Kim Suho sat in the Steel Cup T-Shirt Factory's so-called "executive office," which was really just a slightly larger room with fewer stains on the walls. His chair groaned under him as if it too had seen the report. He pressed the paper flat on the desk, then pressed his face into his palms as though that might make the numbers disappear.

"Cho Rin…" His voice was muffled, halfway between despair and indigestion.

"Yes, Mr. Kim?" she said, carefully placing coffee at his elbow.

"Please… tell me I'm hallucinating. Tell me I didn't just read that Tianlong pulled in over a million dollars in one night."

Cho Rin adjusted her glasses, peered at the report, and then deadpanned, "No hallucinations, sir. Just capitalism."

Suho groaned louder than the chair. "I built this game to fail. It was supposed to bleed money, not rain it down like monsoon season! Why… why do the rich insist on ruining my poverty?"

He slumped so hard his forehead bounced against the desk. Thud. He stayed there like a corpse that had given up on dignity.

"Should I…?" Cho Rin gestured vaguely toward the door.

"Yes," Suho mumbled into the wood.

"Yes, leave?"

"Yes, both leave and put the coffee down. Then run."

But Cho Rin didn't move. She had long ago accepted her boss's meltdowns as part of her job description, somewhere between "taking notes" and "pretending to understand his logic."

Fen Su stood in front of a whiteboard like a general explaining battle plans. Around him, developers scribbled frantically, some still chewing through day-old convenience store bread.

"Listen," Fen Su declared, smacking the whiteboard with his marker like it owed him money. "Last night's guild war wasn't just a fight. It was a miracle. The noble gear recharges? That wasn't just revenue. That was Mr. Kim's masterstroke! He crafted a system that mirrors life itself. The rich skip lines. The poor grind endlessly. But—both stay invested!"

Zhao Bowen raised his hand. "Uh, are we sure Mr. Kim planned all that? Because the man drinks tea like he's auditioning for a funeral."

Fen Su gasped. "Don't you dare underestimate his genius! Mr. Kim operates on a higher plane. His silence… it's deliberate. A test for us mortals. We must read between the lines!"

At that moment, if Suho had been listening in, he would have flipped the table, the chair, and possibly Zhao Bowen too. Higher plane? His inner monologue was currently just, "I wonder if jumping off the roof counts as spending money."

Suho finally sat up, massaging his temples. "Alright. I need a plan. Something… devastating. Something catastrophic. Something that drains money like a sieve in a hurricane."

Cho Rin tapped her pen. "You already rented that two-thousand-square-meter workshop."

"Yes, but apparently that's not enough. My factory is expanding faster than my ulcer. We need more."

"More what?"

"More bad decisions, Cho Rin! The kind that economists write cautionary essays about!"

He grabbed a notepad and began scribbling furiously. Cho Rin leaned over and read aloud as he wrote:

Build brand clothing nobody wants to buy.

Price it higher than Gucci, lower quality than bargain bins.

Hire fashion designers who think "polka dot camo" is a trend.

Patent everything, sue everyone, and waste millions on lawyers.

She looked up. "Sir, this isn't a business plan. This is a confession note."

"Exactly," Suho said with grim pride.

Back in Tianlong, the servers were shaking under the weight of egos.

Du Ziteng—alias Prince Teng—rallied his guild, Lingyan Pavilion. His credit card was still warm from last night's recharge. "Brothers, today we don't just play. We dominate. Haoshangtian showed off once, but that's the last time."

On the other side, Chen Cong typed like a man possessed. "Don't think your ten noble sets scare me. I've got eight dragon-slayer pieces and half a dozen spares. This battlefield belongs to me!"

Spectators gathered. Streamers went live. Chat boxes exploded with commentary.

"Is this a guild war or a runway show?"

"Look at that guy's gear. I swear it costs more than my tuition."

"Rich people roleplaying medieval wars, and I'm just here farming mushrooms."

By midnight, the clash had spilled across three maps, dozens of respawns, and more in-game property damage than any patch could fix. The servers logged another surge: hundreds of thousands pouring in, players recharging just to keep up with their guild leaders' arms race.

The next morning, Suho received the updated report. He scanned the number at the bottom. His lips trembled. His vision blurred.

"Two million," he whispered. "In two days."

He slammed the paper down so hard it startled Cho Rin into nearly spilling her coffee.

"Why can't anyone in this world respect failure anymore?!" He shouted to the ceiling. "I try—I truly try—to lose money, and they drag me into profit like a man being kidnapped by billionaires!"

Cho Rin, sipping calmly, said, "Well, sir, at least you're consistent. You've turned incompetence into… a revenue model."

Suho froze. Slowly, painfully, he turned toward her. "Don't… ever… call me consistent."

"Yes, Mr. Kim."

If life had a laugh track, this was the moment it would have gone off. But Suho didn't hear applause—he heard doom. Settlement day was creeping closer. His funds were ballooning against his will. And somewhere deep in his gut, he knew… no matter how badly he tried to ruin everything, people were just going to keep calling him a genius.

And that, more than anything else, was the real curse.

Kim Suho had not slept. Not because of caffeine, or stress, or even indigestion from the cafeteria's mystery dumplings. No—he had not slept because the numbers on his desk wouldn't stop growing.

Two days. Two million dollars.

He lay back in his chair, staring at the ceiling like it owed him an explanation.

"Cho Rin," he croaked. "I've made a terrible mistake."

Cho Rin, filing papers in the corner, didn't even look up. "That's your brand, sir. Which one are we talking about?"

"The noble gear," Suho whispered like it was a slur. "I thought it was a joke. A throwaway. A hundred-thousand-dollar armor set—who in their right mind would—" He slapped the report. "Apparently, everyone with a credit card."

Cho Rin adjusted her glasses. "Congratulations, Mr. Kim. You've invented pay-to-win but made it aspirational. It's not just gear—it's a lifestyle statement."

Suho dragged both hands down his face until his cheeks drooped. "Lifestyle? It's supposed to be financial suicide!"

Across town, at Horny Princess Interactive, the atmosphere was closer to religious revival than game development.

Fen Su stood on a desk like a prophet. Behind him, a projector beamed the revenue charts. The red line shot up so steeply it looked less like business growth and more like a heart attack.

"Brothers and sisters!" Fen Su bellowed, marker in hand like a holy staff. "Mr. Kim has shown us the truth: failure is profit, despair is prosperity, and noble gear is the new scripture!"

The developers clapped, half in awe, half in terror. Zhao Bowen leaned over to his colleague and muttered, "We're one white robe away from drinking Kool-Aid in here."

But the worship continued. Some even taped Suho's photo above their desks like a talisman. The caption underneath: Genius of Paradox.

If Suho ever walked in, he'd probably light the place on fire just to prove a point.

Meanwhile, in Tianlong Online, the world was burning brighter than any festival.

Du Ziteng, "Prince Teng" himself, had emptied another half a million into noble gear. His guild, Lingyan Pavilion, marched across the maps in armor that gleamed so hard it practically blinded screens.

Chen Cong of Haoshangtian wasn't far behind. He livestreamed himself topping up his balance, sneering at the camera like a man about to commit war crimes.

"This," he declared, "is not pay-to-win. This is pay-to-humiliate."

The battle raged. Forests burned, villages respawned, and mountains turned into lag zones. The spectator chat went insane:

[Spectator1]: "This looks like the Super Bowl, but with fireballs."

[Spectator2]: "Do you think they even play the game, or just swipe their cards?"

[Spectator3]: "I just want mushrooms… Why are the rich fighting on my farming map?"

The servers shook. Literally shook. IT engineers ran around Horny Princess Interactive like firefighters at an inferno, plugging cables, rebooting systems, and praying.

Revenue counter: +1.5 million.

Then +2 million.

By the end of the night: +3 million in one single guild war.

The next morning, Suho was a wreck. His office looked like a crime scene—reports scattered, chair tilted, teacup shattered on the floor.

He stared at Cho Rin with bloodshot eyes. "They spent three million last night. In a fight. On pixels. Cho Rin… do you know what this means?"

Cho Rin hesitated. "…That the economy is fake?"

"No! It means the system is laughing at me. I tried to make garbage, and somehow, I created the most profitable trash heap in history!"

He staggered to his feet, pacing like a mad preacher.

"I need something catastrophic. Something apocalyptic. I'll build a new clothing brand so expensive, so pretentious, it will choke itself to death!"

"You said that yesterday," Cho Rin reminded him.

"Then I'll do it harder! We'll launch a premium line. Steel Cup Black Label. Price: a thousand dollars for a T-shirt. Material: exactly the same cotton as before."

Cho Rin scribbled dutifully. "And the marketing slogan?"

Suho's eyes gleamed with manic energy. "—'Because you're dumb enough to buy it.'"

She raised an eyebrow. "Subtle."

"Thank you."

But deep down, Suho knew time was running out. The system settlement loomed like judgment day. The more money poured in, the harder it would be to drain.

He slammed his fist on the desk. "We'll hire useless influencers! We'll run ads on channels no one watches! We'll buy a billboard in Antarctica if we have to!"

Cho Rin just sipped her coffee. "Sir, at this point, you're not running a company. You're running a very expensive therapy session."

Suho collapsed back into his chair. The weight of billions-to-be clung to his shoulders. His employees worshipped him, the gaming world bowed to him, and his factories were thriving.

And all he wanted—truly wanted—was failure.

But failure, it seemed, had gone extinct.

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