Five minutes before his life ended—or worse, before he got written up for a uniform violation—Private Robert (whom the entire universe, for some lazy reason, just called "Bob") was still enjoying a perfect Tuesday.
To Bob, "perfect" was a very specific concept. It had nothing to do with finding ancient treasure or rescuing a princess from a tower (in fact, he'd heard princesses were usually very loud and demanded amenities that a guard's salary couldn't cover).
No, "perfect" meant the air humidity was at 45%, just enough so his cheap armor wouldn't rust any further. "Perfect" meant the spider spinning its web in the left corner of the gate had caught its third fly of the day. And most importantly, "perfect" meant that no one—absolutely no one—had passed through this damn gate for four whole hours.
Bob wiggled his big toe inside his worn-out leather boot. That was the only exercise he allowed himself on duty.
"Three thousand four hundred and twelve..." Bob mumbled, eyes glued to a line of ants marching across the tip of his boot. They were carrying a piece of a leaf. Bob wondered if they needed a permit to transport goods across the border. He decided to let it slide. Paperwork was too much of a hassle.
He'd been counting ants for seventeen minutes. Yesterday, it was cracks in the wall. The day before, the number of times Mrs. Gumbo sneezed (fourteen, a new record).
Bob counted things. It was cheaper than therapy.
He idly opened his status panel. A familiar, safe, and boring pale blue screen appeared before his eyes.
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[NAME: BOB]
[CLASS: GATE GUARD (LV. 4)]
STR (Strength): 5
AGI (Agility): 4
INT (Intelligence): 6
LUCK: 10
Passive Skills: [Breathing - Max Lv.], [Standing Still - Lv. 99]
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Wonderful numbers. They were his shield against the world.
If his STR hit 10, the Captain might assign him to patrol the Mushroom Forest—where squirrels had fangs three inches long. If his INT hit 15, they might make him learn basic magic, and Bob had seen what happened to Barry, the old guard who tried reading a spellbook and accidentally turned his head into a permanent pumpkin.
No, thank you. Lv. 4 was enough. Lv. 4 was safe.
"HEY, YOU LOWLY GUARD!"
Perfection shattered.
Bob didn't flinch. He had trained himself not to flinch. Instead, he sighed—a long, drawn-out exhale containing the accumulated fatigue of four years working for minimum wage. He slowly looked up, listening to his neck joints crackle like dry firewood.
Blocking the East Gate was a... glowing object.
It was a young man. His golden hair spiked upwards, defying gravity and likely styled with the grease of a Superior Slime. The armor he wore wasn't just bright; it was actively assaulting the viewer's vision. Bob squinted, certain that if he looked for more than five seconds, he'd go permanently blind from the [Level 10 Flashiness] effect.
And the smell. The stench of cheap perfume mixed with "overconfidence" was so strong that the spider in the gate's corner decided to pack up and leave.
"Good afternoon, sir," Bob said, voice monotone, activating "NPC Autopilot" mode. "East Gate closes at six. No weapons longer than two meters allowed in the market area. Import tax for exotic livestock is three silver coins."
Bob pointed at the guy's white horse. It was currently chewing up Mrs. Gumbo's prized petunia flower bed. She was going to kill him.
"LIVESTOCK?!" The knight roared. Spittle flew from his mouth, glittering in the sun like tiny diamonds. "THIS IS THE DIVINE STEED 'ETERNAL LIGHT', DESCENDANT OF PEGASUS! AND I..."
He struck a pose. Left hand on hip, right hand slicking back hair that was already defying physics. A gust of wind—Bob had no idea where it came from, there were no windows—billowed the crimson cape dramatically.
"...I AM SIR PERFECT! S-RANK KNIGHT! HERO OF THREE KINGDOMS! SLAYER OF DEMON SPIDERS! BEARER OF THE SACRED BLADE! AND I AM ON AN S-RANK QUEST TO SAVE THIS GARBAGE TOWN!"
Bob blinked. Great. A 'Player' kid.
He knew the type. They thought the whole world was their personal playground. They'd smash wooden crates just to find an apple, barge into people's houses to rummage through wardrobes, and talk to everyone like they were just walking vending machines.
"Even S-Rank quests have to wait in line, Sir Kaelen," Bob said, pointing to a rotting wooden sign that read 'PLEASE QUEUE' which no one had cared about for ten years. "Rules are rules."
Sir Perfect turned red. Not embarrassment-red, but pressure-cooker-about-to-explode red.
"THE SYSTEM TOLD ME THERE WAS A 'MINOR OBSTACLE' AT THE EAST GATE!" Sir Perfect screamed, voice cracking slightly with rage. "I THOUGHT IT WAS A TROLL GUARDING A BRIDGE! TURNS OUT IT WAS YOU!"
He drew his sword.
The sword was ridiculously huge. It had to be at least two and a half meters long, the blade glowing neon blue and humming like an old refrigerator about to die.
"I WILL NOT LET A LV. 4 NPC STAND IN THE WAY OF MY DESTINY!"
In that moment, time seemed to slow down for Bob.
He wasn't a warrior. He had never drawn the dull sword at his hip except to pry open a pickle barrel. He knew exactly how many cracks were in the stone wall next to him (412 cracks, and the 413th was forming near his left foot). He knew exactly what time the Fat Baker Lady would throw her dishwater into the street (45 seconds from now).
But he had absolutely no idea how to parry an attack from someone whose [STR] stat was definitely higher than his IQ.
As the giant blade began to descend, carrying the weight of arrogance and cheap lighting effects, survival instinct—the only stat Bob had that was high—kicked in.
Run? Too late. Block? Broken arm. Cry? Lose face.
Bob did the only thing he could: He stepped back.
It was a perfect tactical retreat. Fast, decisive, and completely without looking where he was going.
Unfortunately, three minutes ago, Bob had eaten lunch. Lunch was an overripe banana he'd bought on sale. And because the trash can was a whole three meters away (too far to walk), he had thrown the peel on the ground near his feet.
Physics doesn't care who you are. It doesn't care if you're an S-Rank Knight or a Bottom-Tier Guard. Friction disappeared faster than his salary at the end of the month.
Oh no, Bob thought, as the world suddenly tilted at a dizzying 90-degree angle.
His iron heel slid like it was on ice. His entire 70kg body, plus 15kg of iron armor, lost its center of gravity completely.
His legs shot forward, straight toward Kaelen's crotch (luckily, the knight managed to close his legs in time. Bob didn't want to think about the paperwork that would've involved).
But Bob's upper body obeyed the law of conservation of momentum ruthlessly. His head snapped back.
The helmet.
That damn helmet the Captain made him wear. It was made of cheap, heavy steel, and had a sharp spike on top—something the Captain said was "to increase intimidation," but Bob only found useful for punching holes in condensed milk cans.
Now, that sharp spike was tracing a perfect arc through the air. An unstoppable head-uppercut.
Kaelen the Radiant, charging forward with all his momentum, couldn't stop. His face slammed straight into the rising steel spike.
CRUNCH.
The sound didn't sound like metal hitting metal. It was wetter. Like an overripe watermelon being smashed by a sledgehammer. Or the sound of someone's nasal cartilage saying goodbye to its original position.
The glowing sword clattered to the ground, extinguishing like a burnt-out light bulb.
Kaelen's head snapped back—his neck twisted at an angle Bob was pretty sure wasn't in any anatomy book. The knight's eyes bulged, whites showing in sheer terror. He stood frozen for a second—like a monument to human stupidity—before collapsing to the ground.
Thud.
Dust billowed.
Silence.
The entire East Gate market went dead silent. The Divine Steed stopped chewing the flowers, turned its head to look at its master with an expression Bob swore contained a hint of disdain.
Bob lay on his back on the ground, gasping for air. His back ached. His neck felt like someone had just twisted it backwards. He looked up at the vivid blue sky, where a cloud shaped like a duck was drifting by indifferently.
I just killed a Hero, the thought slithered into his mind, cold as an ice snake.
I'm a Lv. 4 NPC. He's a high-level Player. I'm done for. They'll hang me. No, worse, they'll make me fill out incident report paperwork. Mountains of paperwork.
He tried to sit up. Maybe he should run? Or play dead? If he lay still long enough, maybe everyone would think he was injured too and let him off?
But before he could decide between fleeing and feigning injury, a strange sound rang out.
Not the gentle Ding! he was used to when finishing a shift.
It was a static noise. Ear-piercing. Like someone trying to tune an old, broken radio right inside his skull.
A bright red screen, glitchy and distorted, slammed into his retinas, blocking out even the duck-shaped cloud.
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⚠ [ERR##R: UNIDENTIFIED INTERACTION]
Analyzing... [SUBJECT: BOB]
Anomaly detected...
Activating protocol [CONTENT_OVERRIDE]...
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"What... what the hell..." Bob whispered, rubbing his eyes. But the text didn't disappear. It just became clearer, more stable, and shifted from warning red to a brilliant gold, shimmering like it was plated in real gold.
The static disappeared, replaced by a sound... applause? Laughter? It echoed from somewhere very far away, yet also very close.
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✨ UNEXPECTED EVENT! ✨
Rating Spike Detected!
The audience is watching you...
[SYSTEM]: Redirecting rewards...
RECEIVED: +10,000 ??? <<<
(Admin Note: What the hell just happened? Run that back!)
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Bob stared at those strange numbers and characters. He didn't know what "Rating" was. He didn't know if that "???" currency could buy bread.
He only knew one thing. A chill ran down his spine, having nothing to do with the fall he just took.
Five minutes ago, Bob was having a perfect Tuesday.
He looked down at the unconscious knight, then back at the glittering notification panel floating in front of his face.
Now Bob knew, he would never have another Tuesday again.