Chapter 33: The Saintess Being Stream-Sniped

There was a man.

In a dusty room where clothes were carelessly strewn about, and instant food leftovers occupied the small space of just a few square meters.

The dim room relied solely on the light spilling out from two monitor screens.

Beneath the darkness and stale air, the man typed on a keyboard.

It was a mechanical movement, repeating the same action over and over.

The character he controlled, a robed mage, charged into enemy lines without any supporting forces, only to meet a series of meaningless deaths.

And in the end, the message declaring defeat filled the screen.

Next came the scoreboard.

0/23/1.

It wasn’t a score that could have been achieved through normal gameplay.

The man smiled with satisfaction.

Then, he turned his gaze toward the other monitor adjacent to the one with the game window open.

The left-hand monitor displayed a live broadcast from someone else.

On the screen was a shattered blue gem contrasted against the message of defeat in red, reflected on the character. The streamer, seemingly shocked, hesitated to press the confirmation button for some time.

“Keuk.”

For the man, it was something so amusing that he let out an unconscious chuckle.

Even in a situation where they were down one player—or worse, being actively sabotaged—the man’s team had come close to pulling off a comeback victory.

But, of course, they eventually stumbled and lost.

The higher the hope, the greater the disappointment when it all comes crashing down into the abyss.

Watching the streamer struggle to compose herself, her trembling mouse cursor moving haltingly, only deepened the man’s derision.

See? You should’ve given up from the start. Why waste your energy? You knew this was an unwinnable game.

The speaker that once carried the voice of the broadcasting woman was now enveloped in suffocating silence.

The lively chat window of the streamer’s broadcast, once brimming with energy from her winning streak, had noticeably cooled down.

Feeling that all of this was a result of his single action, the man reveled in a thrill that sent shivers down his spine.

He basked in the sensation, savoring it, until the streamer finally broke free from the results screen.

“Well, it can’t be helped.”

Her voice broke the silence, seemingly composed, yet the tremor at the end of her words betrayed her true feelings.

She was probably seething inside.

And the man loved that.

He was the kind of person who derived deep satisfaction from provoking others, from watching their anger rise and their ugliness come to the surface.

When the streamer attempted to queue for another match, the man hurried to queue up as well.

He was about to attempt what’s commonly referred to as “stream sniping.”

Yes, it was stream sniping.

While waiting for the match to begin, the man recalled the process leading up to his stream sniping attempt.

The streamer he was targeting had recently experienced a sharp rise in popularity.

After gaining attention from an MVP highlight video in the Yellow 1 tier, she saw an influx of viewers. Then, her active participation in a tournament hosted by a streaming platform, where she became a key player in securing victory, caused her audience numbers to explode.

Though she couldn’t yet be considered a major figure, her attractive character design, pleasant voice, and the unregulated atmosphere of her chat—where inappropriate, sexually harassing comments were freely made—created a unique synergy.

Whether she was aware of it or not, her mildly aggravating style of streaming added to the appeal, helping her establish a loyal audience base.

A female streamer.

That part was crucial.

The man didn’t consider himself a sexist.

However, there was a marked difference in the fallout when a male streamer lost his temper and revealed his true colors compared to when a female streamer did the same.

The nature of being a female broadcaster meant she inevitably had to maintain a certain facade.

If the image of the streamer that her viewers had constructed in their minds were to shatter, they would unleash a torrent of insults, stop watching, and spread baseless rumors in online communities about how “Korean women” or “another fake woman” had deceived them again.

Although she wasn’t new to streaming, her rapid rise within just a month played a significant role.

Her skills in managing the stream fell short of the level of attention and expectations from the public.

If she had seriously intended to grow her stream, she wouldn’t have spent hours on something as trivial as Hangul typing practice.

This shortfall likely extended to her ability to handle trolling and disruptive behavior as well.

It would only take a little effort—a very small nudge—to provoke an extreme reaction from the “saintess.”

When that happened, the many viewers who had gathered for her would surely feel disappointed and leave.

Driving someone to ruin, making people fight and insult one another, and knowing that he had orchestrated it all himself—causing mental anguish to his target—were, for the man, unparalleled pleasures.

What the man failed to realize—or perhaps couldn’t have known—was that the “saintess” had been hardened by over a decade of exposure to verbal abuse that most couldn’t even fathom.

She was someone who had endured the cesspool of manipulation, political scheming, and backstabbing endemic to the Yellow 1 tier, where only the most depraved trolls gathered after abandoning their real lives.

A mere instance of stream sniping, even one leading to an unfair loss, was unlikely to bring about the reaction the man expected.

But, in his mind, everything was falling into place.

And so, the man resolved to target the saintess.

His main account was in the Orange tier with 150 points, so he used a secondary account, previously raised to somewhere around Yellow 2, for the job.

The sniping attempt was successful.

He had intended to disrupt the game by throwing himself into meaningless deaths, pouring baseless malice onto her for no reason.

Conveniently, the saintess had handed him an excuse on a silver platter.

She had inexplicably locked in the Greatsword Warrior build.

All the man needed to do now was type a single line in chat:

[Haribo2: What the hell is this heal-slave bastard suddenly doing trying something for the first time?]

The man knew that his actions couldn’t justify trolling.

The phrasing felt strange. After all, trolling and justification were mutually exclusive concepts, words that could never logically coexist.

But even if it wasn’t logical, simply voicing an opinion could confuse the foolish masses about who was truly in the wrong.

Even now, look at the chat at the end of the game. Comments like, “See? If you’d just stuck to playing your usual Priest, this wouldn’t have happened,” were trickling in sporadically.

“Heh heh heh…”

Caught up in his glee, the man almost missed pressing the accept button for the next match.

Thanks to the inevitable delay in the broadcast, the saintess hadn’t yet seen the matchmaking notification, but the man trusted his instincts.

He wouldn’t boast about it publicly, but his skills, honed through countless sniping attempts, were impeccable.

And then, he saw it:

[The Saintess has joined the room.]

The notification in champion select confirmed his successful snipe.

“Ah.”

The saintess let out a quiet, exasperated sound upon spotting his username.

The man didn’t react.

Unlike before, he didn’t type anything in the chat. He simply waited for the selection and bans to be finalized and the game to begin.

If a fight were to break out before the game even started and someone dodged, the matchmaking might get desynchronized for the next queue.

The saintess’s response deviated from the man’s expectations.

She locked in the Greatsword Warrior build again, just as she had in the previous match.

There was no way she didn’t understand the reason behind his trolling in the last game, at least the excuse he had outwardly presented.

To the man, this felt like a challenge directed at him.

Was she saying, “Bring it on”?

The man remained silent until the champion select phase ended and the game began.

As soon as the preparation phase started—when players could purchase items and check their equipment—he furiously typed in the chat:

[Haribo2: Ah, f*, that b**** is at it again.]**
[Haribo2: Throwing, GG.]

Naturally, they lost the game.

The man’s character ended the match with a stellar score of 0/19/2, ensuring the team’s defeat.

Despite this, the saintess showcased an unbelievable performance with the build she had only just started using in the last match, pulling off plays worthy of a montage.

But a loss was still a loss.

The fact that she seemed at a loss for words in the face of the relentless malice directed her way, and her momentary pause in movement when she realized she’d been matched with him again in the next game, brought the man an indescribable sense of ecstasy.

0/26/0.

“F***ing morons.”

The man’s insults were now aimed at the opposing team.

Despite his trolling—no, despite his deliberate, game-sabotaging antics—it had been a close call, and they had almost won.

Winning a game with not just one player missing, but one actively causing harm like a cancerous growth, was almost unthinkable.

Such an outcome was utterly unthinkable in the man’s understanding of the game.

Perhaps it might happen in the lower depths of ranked play, but this rank was situated in the upper echelons of the player base.

Even so, the saintess had nearly carried the game to victory on her own.

This is why these Yellow-rank idiots are hopeless, the man thought to himself.

Nonetheless, he had defeated the saintess again.

The loss was far more dramatic than in the first game he had sniped her in, and perhaps the shock of it had left her visibly quieter.

0/17/3.

Under the assumption that the players were of equal skill, it was nearly impossible for someone handicapped—missing a metaphorical limb or two—to defeat a fully capable opponent.

In Rainbow Tales, winning a game with a troll on your team was a comparable feat.

In other words, it simply didn’t happen.

Having once again ensured a loss, the man glanced at the saintess’s stream.

Her lack of words and consecutive, devastating defeats had sent the stream into utter chaos.

Comments in the chat painted a clear picture:

• “If you don’t want to get sniped, hide your matchmaking queue!”
• “Is she doing this on purpose? So frustrating.”
• “Host seems desperate to lose or something???”

Stream viewers generally sought escapism, not reality.

They had enough meaningless misfortune and unjust defeats in their real lives—why would they come to a stream only to witness such hollow, narrative-less failures?

Even the most ardent defenders of the saintess, who referred to themselves as her knights and guardians, were no different in the end.

It was no wonder the chat atmosphere turned toxic in an instant.

But suddenly, as the results screen lingered, the saintess calmly announced:

“That’ll be all for today’s stream.”

Her declaration came far earlier than usual—she hadn’t even streamed half her usual duration.

Wow, she must be really pissed.

I made her angry.
I can control someone else’s emotions!

Drenched in this sense of accomplishment, the man failed to notice that her voice, though calm, held an odd steadiness.

With the saintess’s stream abruptly ending, the man figured he had achieved his goal. He was about to turn off his computer for a break when something unexpected popped up on his client.

A friend request.

From the saintess.

What the…?

As if in a trance, the man accepted the request.

Is she planning to say all the things she couldn’t say on stream?

If that were the case, all the better. He could capture everything and spread it across the community.

Lost in these thoughts, a message appeared before him:

[Saintess: Hello.]
[Saintess: Want to play a game together?]

What’s with this crazy woman?

A sudden chill ran down the man’s arm, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

Even so, he couldn’t pinpoint what exactly had unsettled him.

Because he couldn’t identify the source of his unease, he couldn’t admit—even to himself—that he was feeling intimidated.

And so, he accepted the duo invitation that had appeared before him.

A crazy woman indeed.

It was as if she was begging him to throw the game.

Fine. I’ll make sure she gets a proper taste of hell.