Chapter 29: The Art of Stalking: When Hunters Become the Hunted

I twirled my hair as I stared at the monitor.

A murder-mafia game between high school students with supernatural abilities—that was the game I had just completed.

It was quite fun, but there was one major problem.

It ended up being just like Danganronpa.

It was funny how I hadn’t realized it while making it. That’s how it is when you create something—seeing it from an outside perspective becomes difficult.

For now, it’s scrapped.

I thought about it as I grabbed a plum-flavored highball from the fridge.

Every game I’ve been making lately has been disappointing. I’ve already lost count of how many projects I’ve had to scrap like this.

The root cause? None of them had that spark of brilliance.

Am I in a slump?

A slump is a term reserved for those who’ve achieved something, but considering my track record, I figured I could use at least the “sl” in slump.

After all, I had the results to back it up.

Title: Fantasy Life (VR)
Release: 25 days ago
Price: 21,000 KRW
Reviews: 507
Downloads: 25,883

Selling 25,000 copies within 30 days of release? That was insane.

Streaming really is the best.

Thanks to Bunnyrun promoting it, followed by a major corporation featuring it on their stream, sales skyrocketed.

[Hey guys, try it yourselves! This game’s not as easy as it looks.]

The challenge triggered players’ pride—“Even I can do better than you.”

Thank you, GOAT of streaming, Gajunsik.

And sorry. I couldn’t bear to watch the stream, so I donated anonymously instead.

I crossed my arms, thinking.

You can’t call yourself a game developer with confidence unless you’ve sold at least 100,000 copies. But judging by the momentum, reaching 100,000 wasn’t far off.

Streamers were starting to play my game, probably because it was made by someone in the industry. But most of the credit went to Gajunsik’s influence.

Anyway, thanks to him, I might not hit a million, but 30,000 sales were achievable.

With results like these, I figured it was fair to use the word slump carefully.

There are many ways to overcome a slump—setting new goals, changing your routine, staying positive, consulting experts, exercising, talking with colleagues.

And, of course, taking a break.

I love developing games, but I also love playing them.

In fact, that’s how it all started—my passion for playing came first.

I didn’t start with the desire to develop games—I just loved playing them so much that I wanted to create my own. That passion came later.

Trust me: every game developer is a hardcore gamer. If they weren’t, they wouldn’t be crazy enough to dive into something like this.

With that in mind, playing games seemed like the best way to overcome my slump.

I put on my VR headset and started my stream. At this point, it felt unnatural not to stream when I played.

The viewer count climbed rapidly.

I average around 1,200 viewers. The debut stream had peaked at 10,000, but that was a rare case—normally, I hovered around 1,200 viewers.

Since I had just hit 1,000, the growth should’ve slowed soon. I played the OST from the scrapped Danganronpa-like game while checking the numbers.

2,000… 3,000… 4,000…

4,000?!

What’s going on?

It wasn’t as if this was a Bitcoin rally, but the viewer count skyrocketed as if aiming for Mars.

Why? It wasn’t even a debut stream today.

My question was answered by a donation.

<Anonymous donated 1,000 KRW>
“Please ask PaePae to start her stream.”

As soon as I read the message, it all made sense.

My stream had become a waiting room for PaePae’s broadcast.

Since these were my friend’s viewers, I responded kindly.

“I’ll message her.”

I forwarded the donation’s content to PaePae.

Her reply came quickly: “You don’t need to respond to things like that. Actually, just block them.”

“She’s doing well and will be live soon,” I announced to the chat and booted up my game.

There are two types of gamers: those who play mindlessly and those who play to learn.

I belong to the latter group.

I have to dig deep into every game I play, seeing it through to the end.

And people like me tend to crave higher ranks in competitive games—it’s a psychological reward thing.

Though I’m not obsessed with rank, every gamer has their pride.

You can’t claim to have played Eternal World unless you hit Challenger. Being stuck at Master isn’t worth bragging about.

Once I made up my mind, I changed the stream title:

[No Sleep Until Challenger]

The chat erupted in sarcastic laughter.

“You’re only at Master Tier 0. Are you seriously going to stream non-stop until Challenger? That’ll take a week without sleep!”

“If you keep up your win rate, it might only take a few days.”

“Yeah, good luck maintaining that win rate at the top ranks.”

The masses love to mock those who challenge the impossible.

But I wouldn’t be swayed.

“Laugh all you want. I’ll prove myself.”

They’re not laughing; they’re worried about you, you lunatic.

The game began.

I moved to pick Thierry, my usual choice—only to be met with a shock. I couldn’t select him.

This was the first time something like this had happened in Eternal World.

Thierry banned?

Whoever did this, I swear I’ll crush them, haha.

Streamers live with a nemesis: stream snipers. Just as Batman has the Joker, streamers have snipers who haunt their games.

Curious to find my personal Batman, I checked the ban list. The second pick on the enemy team had banned Thierry. Their selected character was the main carry. Hmm…

That narrowed down my options.

[Bab… Meat…]

I chose Ormal, a half-ogre character.

Let’s meet soon, buddy.

The culprit was a notorious sniper named Geondeumul (short for Don’t Touch Me or I’ll Bite). He was infamous for targeting streamers, to the point where some asked, “Isn’t this that guy?” the moment he entered their games.

His behavior defied logic.

In games like League of Legends, where match betting allows people to profit from sniping, it makes some sense—at least from a financial standpoint. Even if it’s emotionally frustrating, there’s a reason.

But in Eternal World, betting doesn’t exist. Novella, the game’s developer, strictly monitors and shuts down any attempts at match-fixing.

So why did Geondeumul relentlessly snipe streamers, even on weekdays and weekends without rest?

It’s because he hasn’t met the real ones yet.

The “real ones” don’t care about profit or loss. If they did, they’d be living diligent, conventional lives.

They do it simply because… it’s fun.

Sniping is fun. Watching streamers get annoyed is even more fun.

Geondeumul had his sights set on Han Yurim.

Thierry was her main and only character, which made ruining her game easy: ban Thierry.

As expected, Han Yurim was visibly flustered, and her viewers were furious—just a bonus for Geondeumul.

And that’s exactly why snipers never quit.

After a brief moment of hesitation, Han Yurim picked Ormal.

Geondeumul sneered.

Ormal? He’s a character strong only in the early game, not exactly fitting for the urban-core style. Players with low mechanical skill often rely on him.

So her skill with other champions is as bad as I thought.

Choosing a character like Ormal, which requires almost no mastery, was a clear sign.

This game’s already in the bag.

In Master Tier, selecting a character you aren’t proficient with is like signing your own death sentence.

That’s the beauty of targeting one-trick streamers.

Ban their main, and they crumble on their own.

And even if the streamer gets mad and confronts you about it, all you have to say is, “I just didn’t like that character.” Then, the streamer ends up looking like the fool.

Who told you to stick to one character? If you hate it, why not practice more?

The game began.

Geondeumul leveled up by farming objectives with his support but soon frowned.

Han Yurim’s movements were strange.

A main-carry stalking strategy?

This was the same tactic she had used against Pae Pae before.

So that’s why she picked Ormal? How predictable.

The reason Pae Pae had lost was because he didn’t anticipate this move. But since Geondeumul was already aware through stream-watching, countering it was simple.

Geondeumul (Main Carry):
The enemy core is on me. Anyone free, gather here.

With that message, his allies—the city core and a guardian—headed toward the mid-city zone. The enemy only had their core and two scouts in position, while Geondeumul’s side had four players. Even if they tried to lose, it would be hard.

Geondeumul grinned, waiting patiently for Han Yurim.

By monitoring her stream, he knew she was nearby.

Factoring in the delay: 3, 2, 1…

Han Yurim and her scout finally emerged.

The enemy scout faltered—understandably so. They’d gone to great lengths to find the main carry, only to discover four opponents waiting for them.

So, what’s your move, Han Yurim?

Escape wasn’t an option—Geondeumul had stationed the guardian at the retreat path in advance.

Instead of fleeing, Han Yurim charged forward.

She unleashed her skills, but Geondeumul’s team dodged them easily.

As soon as the gap closed, Han Yurim roared and brought her massive club crashing down on the support’s head.

The support shattered instantly, discarded like trash. Then she turned and obliterated the city core, even as they tried to summon their ice eagle.

The entire sequence took eight seconds.

Geondeumul gaped, stunned.

What the hell did I just witness?

Was Ormal always this powerful?

Thud.

Han Yurim advanced, towering over Geondeumul. The guardian had already fled in terror.

The giant half-ogre stared down at him. Then, Han Yurim spoke.

“Have you played my game?”

It was her in-game voice, one of the communication tools in Eternal World, often used for taunts.

For a moment, Geondeumul didn’t understand.

Played your game?

“You haven’t, have you? Guess you’re not a real fan of mine.”

“Wait… Excel Busters? Of course, I’ve played it! I even watched—”

Wham!

Before he could finish, Han Yurim swung her club.

As his screen faded to gray, Geondeumul cried out in frustration.

“Then why the hell did you ask if I played it?!”

But no answer came.