The goblin's rusted blade scraped against the dungeon wall, sending a shower of sparks into the darkness. Dae-ho ducked low, felt the wind of the swing pass just above his head, and drove his own knife upward into the creature's throat.
It gurgled, clawed at his arm, then went still.
He let the body slide off his blade and stepped back, breathing hard. The camera mounted on his tattered tactical vest blinked its red light, a small comfort in the suffocating gloom of the F-rank gate. At least someone would know if he died.
He glanced at the viewer count projected in the corner of his vision, a perk from the streaming app he had installed six months ago. Twelve people. Twelve viewers who probably had the stream running in a background tab while they did something else.
"And that's number seven," he said, his voice flat. "Seven goblins down. One more to go before the gate collapses. If I don't make it, someone please delete my browser history."
The chat scrolled lazily. One viewer laughed. Another asked if he was serious about the browser history. A third just said "sadge."
Dae-ho wiped his blade on the goblin's tattered tunic and moved deeper into the corridor. The walls here were the usual grey stone, slick with moisture, the air thick with the smell of rot and stagnant water. He had cleared this gate twice before. The last goblin was always a little bigger, a little meaner, always waiting in the final chamber.
His boots squelched in something he did not want to identify. He kept walking.
The chamber opened up ahead, a wide circle of broken pillars and scattered bones. In the center stood the last goblin. It was larger than the others, its skin a mottled green, one eye swollen shut from an old wound. It held a cleaver in both hands, its breath coming in wet, rattling gasps.
Dae-ho sized it up. This was the part where things usually went wrong. He had survived this gate twice before, but the first time he nearly lost an arm. The second time he limped for a week.
He pulled a small glass vial from his pocket, the last health potion he could afford. Half a dose, really. The rest he had used on a cut that got infected last month. He uncorked it, swallowed the bitter liquid, and felt a faint warmth spread through his chest. It would not heal anything major, but it might keep him standing.
"Alright," he muttered to the camera. "Let's see if I make it to thirteen viewers."
The goblin charged.
It was faster than the others, its cleaver swinging in wide, brutal arcs. Dae-ho backpedaled, his knife useless against that kind of reach. He dodged left, then right, his shoulder slamming into a pillar as he barely avoided a strike that would have taken his head off.
The cleaver bit into the stone beside him, sending chips flying. Dae-ho drove his knife into the goblin's wrist. The creature howled, dropped the cleaver, and swung its other fist into his chest.
He flew backward, hit the ground hard, and lost his knife somewhere in the darkness. His ribs screamed. The camera feed flickered but stayed on.
The goblin advanced, its good eye fixed on him with something that might have been satisfaction. It grabbed him by the collar, lifted him off the ground, and pulled back its fist.
Dae-ho's hand scrambled at his belt. His fingers found the last flash grenade he had bought three months ago, the one he had been saving for an emergency. He pulled the pin, shoved it into the goblin's face, and closed his eyes.
Light exploded. The goblin shrieked, dropped him, and staggered backward with its hands over its face. Dae-ho hit the ground, rolled, found his knife, and drove it into the creature's throat before it could recover.
The goblin collapsed. He fell with it, both of them tangled in the dirt, and for a long moment he just lay there, listening to the wet gurgle of its last breath.
The gate began to tremble. The walls shimmered, the edges blurring as the dungeon started to collapse. He had killed the last one. Time to move.
He scrambled to his feet, grabbed the camera to make sure it was still pointed at him, and ran.
The corridor behind him crumbled, stones falling, the ceiling cracking. He pushed his legs harder, his lungs burning, his ribs screaming with every step. The exit was close. He could see it, a slice of grey Seoul daylight cutting through the darkness ahead.
He dove through the opening just as the gate sealed shut behind him with a sound like a thunderclap.
For a moment, he lay on the cold pavement of the abandoned warehouse district, staring up at the overcast sky. His chest heaved. His hands were shaking. His vest was torn, and there was blood on his sleeve that might be his or the goblin's or both.
He sat up slowly, checked the camera. Still recording.
"Well," he said, his voice hoarse. "That happened."
He pulled up the viewer count. Three hundred and forty-seven.
He blinked, thought it was a glitch, refreshed the screen. Four hundred and twelve.
The chat was moving faster than he had ever seen it. Messages scrolled past too quickly to read, but he caught fragments: "did he just survive that," "he threw a grenade in its face," "this guy is actually insane."
Someone donated fifty dollars with the message: "subscribe to the unkillable e-rank."
Dae-ho stared at the screen, then at the camera, then back at the screen. He did not know what to say. He had never broken triple digits before. Four hundred people had just watched him almost die, and instead of leaving, they had stayed.
He opened his mouth to say something, something dry and self-deprecating like he always did, but his phone buzzed in his pocket. Then buzzed again. Then started buzzing continuously, a flood of notifications he could not keep up with.
He pulled it out, his fingers clumsy with adrenaline.
A video clip. Someone had clipped the flash grenade moment, edited it with dramatic music and a subtitle: "E-Rank Uses Flash Grenade on Goblin. You Won't Believe What Happens Next."
Twenty thousand views. Posted fifteen minutes ago.
His phone buzzed again. A message from his landlord: "Rent's late. Again."
Another buzz. A notification from the streaming platform: "Your clip is trending in the dungeon category."
Another buzz. An email from a noodle company: "We'd like to discuss a sponsorship opportunity."
Dae-ho sat on the cold pavement, surrounded by the smell of goblin blood and Seoul exhaust, and watched his viewer count climb past a thousand.
His phone buzzed one more time. His mother's name appeared on the screen.
He answered with a hand that would not stop shaking.
"Mom," he said. "I think something weird just happened."
On the other end of the line, she was crying. But for the first time in three years, they were not tears of worry.