Dusk (BL Light Novel)

South Korea, long known as a powerhouse in gaming, had, until just two years ago, seen its domestic MMORPG market drying up so badly that it was on the verge of total collapse. There were plenty of titles considered classics of the genre, but for anyone even mildly interested in this space, it was common knowledge that — just like every other game — mismanagement and development scandals were dragging quality down to rock bottom with each passing year.
Whenever I tried to convince someone to play a Korean MMORPG with me, the usual response would be, “What game is that? An MMORPG? Isn’t that the kind of thing old dudes who used to play Ran Online are into? Looks cool, but isn’t that the kind of pay-to-win pigpen where you can’t even enjoy the game unless you dump a bunch of money into it? I’d rather spend on a mobile game and go for the top rankings.” Most people reacted that way. And those of us thirsty for an MMORPG? We wandered aimlessly, poking around foreign titles instead.
It was ZeroSoft’s debut title — the PvP MMORPG game Dusk — that completely flipped the game market on its head.

“The final hope of Korean MMORPGs!” As always, every time a new MMORPG was announced, people would slap on phrases like “Korea’s last hope,” “the final ember in a dying flame,” and so on. But there had already been far too many game companies that stabbed their users in the back with terrible management. Players, sick of having their wallets and emotions toyed with, no longer had any real expectations — even when the word “hope” was being thrown around.
To make things worse, a rumor started spreading through one of the communities — a so-called exposé from a developer claiming to have fled from ZeroSoft — detailing the company’s absurd and unrealistic development style. After that, not a single investor wanted anything to do with them.
Which meant the development budget was severely limited, and the team itself was small. Without aggressive pitches to attract investment, most people assumed the project would either be halted entirely or that a half-baked, disappointing game would launch at best.

But then an unknown investor with a sharp eye stepped in and funded the entire thing. And just like that, the story took a complete turn. With funding secured and enough manpower added to the team, the game launched four years earlier than projected — and it was shockingly polished.
Combat centered on PvP, perfectly tailored to Korea’s battle-hardened gamer tastes. Hit feedback so sharp and satisfying, it could awaken the latent destructive instincts of even the most peaceful, decoration-loving players. Tense, thrilling fights. A unique and captivating world that made lore-hounds’ hearts race. A majestic, modern OST that naturally blended into gameplay. Beautiful, seamless character models. And servers so stable and solid that even a huge player count didn’t cause disconnections.
And as if all of that wasn’t enough, ZeroSoft insisted on fair play. They didn’t force players to open their wallets. They communicated constantly with their users. They stuck to a clean, transparent philosophy: we’re doing our best for the game and the players. That integrity alone was enough to breathe life back into the dying MMORPG market in Korea.

Of course, Dusk wasn’t a perfect game. The storytelling, for one, didn’t fully leverage its strange and original worldbuilding. Announcements and development came slowly and cautiously. But instead of criticism, most players responded with affection — saying those shortcomings made it all feel more human.
The game launched and immediately climbed to number one on the online game rankings. It won game-of-the-year awards. Now, if someone mentioned Dusk, most people would say, “Oh yeah, I know that game. I’ve played it too.”
So what does it feel like to become someone whose in-game nickname is that well-known?

For most people, it would probably feel gratifying. Uplifting, even. But at least for me, that wasn’t the case right now.
Someone had posted the half-year rankings of me and Retaking a Class on the server board, and that post became ground zero. Discussions exploded over who was the better player. Then came all the spin-off topics. Arguments. Opinions. Threads multiplying like weeds. Some users did step in to say, “Hey, these are real people — comparing them like this and throwing insults is kind of rude, isn’t it?” But they were quickly worn out and drowned out.
I didn’t really care about rankings. Not completely indifferent, but… as long as I held first place in my class and stayed near the top overall, that was enough. I didn’t chase down Retaking and kill him over and over again just to prove who ranked higher.

It was just fun. We’d kill each other and say hi. Track each other down just to wave or chat. It was dumb and sweet, like the early days of flirting. Nothing like a PvP game, really. And yeah, the premise was that we had to kill each other — but it was lighthearted. Intimate in a weird way. It never occurred to me that it would turn into this kind of mess — people analyzing and judging us from the sidelines.
Even during the second half of last year, when people occasionally compared our rankings, it was quiet. I figured it was just because we were both using trash-tier classes for solo PvP. Maybe more people were recognizing me because of Retaking’s stream. Maybe a few were paying attention to our duels. That was it.
So why did things blow up now?

Never mind me — Retaking must have seen the board too. Even if not, he’d probably hear about it from his viewers when he went live. I was a little worried. What if it got to him? What if it put him in a bad mood? He usually joked around with his chat, dishing out and taking playful roasting sessions, laughing like it was nothing. So it probably wouldn’t bother him much. But people are unpredictable.
Maybe I should just make a big donation today, let him order something delicious, help him relieve some stress — even if people flamed me for it. I was stuck in that thought loop, pointlessly refreshing the board, when my eyes drifted to the clock in the corner of the taskbar.
8:56 p.m. I always checked around this time. Just two minutes until Retaking’s stream started.
The moment I saw the time, I closed the chaotic server board and picked up the headset lying next to my keyboard, slipping it over my ears. Then I clicked into Retaking’s channel — bookmarked, of course — and waited for the stream to go live. Just like always, the stream would kick on at 8:58. The intro music would play for a song or two, and then, once the clock passed 9:00, Retaking would greet us with ✧ NоvеIight ✧ (Original source) that sweet, honey-smooth voice of his.

On a normal day, I would’ve leaned back and watched him field PvP while quietly listening to his gentle post-intro monologue about what had happened that day. But today I was scheduled to fill in for a party PvP at 10, so I only had about thirty minutes to face him directly.
In other words, I had to figure out when Retaking entered the field, immediately close the stream, then find him and kill him as many times as I could in the remaining time.
Sure, I could’ve monitored him. Left the stream on, tracked which outpost he teleported to, tailed him around. It would’ve made everything easier. But that would go against my sense of fair play. My pride didn’t allow it. That’s why, the moment I heard the sound of the teleport statue activating — proof he’d entered the field — I’d always shut the stream off.

If I wanted to run into him quickly and often without monitoring, I had to prepare in advance. Figure out which zones he usually roamed and plan a route based on those areas.
I opened Dusk, hit M to bring up the map, and thought back to where Retaking and I had fought the most. Using the map’s marker system, I placed pins at key locations I thought he might go. While I was doing that, it must have turned 8:58 — the stream went live.
Reflexively, I minimized the map window and entered the stream. I glanced back at the markers I’d set — and then something strange happened. Instead of the usual loud intro music, I heard it faintly in the background. And over it, right away, came Retaking’s voice.

“Quite a restless night, everyone.”
That soft, affectionate voice, which I usually expected to hear two minutes later, pierced straight into my ears without warning. I sucked in a breath. Just like he said — a restless greeting indeed.