Tower of Gods

2

GAME 2: THE STREAMER WHO CONQUERED NOTHING

Han Tae-yang (한태양) was bleeding.

Not in the cool anime hero with one fashionable cutaway.

Nah.

He was bleeding like some poor college kid who attempted to chop onions with a rusty kitchen knife and lost the war.

His arm ached, and the wet blood dripped into his fingers. The monitor threw a light over his pale face, the shadows playing with every slightest movement of his chest.

He was sitting hunched over the desk, a king who had finally gotten to the throne, but instead of a crown, he had a plastic gaming headset, and instead of applause, he had the metallic taste of blood in his mouth.

And yet, as that ding came—the notification chime he had heard a thousand times but never at this point—his chest lurched.

> [Ding! You have conquered the Final Floor of the Divine Tower].

His lips quavered. The words were out before he could control them…. Is it so?

The incredulity was not in character. Tae-yang was not the kind of person who artificially created clips. When he was cheerful, everybody in the chatroom knew it. And all the curses in Korean, English, and even borrowed Naija slang flew out raw; he had been mad. I don't think… His voice was breaking as though he were twelve years old, telling of his first crush.

The system was quiet. There was no sound in the room apart from the fan of the CPU and his heavy breathing.

His eyes flitted slowly around the dark, cluttered room. Bottled water, half-filled ramen cups, and an old punching bag that was leaning in the corner like some drunk uncle.

He spoke to himself, rather than said.

"I cannot believe… I did it actually; I had gotten the last floor.”

For eleven years, his life had orbited this one digital mountain. No parties. No stable career or stable sleep schedule either. He studied every boss pattern, rehearsed every strategy, and tested every absurd bug until they weren’t just tactics anymore; they were reflex. His fingers twitched even now, phantom keystrokes etched into muscle memory.

This wasn’t victory. This was obsession finally cashing out.

He leaned back, the creaky chair groaning like it might collapse under the weight of his relief. Then, like the idiot he knew he was, he started laughing.

“I should’ve live-streamed it. Ha! What a waste. Could’ve milked a ‘Final Floor Conquered’ highlight. Maybe even slapped it on YouTube. Even if this game’s old enough to be a fossil, I’d get… what? A few pity clicks?”

The laugh cut off into a coughing fit. His chest ached, lungs burning. He waved a hand like he could swat away the weakness.

“Crap game,” he muttered between coughs, “but it’s my crap game.”

His hands moved on instinct, clicking, typing, and alt-tabbing like a soldier checking his rifle after a firefight. Stream overlay? Disabled. Recording? Booted. Perhaps if he uploaded tonight, the algorithm would throw him a bone.

But before he could finish setting it up.

A letter appeared.

Not in his inbox. Discord or Twitch chat.

Right in front of his face. Floating.

It wasn’t even flashy. Just a white square with black serif text. Corporate clean.

> System Letter

Mr. Han Tae-yang (한태양), thank you for playing our game until now.

A new update will be loaded within the next 12 hours.

Please continue to enjoy the Divine Tower after the update.

He blinked. Once. Twice. He even slapped his cheek, just in case the soju was pulling pranks.

“… Wait. They’re still updating this thing?”

His first thought wasn’t awe. It was suspicion.

“What? Did the devs strike oil in the Canadian desert? Mirage Studios, my foot. You guys went bankrupt eight years ago. Where’s the money coming from, eh? Lottery? Mafia? A rich uncle with guilt issues?”

The letter dissolved into nothing, as if the system itself was too embarrassed to answer. Tae-yang scoffed.

“Pfft. Figures. Even after all this, I don’t get patch notes.”

He slumped down in his chair, rubbing his temples. Exhaustion crept in now that the adrenaline bled away.

“Mirage… Canada,” he muttered, like it was the punchline to a bad joke. “No profit. No player base. No hope. Yet somehow… an update. Fine. Whatever. Let them cook. I’m done.”

The words tasted bitter. Not because he hated the game, but because he was finally admitting it: he couldn’t keep living like this.

No family pressing him. No mouths to feed except his own and his little sister’s. But still twenty-one years old, scraping by on five hundred bucks a month from subs and donations, while other streamers his age drove imported cars and had sponsorship deals.

“I should tell the gym owner I’m done too,” he said to the empty room. “Fighting’s fun and all, but money’s money. Can’t pay rent with bruises.”

He wasn’t boasting. The guy was good. Scary good. Anyone at the gym could vouch for that. But raw talent didn’t pay bills. And every bruise reminded him that he was gambling his body for spare change.

He sighed. His reflection in the black monitor looked back at him: unshaven jaw, messy hair, and dark bags under his eyes. Not a hero. Not a champion. Just another broke gamer chasing expired dreams.

Night fell.

After tucking his little sister, Han Ha-neul (한하늘), into bed, the boarding house dipped into darkness. The whole building seemed to hold its breath. The only light came from his monitor, glowing like a small, artificial moon.

The stream chat was already awake, buzzing with comments as soon as he went live.

“Chin-ha!” someone spammed.

Tae-yang squinted. “Chin-ha? You mean… annyeong? Or Ni hao? Which one are you even aiming for, bro?”

Another user typed fast:

> [What’s up? You’re streaming early.]

The comments rolled like an avalanche, teasing, heckling, praising, and mocking his usual little crowd of loyal gremlins.

> [Look at that pile of food!]

[Mukbang time, boys.]

[Forget games. This is peak content.]

[Eat until your belly sticks out. A full ghost > a hungry ghost.]

Tae-yang chuckled, raising the half-empty chicken bucket into the frame.

“You guys are really vultures, huh? I conquer the Divine Tower, and all you care about is whether I choke on fried chicken skin.”

The chat spammed emotes.

Then he paused, lips pressed tight. His gaze lingered on the chatbox. His shoulders twitched once, then stilled.

“… Guys. I have something to tell you.”

The room went quiet. At least it felt that way. His viewers were still typing, but he barely saw the words.

> [Why so serious all of a sudden?]

[Don’t tell me you’re getting married. LAME.]

[Quit teasing.] Spill it.]

The words clogged in his throat. He wanted to say it: that he was done. That the dream was over. But instead, he swallowed, and with the weakest grin, forced out:

“Relax. I was just messing with you guys. You think someone like me could settle down? Ha!”

He raised his cup, took a long gulp of soju. The burn filled the silence he couldn’t.

By the time the bottles emptied, his decision had hardened. Tomorrow, he’d post the hiatus notice. He couldn’t keep doing this to himself or to his sister.

The night blurred, heavy with alcohol and the dull comfort of resignation.

Morning slapped him awake. Literally slapped. His body rebelled, head pounding, throat dry. He groaned, rolled on the bed, then forced himself upright.

“Ugh… hangovers are nature’s patch notes.”

Still half-dead, he shuffled to his desk. He had a task to finish. One last upload before the curtain closed.

“I should post the Divine Tower run today. At least leave something behind.”

He pressed the computer’s power button. The fans whirred. The screen flickered on.

Then he froze.

Right there, in bold text at the top of the live stream menu, something impossible glared back at him:

“The Tower of Challenge has become a reality.”