It was the year 2020.
A year the world would never forget.
The coronavirus spread across countries like an invisible storm, forcing cities into silence and people into their homes. Streets that once roared with traffic became empty. Schools closed. Offices shut down.
Families stayed indoors, staring at the same four walls day after day. Fear lived in the news. Uncertainty lived in every breath.
With nowhere to go, people turned to the only worlds still open to them—
video games.
Some sought chaos. They ran through battlefields in games like Call of Duty and World of Warcraft, shooting, fighting, screaming into their microphones as if violence could drown out the anxiety of reality.
Others chose peace. They built houses in Minecraft, drove buses in simulators, farmed crops in pixelated fields, pretending that life was still normal somewhere, even if only behind a screen.
Gaming was no longer just a hobby.
It became survival.
And from that explosion of players… something else was born.
Video game critics.
At first, they were just gamers with opinions.
But soon, they became judges.
Executioners.
Voices that could lift a game into fame or bury it in ridicule.
They called themselves "reviewers."
But to developers, they were devils disguised as humans.
One stream could destroy years of work.
One sentence could erase an entire studio's future.
"This combat is lazy."
"This story is garbage."
"This game deserves to die."
Their words spread faster than any virus.
Games fell one by one.
Indie projects disappeared from stores.
Servers shut down.
Communities dissolved overnight.
Developers worked without sleep, pushing updates and patches in desperate attempts to survive. They polished textures, rewrote dialogue, rebalanced systems—all to escape the spotlight of criticism. But no matter how much effort they poured into their creations, the critics always found something wrong.
Even the smallest flaw was enough.
A glitch in the corner of the screen.
A poorly animated NPC.
A line of dialogue that sounded "cringe."
Nothing was safe.
And among all these critics, one name echoed louder than most.
Jung-min.
A Korean video game critic known across platforms for his ruthless honesty and merciless commentary. He streamed daily, sitting in a dark room lit only by the glow of his monitor and the scrolling chat beside it. His voice was calm, but his words were sharp.
He didn't shout.
He didn't rage.
He dissected.
Every mechanic.
Every quest.
Every line of code.
"This game has no soul."
"This NPC exists for nothing."
"The developers should be ashamed."
Millions watched him.
Some admired him.
Some feared him.
On Steam, his reviews were pinned at the top.
On YouTube, his videos gathered millions of views.
On forums, players quoted his words like scripture.
A game that Jung-min hated rarely survived.
He believed he was doing the world a favor.
"If a game is bad," he once said during a livestream,
"then it deserves to be criticized. Weak creations should not exist."
What he never thought about were the people behind the screen.
The tired artists.
The sleepless programmers.
The writers who believed in their stories.
To him, they were invisible.
All that mattered was the product.
Night after night, Jung-min continued streaming, tearing apart worlds built by others while the real world outside remained locked in quarantine. The pandemic trapped bodies inside homes, but critics like him trapped games inside judgment.
And slowly, without realizing it, Jung-min became more famous for destroying games… than for loving them.
The world of gaming changed forever during that year.
Not because of the virus alone—
but because of the voices that rose from behind keyboards, deciding what deserved to live and what deserved to vanish.
And among those voices, Jung-min's was the sharpest of all.
Then, on a random Tuesday morning, exactly at 11:00 AM, Jung-min went live.
The familiar startup sound echoed through his stream. His webcam flickered on, revealing the same quiet room he always broadcast from—curtains drawn, a cup of untouched coffee beside his keyboard, and the faint hum of his computer filling the silence.
Outside, the world was still locked in quarantine, but inside his room, another battlefield was about to begin.
The viewer count climbed rapidly.
100…
1,000…
10,000…
His chat exploded into motion.
"What game will you criticize next?"
"Please don't destroy my favorite game."
"Another indie game is about to die."
"Executioner Jung-min is online."
He adjusted his headset slowly, eyes scanning the screen with practiced calm. His expression didn't change much—just the slight tightening of his jaw, the look of someone about to do his job.
"Good morning," he said, voice steady and flat. "Today, I will be reviewing a game called… Fort Fantasy."
The chat paused for half a second.
Then it erupted.
"Never heard of it."
"Is that some cheap RPG?"
"Indie devs are doomed again."
"Oh no… I just downloaded that game."
Jung-min clicked into the game menu, letting the title screen fill his stream. Soft music played in the background—gentle flutes and distant bells, the kind of soundtrack meant to calm players rather than excite them.
On screen appeared a glowing logo:
Fort Fantasy
—A fantasy RPG about an elven village hidden deep within an ancient forest—
The opening cinematic began. Tall silver trees swayed in the wind. Wooden houses rested on roots instead of roads. Elves walked through narrow bridges of vines and light. The sky shimmered with pastel colors, as if dawn never truly ended in that world.
Jung-min leaned back in his chair.
"So," he said, folding his arms, "a peaceful RPG. An elven village. Farming, quests, and dialogue choices. Let's see what makes this one special."
The game introduced the player as a wandering traveler arriving at the village gates. An NPC waved cheerfully.
NPC: "Welcome, stranger! Our village is always open to kind souls."
Chat immediately reacted.
"That voice acting is mid."
"Why do all elves sound the same?"
"Graphics look outdated already."
Jung-min raised an eyebrow slightly. He didn't comment yet. He walked his character forward, triggering the first quest: Collect five moonflowers for the village healer.
He sighed quietly.
"First quest is a fetch quest," he muttered. "Predictable."
He explored the village slowly, opening menus, checking skill trees, talking to villagers one by one. Each NPC repeated lines about peace, harmony, and protecting the forest.
"Our village has stood for centuries."
"We believe in balance."
"Darkness approaches…"
Jung-min tapped his desk.
"Same dialogue structure. Same emotional tone. No variation. These characters don't feel alive—they feel programmed."
The chat agreed loudly.
"Cook this game."
"Tell them the truth."
"Another generic fantasy."
As he moved deeper into the forest, a small bug appeared. An enemy froze in place, stuck between two rocks.
Jung-min zoomed in.
"…There it is," he said quietly. "AI pathing error."
He circled the frozen creature with his character, then attacked it easily.
"Developers, if you're watching this," he said into the mic, "this is unacceptable. Your enemy can't even move."
More messages poured in.
"RIP Fort Fantasy."
"Studio shutdown incoming."
"He found the flaw already."
But Jung-min kept playing.
He reached a wooden fort at the edge of the village—the place the game was named after. The music changed. Torches lit up the walls. An elder elf NPC stood at the entrance, dressed in silver robes.
Elder Elf: "Traveler, this fort protects our people. Will you help us defend it?"
Jung-min stared at the screen for a moment longer than usual.
"Hmm," he murmured. "At least they tried with the atmosphere."
The chat slowed slightly, sensing his shift in tone.
He clicked "Yes."
Inside the fort were more NPCs—guards, children, healers. They walked in loops, repeating idle animations. A young elf waved at him.
Child NPC: "Thank you for coming! I hope you like our home."
Jung-min scoffed quietly.
"Empty words," he said. "Scripted kindness."
Yet for some reason, his mouse didn't move immediately. His eyes lingered on the small elf character standing beside the fort wall, watching the sunset coded into the sky.
The game loaded the next quest:
Main Quest: Protect the Fort from the Night Beasts.
A timer appeared.
Enemies would arrive in ten minutes.
Jung-min leaned forward again, interest sharpening.
"Alright," he said, cracking his knuckles. "Let's see how broken this combat system really is."
The chat exploded once more, hungry for destruction.
But neither Jung-min nor the viewers noticed one strange detail—
On the corner of the screen, hidden behind the quest log, a tiny line of text flickered for a split second:
[NPC DATA LOADING…]
And the peaceful world of Fort Fantasy waited, unaware that the man who once destroyed games with words was about to step deeper into its fate.