Ch.7Chapter 2. Erysichthon Protocol (1)

# Chapter 2. The Erysichthon Protocol

The Erysichthon Protocol.

A first-person hardcore survival game. That’s what the game company advertised.

Players enter a “danger zone,” collect good items, avoid attacks and interference from zombies and other human raiders, and return to the safe zone. That’s it.

Multiplayer is possible, but single-player is perfectly viable too.

There’s not much difference anyway. The game periodically records player patterns and injects them into NPCs. Sometimes the NPCs display even more cunning gameplay than actual people.

However, it seems there are no other people in the “here and now” where I’ve entered.

If it were multiplayer mode, the “Tutorial Village” wouldn’t appear. So, I’m essentially playing single-player, filled with NPCs that play more humanly than humans themselves.

In the original game, players can customize their equipment. With good armor and weapons, you have a higher chance of surviving even in more dangerous areas. If you’re carrying mediocre weapons, you need to plan carefully to collect as many items as possible.

What if you die?

You lose all the equipment you brought and everything you’ve acquired. Your character either becomes a zombie or remains in a pitiful state too wretched to even become one.

Then the player must create a new character and start over. If you’re lucky enough to find your previous character’s hideout storage, you can reuse everything you’ve collected so far.

“…Is this fun? Isn’t this just an incredibly stressful structure? I don’t understand what’s supposed to be enjoyable about it.”

That was my question when a fellow university stock club member first introduced me to this game.

“I thought the same at first, but when I actually played it, I found it wasn’t true. Investment, or should I say speculation? It has that kind of appeal.”

“Speculation?”

“Well, the thrill of gambling and speculation is just that, right? Taking risks with your stakes and finally winning that exhilarating pot.”

“So you’re saying this is a luck-based gambling game?”

“It’s like the difference between roulette and poker. In roulette, you’re completely betting on luck, but in poker, the player can decide many things.

How much risk to take, how much loss to accept, and ultimately how much to win. It’s an acceptable irrationality that isn’t unpleasant.

This game is more like poker. Remember how I said you customize your equipment before entering? That’s your stake. Having good equipment is similar to raising the stakes. And the rewards are greater too.

But actually, there’s something even better than gambling.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s all virtual. You’re not betting real money. It’s just a game, so what’s the big deal?”

Right. It was just a game.

That’s how it should have remained.

* * * * *

I pedal my bicycle, searching for a safe place to rest.

Where is this place, and where am I? I try to match the scenery before me with the map in my head, piece by piece.

Perhaps because night was approaching, the landscape didn’t connect well with my memories.

In situations like this, “landmarks” help—large, distinctively shaped things that are easy to recall.

Like that transmission tower stretching tall above the trees. Seeing it tells me this is the “Transmission Tower Forest.”

It’s an elongated oval shape, quite vast—taking a day and a half to walk from one end to the other.

Hills, streams, wide open spaces filled with dense vegetation. Usually, such places all look similar, making it easy for beginners to get lost, but not here.

As I mentioned earlier, 50-meter transmission towers that make 17-meter trees look tiny stand in rows.

If you’re completely lost, you can just follow the power lines to find your way out of the forest.

It’s a surprisingly friendly design for a game that claims to be hardcore survival, but it’s still the area where players die the most in the entire game.

Well, this is the “real” basics. A place to learn about management and survival.

While Mini Bell Village helps you get familiar with controls and interface, here in the Transmission Tower Forest is where you learn the overall operation and survival methods of the game.

So naturally, many die here.

Even if you can find your way using the towers and power lines, anyone would be startled by zombies suddenly jumping out from behind trees with a “wak!”

Beginners instinctively fire their guns. Then the gunshot spreads in all directions, and their position is naturally exposed.

More zombies will swarm in. Even if you manage to escape, death by gunshot awaits.

You know those types, right? The ones who call themselves “gatekeepers” and brag about teaching newbies a harsh lesson.

Frustrated by their inability to overcome the skill wall to become experts, but still wanting to feel superior by slaughtering newbies.

Like those senior soldiers who justify their abuse by saying “that’s just how the military is,” inflicting the same treatment on juniors regardless of their performance.

The characteristic of such people is that they use either good guns or good armor. Either enough firepower to shred lightly armored opponents or iron-clad armor that doesn’t even get scratched when shot at repeatedly.

It used to be a small pleasure of mine to pretend to be a newbie, take down such people one after another, and immortalize them on the forum with posts titled “Bug Extermination.”

There probably isn’t a forum like that here. That’s a shame.

Finally, I’ve arrived at my destination. The container house.

It was used as temporary accommodation and a field office during the tower construction… at least that’s what the map said.

But few people have actually visited it. It’s far from the main routes and doesn’t contain anything valuable.

That gives it an unexpected advantage—it’s perfect for catching your breath, treating injuries, or cooking simple meals.

While it’s not a place to stay long due to poor defensibility despite its remote location, it’s ideal for a short rest.

After circling the house a couple of times to confirm it was safe, I entered, locked the door, and barricaded it with my bicycle.

The inside was a bit dirty, but the cot was fine except for some dust. I brushed it off and lay down. After coughing a couple of times, I stared at the ceiling.

Oddly enough, I thought this was actually manageable.

What? Manageable? In this situation?

I chuckled to myself until dust got in my mouth, making me cough.

But thinking about it, it’s always been like this for me.

Nothing ever quite met my expectations. I don’t know if I set my goals too high or if I couldn’t objectively assess my abilities.

However, I’ve always miraculously avoided the worst outcomes. Rather, when facing seemingly impossible obstacles, I’d throw caution to the wind and charge ahead without much thought, often achieving decent results.

A person who rarely has good luck but is strangely resistant to bad luck.

That’s how I see myself.

Meeting this game, The Erysichthon Protocol, was fortunate. I enjoyed it for a long time.

Of course, I never wanted to end up inside this world. That’s unfortunate.

But without this game,

I wouldn’t have smoothly overcome my freshman year when I nearly fell victim to a major scam, nor would I have discovered my talent.

* * * * *

My college entrance exam scores were disappointing. So I easily chose to spend a year retaking the exam. The problem was tuition fees. Even though our financial situation had improved, it wasn’t enough to attend a comprehensive prep school.

“Whatever, I’ll just study on my own. I can just take online lectures for what I need.”

Labeled a madman in real life, I sought friends on the internet instead. Fortunately, there were many people in similar situations—outcasts from real life finding solace online.

During that ambiguous time—neither a student nor quite an adult—I truly lived diligently.

I constantly watched lectures and solved problems. Even while working part-time at a study room, even after being banned by internet forum moderators for excessive posting, even after creating multiple accounts to drive several moderators to quit, I never let go of my studies.

I often wished I had money. Like when I lost sleep using free VPNs. I thought if I had a little extra money to waste, I could have used a paid VPN.

The fact that I got into a slightly disappointing university might be because fatigue accumulated from sleepless nights unknowingly eroded my concentration.

But it wasn’t all bad. If I had the financial means to freely buy paid VPNs, I probably wouldn’t have been able to let go of the internet, and I would have studied even less.

Anyway, having keenly felt the hardship of being without money, I concluded, “A person doesn’t need to be rich, but they should have money available when needed.”

With this clear objective, I joined a stock club with a 30-year tradition. Interactions with seniors were active, and my wallet was bursting with business cards from seniors working at securities companies, insurance firms, or as day traders.

Homecoming Day, when all the seniors visited the school, is still vivid in my memory.

Seniors in formal attire sat in a row like interviewers, our faculty advisor looked at us with satisfaction, and a senior who had been the former club president was giving a passionate lecture. He said he was a futures and options trader.

“What’s most necessary for investing, juniors?”

“An account and seed money, sir.”

“That’s right! I can set up an account for you right now. But I can’t give you seed money. That’s your money, dear juniors, and I’m just temporarily managing it.

But seed money isn’t something you gather—it’s something you create. Let’s try to create it from whatever money you have now. Now, fill out these account opening forms.”

But things in life don’t work out so easily. Having an account and money wasn’t enough. I had opened an account but literally didn’t have a penny.

I had only come today because they promised to buy dinner and give family restaurant coupons.

“Come on, junior. You say you want to be rich, but you don’t even have 500,000 won in cash?”

The senior grumbled but gave me a coupon anyway. While other club members received 30,000 won coupons, mine was just for a free drink. Still, earning the equivalent of 4,000 won by just sitting there was a good deal.

“Now, let’s do an investment tendency analysis. Assistant, did you open the multimedia room? Is the homepage up? Good, let’s go.”

That day, the professor was like a mother—or rather, father—duck leading ducklings. We sat huddled in front of computers in the multimedia room, answering investment questions.

‘Choose one of five levels according to your degree of agreement. 1) I don’t want to accept even a small loss. Strongly agree 5, Strongly disagree 1.’ That sort of thing.

“…Junior. Didn’t you say you wanted to make big money with small investments?”

“Yes.”

“But your investment assessment shows an extremely risk-averse tendency? With this, you can only do savings accounts. Our seniors have taken their precious time to introduce good products, so you should be willing to take at least this much risk.”

Was I really that type? The result was as unexpected as a casual personality test. But listening to him made me a bit annoyed.

“I joined here because I wanted to reliably grow small amounts of money into large amounts. Are you saying you can’t teach me such methods?”

Perhaps not wanting to be seen as someone who exploits juniors without real skills, the senior just rolled his eyes and said nothing more. Instead, he mumbled something meaningless about “investment comes with that much risk.”

Thinking these seniors were even more foolish than me, I didn’t buy a single “risk-seeking product” or “inverse double leverage” whatever.

So all I got was a family restaurant drink coupon.

A month later, the club seniors who had invested in those products collectively filed for leave of absence.