing would have been much cheaper."
He joked to keep the bile from rising in his throat. He knew the truth that those people weren't just fans; they were vultures. They were waiting for the her to shatter. They were waiting for the next slap, the next drop of blood, the next moment of high-stakes suffering that made Aethelgard the most addictive game on the planet. He glanced at the capsule, then back at the screen where the first-person perspective steadied.
Don't do anything stupid," Sang-hoon whispered, his grip tightening on the phone until his knuckles turned white. "Just... play the game. Sincerely. Good luck, you crazy girl."
Meanwhile, the transition was a violent surge of sensory input. The sterile hum of the capsule vanished, replaced by the heavy, suffocating weight of the Drakenhof atmosphere. Elara's boots crunched on the grit of the stone floor. The air was frigid, tasting of copper and ancient, stagnant water. She didn't look at the live viewer count at all. She didn't care about the thousands of "eyes" watching her.
She stood still for a moment, forcing her lungs to adjust to the thin air of the surrounding. Her heart was a frantic drum against her ribs, but she closed her eyes, drawing on years of stage training to find her center.
Breathe in the cold. Breath out. Let's calm down for now.
When she opened her eyes again, the world felt less like a nightmare. She began to navigate the small, claustrophobic prison room. Her hands brushed against the damp, weeping stone walls, feeling for any crack or loose mortar in the masonry. There were no weapon racks there, only a rusted iron shackle bolted to the floor and a thin, moldy pile of straw in the corner that served as a bed. Every shadow in the corner felt like a threat. Moments after, she needed to know how much time she had before the "script" of her death resumed.
With a flick of her mind, she called up the only window she cared about. The translucent parchment of the quest panel shimmered into existence, casting a faint, ghostly light against the dark stone.
————————————
[ ! EMERGENCY QUEST ! ]
Description: Your siblings have decided that thirteen is an unlucky number. An assassin has been sent to ensure you never leave this dungeon alive. In Drakenhof, the weak are culled, and you are the weakest of all.
Objective: Survive the first assassination attempt (00:22:42 remaining)
————————————
Twenty-two minutes and forty-two seconds.
The numbers pulsed in a bruising violet. Elara stared at the flickering light of the quest panel, her breath coming in shallow, jagged hitches. In twelve minutes, the "lesson" from her sister would cease to be a mere slap and transform into a final, lethal stroke.
She turned away from the glowing text, her eyes darting across the suffocating space. All of a sudden, she threw herself at the heavy oak door. She grabbed the cold iron bars of the small viewing grate, pulling with every ounce of strength she had. The wood didn't even groan; it was solid, reinforced by black iron bands that had held for centuries. There was no latch to pick, no internal mechanism to exploit. The door was locked firmly from the outside.
"Think," she whispered, her voice rasping. "There has to be a way out."
She dropped to her knees, crawling through the grit. She ignored the moldy stench of the straw bed, shoving the damp pile aside to inspect the flagstones beneath. She pounded her fist against the floor, listening for a hollow ring, a sign of a drainage pipe or a hidden crawlspace.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Nothing but solid rock.
She stood up and moved to the back wall, where the stones wept the most. She clawed at the mortar between the heavy blocks, her fingernails chipping as she searched for a loose stone, a hidden lever, or even a crack wide enough to wedge a finger into. The masonry was perfectly sealed. Her gaze traveled upward to the only source of air. A narrow ventilation slit high on the wall, barred by salt-corroded iron as thick as her wrist.
She was trapped.
————— *** —————
DungeonRat: She's checking the floor?
MaryMarteese: Look at her nails. She's actually bleeding trying to claw the stone.
HiddenPiece_Hunter: This is getting intense.
V_Gamer: 15k viewers watching someone realize they're about to die. This is getting dark.
————— *** —————
Outside in the hallway, the rhythmic scrape of the blade resumed.
"Searching for a mouse hole, little bird?"
The voice didn't belong to her sister. It was the same heavy, metallic rasp of the knight who had dragged her here. The one who had stood by and watched the slap with silent, indifferent eyes. His voice drifted through the door, muffled but dripping with a cruel amusement.
"Don't bother. I watched the stonemasons seal this room myself," the knight continued, his armored boots shifting heavily outside. "It was built for someone just like you. Someone the world is meant to forget."
Elara froze, her back pressed against the weeping stone. If the sister had sent the knight to finish the job, she wasn't just facing a family spat; she was facing a professional executioner. Her fingers brushed against the rusted iron shackle bolted to the floor near her feet. It was the only thing in the room that wasn't part of the wall.
As the timer bled down to the final seconds, the heavy iron bolt on the outside of the door finally screeched back. The door swung inward, and the knight stepped into the threshold, his massive frame blotting out the light from the hallway. He didn't say a word. He raised his sword, the steel gleaming with a cold, murderous intent.
Elara didn't scream. She didn't retreat.
As the knight lunged forward to deliver the culling blow, Elara dropped to the floor with a speed born of pure desperation. She didn't try to block the sword. Instead, she grabbed the heavy, rusted chain of the iron shackle. With a violent, primal heave, she whipped the jagged iron loop toward the knight's advancing foot.
The rusted shackle, weakened by age and the dampness of the stones, snagged perfectly against the knight's armored greave. The jagged metal bit into the joint of his armor, anchoring him to the floor for one crucial heartbeat.
The knight stumbled, his center of gravity thrown off as the shackle acted as a temporary tether, disabling his movement. His sword swung wide, burying itself deep into the moldy straw of the bed.
"Now!" Elara gasped.
Before the knight could wrench his foot free from the heavy iron, Elara scrambled past his armored flank. She didn't look back at the cursing soldier or the dark cell behind her. She bolted through the open door and into the dimly lit hallway.
————— *** —————
Newbie_Watcher: SHE USED THE SHACKLE?!
Noob_Gamer88: Absolute madwoman. She used a floor prop!
V_Gamer: 28k viewers, let's go!
New_Account_02: THE DOOR IS OPEN. RUN!
LoreChaser: My heart is actually pounding. GO, ELARA!
————— *** —————
Elara didn't just run; she vanished into the shadows of the corridor, her bare feet slapping against the damp stone with a frantic, uneven rhythm. Behind her, the sound of the knight finally wrenching his greave free from the iron shackle echoed like a thunderclap, followed by the heavy, metallic snarl of a man who had just been humiliated.
"You think the hallway is any safer, little bird?" the knight roared, his armored footsteps beginning to thunder after her. "There is only one way out of here, and I hold the keys!"
The hallway was a nightmare of branching veins, lit only by flickering wall torches that cast long, distorted shadows. Elara's lungs burned as she reached a three-way split in the stone path. To the left, the air smelled of salt and the sea — the sewers. To the right, a faint glow suggested the kitchens or servant quarters. Straight ahead, a spiral staircase wound upward toward the light of the upper levels.
She didn't hesitate. She threw herself toward the right, sliding behind a heavy, moth-eaten tapestry just as the knight rounded the corner. She pressed her back against the freezing masonry, holding her breath until her chest throbbed. Through a small tear in the fabric, she saw him pass with his sword drawn and dripping with the intent to kill.
————— *** —————
LoreChaser: STEALTH MOMENT. My heart is in my throat.
Noob_Gamer88888: Just joined from the viral clip. What's happening right now??
DungeonRat: If he finds her behind that curtain, it's an instant execution.
V_Gamer: Look at the viewer count — 35k!
HiddenPiece_Hunter: The AI in this game is too good. He's going to check the corners. RUN, ELARA.
OldGuard_Aethel: She's not running. She's looking at his belt. IS SHE GOING FOR THE KEYS?!
————— *** —————
Elara watched as the knight paused, his helmet tilting as he scanned the darkness. The heavy iron ring of keys jingled at his hip, the only thing standing between her and the locked gates that guarded the exit to the upper wards.
As the knight turned his back to investigate the stairwell, Elara stepped out from the shadows of the tapestry. She didn't make a sound. She moved with silent grace, her hand reaching out for the cold iron of the key ring. Her fingers brushed the metal, the jingle of the keys sounding like a death knell in the quiet corridor.
Elara's fingers hovered just millimeters from the cold iron of the key ring. The knight's armor creaked. A subtle, predatory shift in weight that told her he had sensed the air change behind him. He began to pivot, the massive claymore already beginning its lethal, horizontal sweep.
She didn't reach for the keys. Instead, her hand darted to a heavy, verdigris-covered bronze sconce bolted loosely to the damp masonry beside the tapestry. With a desperate tug, she tore the heavy ornament from the wall.
She didn't throw it at him.
Instead, she hurled the bronze heavy-handed toward the left-hand corridor, the one leading toward the faint glow. The metal hit the stone floor with a deafening, echoing CLANG sound bouncing and magnifying through the vaulted tunnels.
The knight's blade whistled through the air, slicing through the very space Elara's head had occupied a second before. He checked his swing, his helmet snapping toward the source of the noise in the darkness of the left passage.
"There you are, you little bird!" he snarled with his heavy boots already pivoting toward that direction.
He didn't look back. He thundered into the dark, his torchlight fading as he chased the ghost of a sound. Elara pressed herself deeper into the shadows of the right-hand hall, her heart hammering so hard she feared it would bruise her ribs.
————— *** —————
DungeonRat: THE BAIT.
Noob_Gamer88: I thought she was dead for sure. That swing was pixel-perfect.
V_Gamer: 42k viewers! The clip-farmers are going crazy right now.
HiddenPiece_Hunter: She still doesn't have the keys. How is she getting through the gate??
OldGuard_Aethel: This is definitely high tier quality content!
New_Account_02: Unbelievable...
————— *** —————
Elara didn't follow the knight, and she didn't head for the stairs. She knew the gate at the top would be locked. Instead, she slipped into the small, arched doorway the knight had emerged from moments ago, the guard's station.
The room was cramped, smelling of stale ale and burnt tallow. On a rough-hewn wooden table sat a half-eaten loaf of black bread and, more importantly, a secondary set of master keys hanging from a simple iron peg.
Her breath hitched. She snatched the keys and was finally in her hand. But as she turned to leave, her foot caught on a loose floorboard. It shifted with a hollow thud, revealing a small, velvet-lined box hidden beneath the wood.
Elara's fingers had barely closed around the secondary set of master keys when the heavy, rhythmic thud of armored boots outside didn't fade — they doubled back.
The knight hadn't fallen for the bait. Or rather, he had realized his mistake too quickly. A muffled, metallic curse echoed. He knew. He knew exactly where the spare set he had was kept.
"You clever little bird..." The knight's voice was no longer amused. It was a low, vibrating growl of pure homicidal fury. "I'll peel that skin off your face myself!"
His boots hit the stone floor with a violent, accelerating tempo. He was sprinting.
Elara froze, the velvet-lined box still half-exposed beneath the loose floorboard. She didn't have time to pry it open. She didn't even have time to breathe. The narrow doorway of the guard station was her only exit, and the knight was a wall of steel closing in on it from the hallway.
She scrambled backward into the furthest, darkest corner of the cramped room, pressing her spine against the cold masonry. She clutched the master keys to her chest, her knuckles white, trying to stifle the frantic, jagged sound of her own gasping breath.
CLANG.
The knight's shoulder slammed into the doorframe as he rounded the corner, his massive silhouette blotting out the flickering torchlight. He stood in the entrance, his chest heaving, his visor a dark, eyeless slit that scanned the small room. The tip of his claymore scraped against the floorboards.
He stepped inside.
His greave brushed against the very floorboard she had displaced. He stopped. His helmet tilted down, his gaze landing on the disturbed wood and the corner of the velvet box.
The knight began to turn his head toward the dark corner where Elara supposedly hid. The iron visor shifted slowly, the metal grinding like a funeral bell.
Elara's eyes went wide. She saw the reflection of the hallway torchlight on his polished steel breastplate. She felt the cold master keys biting into her palm, and the weight of the rusted iron bolt she had tucked into her waistband.
"There you are, you little bird," the knight lunged.