The question surfaced abruptly, without warning.
It pierced the air like a javelin, leaving no room to brace or prepare. Given the slew of mind-bending revelations we'd encountered so far, it was clear that this "D-Drive" game wasn't just a digital playground—it was an intricate labyrinth of enigmas wrapped in the skin of a survival simulator. The kind of experience that didn't just challenge your reflexes, but questioned your very existence.
Why the specific numbers 100 and -100? What did "impact" truly entail? Weren't the earlier chaos and surprises already dramatic enough to count as "impact"? And why label it so distinctly, as if to suggest something worse was yet to come? The questions were mounting, one after another, forming a mental avalanche in my head.
Just as my thoughts threatened to spiral, FullMetal, almost as if reading my mind—or perhaps following a scripted pattern—resumed his explanation, filling the screen with more caps-locked monologue.
[OKAY, SO WHY 100 AND -100? THE ANSWER IS SIMPLE: THE D-DRIVE SYSTEM OPERATES ON A HIERARCHY. V-CARD HOLDERS POSSESS FULL CONTROL. THEY'RE GRANTED PRIVILEGES TO WIN—AND WIN BIG. THIS MIMICS VR GAME ECONOMICS WHERE YOU ALWAYS NEED SOMETHING—ANYTHING—TO OFFER AS COLLATERAL DURING NEGOTIATIONS OR BATTLES. PLAYERS DESIGNATED AS PART OF THE SYSTEM'S PROPERTY? THEY HAVE NO CHOICE BUT TO COMPLY, SO LONG AS THEY DON'T INITIATE SELF-DESTRUCTIVE BEHAVIOR DURING THIS ROUND.]
He paused, likely due to screen space limitations.
Even the UI seemed to groan under the weight of his speech. Meanwhile, Akuma—our ever-inappropriate demon-girl mascot—appeared suggestively engrossed in FullMetal's endless data dump. Her hand gestures... let's just say they didn't help the allegations. I won't delve into the specifics of those—they're extremely irrelevant.
I'll spare those details.
And let some of the wildest imagination run wild that is.
A moment later, FullMetal's next data burst lit up the screen:
[NEXT, WHAT IS F-PP? NO, THIS ISN'T AN ACRONYM FOR ANYTHING INAPPROPRIATE. IT STANDS FOR "F-NEURO PERFORMANCE POINTS." THIS IS YOUR METRIC—A WAY TO MEASURE BONUSES AND... YES, MONEY. COLD, HARD, DIGITAL MONEY. AND ONCE AGAIN, FOR CLARITY: MONEY.]
The dramatic repetition was overkill. We got it, we got it—money. Still, it wasn't entirely unexpected. You can't run a high-stakes, potentially lethal virtual experience without some kind of financial compensation.
It's absurd, but that absurdity is exactly what makes it believable.
Because clearly, our willingness to participate has been calculated.
[SO, HOW DO YOU EARN THIS MONEY? DON'T WORRY. YOU'LL GET PAID. DURING GAMEPLAY, YOU'LL RECEIVE A SALARY PER ROUND, STARTING WITH A UNIVERSAL BASIC INCOME—UBI...]
Wait a second...
Universal Basic Income—a sophisticated payroll system of our era, circa 2035, where digital currencies are ubiquitous. Examples include Coins.to, FlashCoins, ArchBytes, and ByteCoins. Only a few renowned gaming companies dare to implement a payroll system akin to a gacha mechanism, as if they're gambling with it. All had failed except one.
One such company is, of course, ARCME REALM Corporation. My former employer.
The process? Simple. You just wait while working. Notably, there's no hourly wage.
They were bold—maybe reckless. No hourly wages. No fixed employment. Just sensors tracking neuro-performance and granting rewards based on impact, engagement, skill, and participation. You worked. You waited. Then you received. Or you didn't.
The system was brutal and efficient.
And you will be paid monthly, based on your performance... wait.
Hold on, does that mean...?
[FOR THOSE WHO HAVE WORKED UNDER A SYSTEM THAT PAYS VIA UBI, THIS SHOULD FEEL FAMILIAR. FOR THOSE WHO HAVEN'T—AS THE NAME SUGGESTS, EACH PLAYER A.K.A YOU WILL BE PAID BASED ON PERFORMANCE, STARTING WITH A PARTICIPATION SALARY AND F-FP. YES, TRULY PAID WITHOUT EXCEPTION, WITHOUT ANY FRAUD. THE CURRENCY WE USE IS ARCHBYTES, IN COLLABORATION WITH ARCHAZER ENTERPRISE, OUR MAIN SPONSOR AND THE FACILITATOR OF THIS GAME.]
Archazer Enterprise again...
I shivered.
That's the second time they've been mentioned. The first time was during Akuma's watch ad, and now they've popped up as the official in-game currency distributor. They weren't just a partner—they were embedded in the system itself as their official title sponsor.
I knew that name. Archazer Enterprise was the brainchild of a man who once claimed he'd visited another world. At first, he was a top-tier gamer, albeit with a knack for avoiding real competition. He had wealth, time, and a taste for escapism. I mean, why bother with leagues when you are that spoiled kind of rich and could easily dominate casual lobbies and spend hours building fantasy narratives?
He claimed his "experiences" weren't fiction but memories. That he'd come back changed. That the gaming industry needed to evolve.
When he'd made such a bold claim, nobody believed him. Yet, that spurred him to establish a company and fund major projects for gaming-related pursuits. And so, fueled by obsession and fortune, he eventually founded Archazer Enterprise.
And what about me? I'd met him. In real life. Just once.
He's cheerful, enjoys joking regardless of status or rank. He knows my real name, but not who I am. However, the opposite could be said for him. Because, despite revealing his face in-public for multiple times, no one knows his legitimate name.
He once said he prefers being known by his IGN rather than his real name. He's obsessed with the idea of being a shadow in the dark, like in an isekai anime where the protagonist behaves similarly.
And now? He was funding a game that might well be his magnum opus—a dystopia disguised as a feature presentation. The one I never imagined he'd sponsor.
A game resembling hell itself.
Then, all of a sudden—
"Ugh! Why is it taking so long, darling?! THE DURATION—DU-RA-TION!"
The demon girl interrupted the intensity like a truck drifting through a funeral procession. Her tone, whiny and dramatic, resembled every "tsundere" trope ever coded into a game engine. Her cheeks puffed. Her arms flailed. She was chaos incarnate.
[PATIENCE, DARLING. THIS IS JUST THE BEGINNING.]
"YES, I KNOW! But it's soooo long, darling~!" she moaned, voice dripping with theatrical agony, half whining and nearly crying like a cat... I mean, like a baby.
And just like that, Akuma stole the spotlight amidst the serious conversation, then derailed the briefing in the process. If this continues, Round 1 might never commence. My hand propped my chin, analyzing the situation, while interpreting their gestures.
FullMetal raised five fingers, then drew an "S" in the air.
Five seconds? What was five seconds?
Then it hit me.
A high-pitched screech exploded into my ears, as sharp and abrupt as a shattered mic feedback loop. Everyone reacted in unison—hands clasped to heads, eyes clenched shut in agony. I barely had time to process before it hit me too. It was the same sound I'd heard when entering the simulator—except ten times louder.
Meanwhile, Akuma and FullMetal froze. As if this had been staged.
No motion. No sound. Just silence, like mannequins mid-performance.
Then—
SPLASH! BANG!
Confetti burst. Gunfire echoed.
It was absurd, theatrical—like a birthday party event hosted in a battlefied.
Then the music hit. Loud, vibrant, cheesy carnival music that wouldn't be out of place in any circus or recreation park, as if welcoming a clown at a comedy show.
Gradually, as if heralding someone's arrival, the music intensified and quickened.
The kind of tune that made you laugh out of fear, not amusement.
The stage trembled. Lights flared.
And slowly, as if summoned by fate or sheer narrative convenience, a mysterious silhouette emerged, rising from beneath the stage. Backlit by golden rays and red strobes, they appeared with grandeur—a VIP entrance engineered for dramatic impact.
A cloak billowed.
Boots clicked.
A shadow in the shape of a question.
The question hung in the air, louder than the music.
It was the same one yet resurfaced for once more.
Who is this mysterious figure?