Chapter 65: Secrets of a Super Developer

While streaming, the setup was adjusted to only show the tablet and Photoshop.

I waved at the camera capturing the tablet.

My hand appeared on the screen.

The setup was successfully completed.

“What should I draw for you?”

[user has donated 1,000 won]
– Thierry, please.

Since Thierry was the main character, I didn’t need any reference material.

“Thierry, got it.”

After responding, I moved the pen across the tablet.

Swish.

Following the movement of the pen, lines appeared on Photoshop.

One by one, the lines came together and soon formed a drawing.

It was precise and quick.

Speed had always been one of my strengths.

Even though I hardly attended school, I managed to complete Infinity Zero at the age of 23.

That wouldn’t have been possible with slow hands.

After inking, coloring, adding details, and retouching, ten minutes had passed.

“How is it?”

Wow,

Super fast. What the heck?

So clean.

Since I focused on speed, there was no background, and I hadn’t added as much detail as I wanted, but it was enough to showcase my skills.

“What else should I draw for you?”

[LonelyRabbit has donated 10,000 won]
– Bunnyrun, please?

The username suggested they were a fan of Bunnyrun.

Since I saw Bunnyrun daily (through MeTube), I didn’t need any reference material for her either.

I went on to draw Bunnyrun (dressed in a bunny girl outfit), Han Yurim, Chun Hyeeun, Amano Yukiko, and several characters from the game I created.

By the time I finished, quite a lot of time had passed.

Gajunsik, who had been watching the drawing show from the side, quietly admired my final work—an illustration of twelve Eternal World characters engaged in a battle.

“You’re really good.”

“There are plenty of people better than me.”

“I doubt there’s anyone who can draw this fast, though.”

“There are plenty who can draw better and faster than me.”

It was true.

I didn’t possess SSS-level talent in every field.

I wasn’t in the top tier, either.

If you searched hard enough, there were many people better than me.

There was no need to overpraise myself.

“Now, I’ll show you my programming skills.”

“Is that even possible?”

“Of course.”

There are many ways to showcase programming skills, but the simplest is this:

I entered a site to participate in a coding challenge.

A brand-new challenge had just been posted.

A problem appeared—something related to algorithms.

As it was my specialty, I solved it in an instant.

Next.

A logical puzzle.

Once again, I solved it in a flash.

Next.

Simulations, data structure design, divide-and-conquer, two-pointer techniques, geometry algorithms, tree and graph manipulation, array and string operations, backtracking, and more.

As problems kept appearing, I solved them one by one.

Eventually, my overall score was displayed.

Accuracy, speed, and memory efficiency combined to give me a perfect score: 100/100.

Perhaps because it wasn’t an extremely difficult competition, achieving a perfect score was relatively easy.

“How’s that?”

“Wow, you’re good at programming too?”

“Well, if I wasn’t, I wouldn’t be able to develop games on my own.”

Like my drawing, my programming speed was exceptionally fast.

That’s how, even though I hardly attended school, I managed to complete Infinity Zero at the age of 23… (and so on).

“What should I show you next? Composing?”

“You can compose on the spot?”

“I can’t create something grand, but I can give you a rough idea.”

I opened the composition software Gajunsik had prepared in advance and pressed the keys on the electronic piano he’d also set up.

For the theme… Hmm.

This feels right.

I pressed the keys rapidly, building the framework.

Then, I layered virtual instruments on top, adjusted parameters, applied effects, and did some light mixing to refine the sound.

The resulting music, though created in just a few dozen minutes, turned out quite decent.

It was only a one-minute track, so it had its rough edges and empty spots, but I was satisfied with it.

After listening to the piece all the way through, Gajunsik spoke up.

“What’s this creepy music?”

“Don’t you like it?”

“I do, but… So what’s this unsettling music supposed to be?”

“A dedication to you—a bad ending where Gajunsik loses his mind.”

“I’m not joking; I kind of guessed that before you said it.”

“That’s the power of music.”

“No, I think it has nothing to do with the power of music.”

Gajunsik’s certainty was unwavering.

Since evaluation is always up to the audience, I nodded without argument.

If he didn’t feel it, then he didn’t feel it.

Glancing at the results I’d created so far, I spoke.

“I think I’ve shown plenty. What do you think?”

“I’m sure the people who donated earlier are satisfied too.”

Gajunsik reverted the stream setup to its original state and scanned the chat.

“Your drawings, coding, and composing are all fast but also high-quality?”

“That’s my strength.”

“You said earlier that there are plenty of people better than you, but isn’t it rare to see someone excel in so many fields this quickly and with this level of quality?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

If such people did exist, I imagined they’d focus on mastering one area.

Indie game developers are often crazy, but it’s extremely rare for someone to try doing everything, like me.

After all, it’s not necessary.

If you can only draw and want to make a game? Just hire a programmer and composer.

If you can only program and compose? Simply find a concept artist.

That approach is more efficient, too.

Becoming skilled in any field takes time.

Focusing deeply on one area produces better results.

To seriously delve into multiple areas, there are only two possible reasons:

Either you’re a recluse unable to communicate with others, leaving you no choice but to do everything yourself.

Or…

The type of lunatic who thinks the world they create must remain untouched by anyone else.

Which one was I?

Neither. I’m great at communicating and perfectly sane.

Gajunsik glanced at the broadcast timer and started to speak.

“Wow. Look at the time. We’ve already been streaming for quite a while.”

“I guess I got carried away because it’s so fun.”

“Let’s get back to the original topic—let’s talk about Repeater’s Love Life.”

[Anonymous donated 1,000 won]

• “Even with fast hand speed, there’s no way you could match the current pace of game releases. Feels like there’s some hidden secret behind it.”

The VR Streaming Gallery was more active than ever with news of a collab between Gajunsik and Han Yurim.

Since both were popular names frequently mentioned in the gallery, the excitement was palpable.

[Breaking News: Han Yurim Enters the Gallery!]

• “Kicking things off with a Han Yurim impression? Crazy, lol.”
• “Pusik is completely losing it, lmao.”

[Is Han Yurim’s cam on too?]

• “What’s going on here??”
• “Did she just escape from the mountains or something?”
• “It’s called an AR filter.”

While dozens of posts flooded the VR Streaming Gallery, buzzing with activity, everything came to a halt due to a single donation.

[Anonymous donated 1,000 won]

• “Do you really do all the game development yourself?”

Though Gajunsik overlooked the comment, the gallery didn’t miss a beat.

They instantly sniffed out something fishy.

[Was that last donation from this guy?]

• “Smells like a private chat group, for sure.”
• “Guaranteed, lmao.”
• “Oh, f*** this.”

Even when five people are grouped for a team project, chaos ensues.

So what happens when hundreds or thousands of people hang out in a single community?

Psychopaths and saints sometimes coexist.

Honestly, the VR Streaming Gallery wasn’t a place for the faint of heart.

It was a breeding ground for gossip and witch hunts.

Reading through the posts, you couldn’t help but think, Are these people insane?

But really, all communities were like that.

Even so-called “normal” social media platforms weren’t that different at their core.

Every space where humans gather is more or less the same.

The VR Streaming Gallery was simply a place where enthusiasts of internet broadcasting gathered, with relatively fewer restrictions than other forums.

However, as with any place that amasses hundreds or thousands of members, a variety of characters naturally emerged.

Not everyone was like that, of course.

There was a group known in the gallery as “private chatters”—people who operated as a clique, coordinating through group chats.

Ordinary gallery users couldn’t stand them.

Why?

Because it killed the vibe of the broadcast they were enjoying, often through sudden disruptive donations or forced controversies stirred up by fabricated posts.

It was plain annoying.

On top of that, they had a habit of leaking gallery discussions directly into broadcasts, a practice that made them unlikable in every possible way.

As they watched Gajunsik’s broadcast, the gallery users grew uneasy.

There was no way that donation would be the last.

And sure enough, more donations started rolling in.

[Anonymous donated 1,000 won]

• “Could you give us a light demonstration? I’d love to see your skills in action.”

The gallery was now certain.

[It’s definitely the private chat group.]

• “Wondered why those crazies weren’t here all day—they’ve all gone over there?”
• “I mean, they are nutjobs.”
• “Shut up and leave, you moron.”

The gallery let out a collective sigh.

They knew the collab would soon take a turn for the worse, turning the stream dull and boring.

“Sure, no problem.”

But thankfully, Han Yurim handled the donation gracefully.

Her response was followed by an impressive showcase of drawing, coding, and composing, which left the gallery cheering.

Rather than dampening the mood, the collab turned into a feast of content.

While sketching, she took requests; during the coding challenge, she drew admiration; and when she composed a playful song teasing Gajunsik, everyone laughed and enjoyed the show.

Before anyone realized, hours had flown by.

“Wow, it’s already this late?”

That was exactly how everyone felt. The stream was so engaging that time seemed to disappear.

“Let’s circle back to the original plan and talk about Repeater’s Love Life.”

As the main topic of the day was finally about to start, the gallery users sat up straight and dug into their chicken orders.

And then—

[Anonymous donated 1,000 won]

• “Even with fast hand speed, there’s no way you could match the current pace of game releases. Feels like there’s some hidden secret behind it.”

A donation came in that shattered the mood.

Perhaps it was because Han Yurim had handled the first provocative donation so well that this one cut straight to the point.

You’re not a solo developer, are you?

There’s clearly something shady going on, isn’t there?

Time for a reckoning, don’t you think?

Confronted with this blatant malice, the gallery users froze mid-bite and turned their attention to Han Yurim.

They despised the private chat group and wanted nothing to do with them.

That hadn’t changed.

But they couldn’t deny they were curious about her answer.

Honestly, for a solo developer, there were too many oddities.

Hyper-realistic NPCs and near-AAA quality aside, the sheer speed of her development timeline didn’t add up.

Fantasy Life PC version? Okay, maybe that had been in the works for years.

Fantasy Life VR version? Maybe she developed it alongside the PC version.

Excel Busters? Let’s assume that had also been a long-term project.

But what about Repeater’s Love Life? Was that in development for years too?

And the game she recently made for Yukimura Akane?

Don’t tell me that one also took ages.

Han Yurim’s release speed defied logic—even for a major game studio.

There had to be a secret, and anyone remotely knowledgeable about games couldn’t help but wonder what it was.

“Is there a secret? Of course there is.”

Han Yurim answered the donation calmly, her voice almost a murmur.

Everything went silent.

Gajunsik froze. The chat paused.

The VR Streaming Gallery, V-Tuber Gallery, PC Broadcast Gallery, and every other corner of the internet where her name was discussed—all fell into an eerie stillness.

For what felt like an eternity, though it was merely five seconds, everyone held their breath, waiting for her next words.

Finally, Han Yurim parted her lips and spoke.

“Unfortunately, that’s the super developer’s secret recipe. A master’s secrets must remain protected.”

[Anonymous donated 1,000 won]

• “You can’t avoid it like that. It just doesn’t make sense—anyone with half a brain can see that―.”

“My speed as a developer? The quality of my games, which doesn’t seem feasible for one person? The advanced AI of my characters? Of course it’s strange. I know that too.”

Han Yurim smiled—a dazzlingly bright smile that left even the private chat group speechless.

In a soft voice, she added:

“But does it even matter?”

“What?”

“As long as the developer makes good games, who cares if it seems suspicious? That’s not exactly a downside, is it? Besides…”

She paused briefly before humming and delivering her final declaration.

“What could you even do about it? Nothing, right?”

It was summer.