I’m Not a Piece of Shit

Chapter 1: Maybe I Drank Too Much 

Massively Multiplayer Online Role-Playing Games. MMORPGs.

This genre possesses an allure unlike any other. The kind of fun you can’t find elsewhere—the joy of seeing your digital self grow stronger through effort and time investment.

That’s the magic of progression.

But that’s not all. Due to the nature of these games, where you interact with others regularly unless you quit, extreme actions like “killing someone’s parents” are relatively rare (though not entirely unheard of). It’s a comparatively peaceful world.

The dopamine rush from succeeding in seemingly impossible challenges after hours or days of effort, alongside a small or large group of people.

Sometimes, you become closer to your online friends than your schoolmates.

It’s a microcosm of the real world, and calling it such wasn’t far from the truth.

That’s why I loved MMORPGs.

As a naive kid, I once fell for a stranger’s coaxing to let them “see” my gear, only to lose valuable items to them—a bitter memory.

But there were glorious moments too, like achieving a server-first clear after an 18-hour raid marathon.

Those were the glory days.

But over time, people found it harder to invest so many hours into gaming.

The final nail in the coffin was undoubtedly the rise of the MOBA (Multiplayer Online Battle Arena) genre. 

In less than an hour, MOBAs offered the thrill of progression, item-building, and combat that MMORPGs provided—quick and satisfying, like instant noodles.

Following the trend, I found myself proclaiming, “RPGs are the best!” while my body betrayed me, succumbing to the quick dopamine fixes.

It was a sign of the times.

From movies to YouTube, from YouTube to Shorts.

From paper books to e-books, from e-books to web novels and webtoons.

Busy modern people couldn’t wait anymore. They needed instant gratification.

An age of darkness descended.

And the day I had eagerly awaited since childhood—[the official launch of my dream MMORPG in 2022]—never came.

I was no longer young enough to enjoy MMORPGs, and the world was no longer kind enough to sustain them. Even the surviving games were tarnished with infamous reputations, their past glory fading.

Resigned to reality, I settled into a working adult’s life. But here I was, reconnecting with an old gaming friend, reminiscing while replacing the liquid in our veins with alcohol.

“Will MMORPGs ever become the dominant genre again?” I asked, only to be mocked with a remark that I’d be gatekept even at a raid entrance these days. Irritated, I poured another drink.

Naturally, our conversation drifted to the game where we first met: Blessing of Saint, or simply Blessing. 

Even in 2024, it was still running, but the publisher’s disastrous management had long reduced its players to little more than cash cows.

Back in the early 2010s, considered MMORPG’s golden era, Blessing had garnered praise for its unique systems.

Visually, it boasted realistic graphics and robust character customization that appealed to all genders.

But what captivated me was the gameplay. Instead of fixed classes, the game allowed players to build unique characters by choosing weapons and traits. Healing abilities were severely limited, resulting in a game without healers.

No healers? How do you tank?

Counterattack. Dodge. Use mobility or resistance skills if all else fails.

While this kind of combat style might seem familiar in today’s Souls-like games, it was revolutionary in a “raid game” at the time.

Blessing of Saint became my ultimate game—and it tanked my GPA.

No regrets, though. It was worth it.

The synthetic tang of diluted soju burned as it slid down my throat. How many bottles had I drunk? Six? Seven? Too much.

“Gotta hit the restroom—”

Maybe I overdid it. Standing up, I felt a wave of dizziness. Stumbling, swaying—my vision tilted sideways—

I heard murmuring voices and felt a strange sensation on my cheek. Then, I lost all feeling.

And consciousness.

When I opened my eyes, I was greeted by a splitting hangover.

“Ugh…”

Alcohol is deceptive. While you’re drinking, it feels like you can keep going forever. But once you cross that threshold, it’s a drug that robs you of control.

For the umpteenth time, I swore off drinking. Stumbling toward the bathroom to deal with the nausea, I was relieved I hadn’t passed out at the bar. I shuffled through the room, kicking aside things on the floor.

Opening the bathroom door and lifting the toilet lid, I prepared for the aftermath of my binge, but all I could manage was dry heaving. A half-digested pill shard scratched my throat on its way up, proof of its existence.

After what felt like an eternity, when there was nothing left to vomit, I lifted my head. Still dizzy, I thought some soup might help me recover.

I straightened my knees and approached the oddly tall sink to rinse my mouth. As I reached for the faucet, something in the mirror caught my eye.

A face I didn’t recognize.

Long, disheveled hair with a faint reddish hue framed the unfamiliar visage. My shoulders felt itchy, and as I realized the sensation came from my own body, the changes became clearer despite my hangover.

When I made a disgusted expression, the girl in the mirror mimicked it. Her cheeks, still streaked with dried tears, were unmistakably not mine.

Probably due to my habit of sleeping nude, the girl in the mirror was also unclothed. Below her collarbones, a modest but noticeable swell of chest fat asserted itself.

“What the…” I muttered. The voice was not mine, either.

My head starts to clear.

I splash cold water on my face. The cool sensation brings a sharp dose of reality. I take a mouthful of water, gargle, and spit it out, gradually washing away the bitter taste of stomach acid lingering in my mouth.

I look up again.

A damp face and slightly wet hair meet my gaze. The face is unfamiliar, but it seems to belong to me.

“Ah, ee—”

I try making a sound. It’s not the rough voice of someone who’s smoked heavily for years, but a clean, clear, and pleasant tone.

I tried out a few expressions. Watching them shift exactly as I intend fills me with an odd sense of realism. It feels so natural that I could almost believe this face is mine.

Maybe I drank too much.

What a ridiculous dream this is.

I step out of the bathroom and scan the room. It’s simple—slightly larger than the average studio apartment. 

The first thing that catches my eye is the mattress I’d been lying on moments ago. 

The floor is cluttered with trash, random knick-knacks, and clothes, making the place a complete mess.

My slightly recovering mind supplies a memory of this space.

It’s identical to the apartment I lived in during my university days.

Drinking and reminiscing must’ve made me dream about this place.

Those were good times… no worries about getting a job, no real care about grades. 

Occasionally showing my face to professors while mostly gaming at home or in PC cafés…

Good times, right?

Who knows. For now, I just want to sleep. I throw myself onto the mattress.

Instead of the stale, unwashed smell of a bachelor’s pillow, I catch a faint rose scent. 

Random thoughts about how I should wash my pillow more often flit through my mind.

My consciousness fades.

When I wake to the sound of an alarm, I begin to realize this bizarre phenomenon isn’t just some absurd dream. Or, at the very least, it’s an incredibly vivid one.

I grope for my smartphone beside the mattress. The date displayed on the screen catches my eye: June 16, 2012. The phone’s interface feels oddly familiar yet strange.

The logo engraved on the back of the phone says “Galactic S12.” I have no memory of such a model. 

Wasn’t I using an S2 back then? Strangely, the design feels more modern than even recent models.

I sit up on the mattress. The dissonance grows. Where my desk and computer should be, there’s a metallic tube resembling a scaled-down MRI machine. Something like that could never have been in my room.

I approach it and inspect it closely. The logo stands out: C&X FD Capsule. Above the logo is an OPEN button. I press it. A peculiar mechanical sound follows as the lid opens.

Inside, there’s a cozy-looking seat designed to fit one person, along with various attached components.

“Ha.”

A laugh escapes me.

For a dream, this feels absurdly—no, excessively—real.

After reading a few articles online, wandering aimlessly through the streets, and soaking in the nostalgic scenery, I finally accept the truth.

I’ve gone back 12 years into the past.