Chapter 86: The Gathering Storm

“There’s a massive amount of Phryium on the asteroid ahead.”

“Harvest it.”

Phryium was the fundamental ore of Cosmic Ossuary, a resource used in all sorts of manufacturing. Harvesting it upon discovery was always a profitable decision.

As the spaceship approached the asteroid, robotic arms extended from the vessel, beginning the resource extraction.

Watching this, Paepae spoke up.

“If mechs can’t even be used for resource collection, what are they good for?”

“Combat, maybe?”

“You’re saying we should use that against the giant tentacle monster?”

“In my opinion, that thing is a top-tier entity in the game’s lore. It was placed early on to shock players. Think of it like Elden Ring’s ‘Malenia.’ Assuming every monster in the game is on the same level as that tentacle beast would likely be a mistake.”

“And if they are?”

“Then we’ll have no choice but to sell our junk to a scrap dealer.”

Harvesting resources took time.

While waiting, I examined the game’s system.

Cosmic Ossuary offered diverse combat mechanics—space battles fought with ships, shipboarding skirmishes, and planetary surface engagements.

The variety of combat styles meant an equally vast arsenal.

Plasma cannons.
Laser pistols.
Gravity guns.

And—

Swords.

All combat-class characters in Cosmic Ossuary were Awakeners.

However, even within the Awakeners, there were different types:

• Enhancement Type: Strengthens physical matter.
• Transformation Type: Alters one’s body.
• Control Type: Manipulates matter.
• Summoning Type: Conjures objects.
• Divine Type: Heals or empowers living beings.

I was of the Enhancement Type—capable of strengthening my body and temporarily reinforcing objects I touched, making me highly proficient in close combat.

Paepae, upon hearing my class, scoffed.

“Are you serious? In a world filled with sci-fi weaponry, you want to fight with a sword?”

“I thought we’d moved past that outdated ‘Metatron’ melee meta from Eternal World, but I guess not. You’re never letting go of that spoon-fed mindset, huh? I let my guard down.”

Paepae was a Control Type, an ability well-suited for long-range combat.

“…I’m a Transformation Type.”

“That suits you, Chae Narin. Hurry up and turn into a beast.”

“Unni, I’m a Summoning Type.”

“That’s a relief. If Bunnyrun were a Control Type, I’d always have to watch out for mind-control skills. What about you, Malangmabk?”

“I’m a Control Type too.”

Our Awakener distribution was as follows:

• Me: Enhancement Type
• Moss: Control Type
• Paepae: Control Type
• Bunnyrun: Summoning Type
• Chae Narin: Beast Type

From the descriptions alone, Control Type seemed like an overpowered all-rounder class. But still, I hadn’t expected two of us to pick it.

With a sigh, I muttered, “Enhancement Type obviously has the most romance.”

“Romance doesn’t put food on the table.”

“That cold pragmatism… You really are the same Paepae who abandoned your first love to chase a new life.”

“Say Kale’s name explicitly. You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you? Stirring confusion just to bait reactions from the viewers?”

“But you did abandon him.”

“Kale wasn’t viable. I didn’t abandon him—I just couldn’t use him. Besides, if we’re being real, you’re the one who abandoned us in this game. Ever heard of GameCoPass? You know, I randomly logged in the other day and saw that Lumen was still posting messages in the group chat until last year. He kept asking people to add him on voice chat.”

“That’s Bbangbbang for you.”

A true supporter, emotional to the core.

The moment I went offline, he must’ve realized that some relationships simply fade with time, no matter how much effort is put in.

There was a reason he remained my one and only Tier-1 fan.

Bbangbbang never changed.

“…You call that ‘going offline for a bit’?”

“Well, we met again in the end, so technically, yeah.”

“That’s full-on GameCoPass behavior.”

There was only one way to enhance Awakener abilities: gain experience and allocate skill points.

At first glance, it seemed simple. But the challenge was that characters couldn’t be revived after death.

If you died, you had to start over from scratch, losing all accumulated experience.

While combat wasn’t the only way to gain EXP, leveling up inevitably required battle.

To raise a high-level character, one had to fight continuously—without dying even once. And that was no easy feat.

Maybe once the community was full of veterans, things would change, but with just two weeks since launch, no high-level characters had emerged yet.

I started grinding my Enhancement ability.

The efficiency was terrible, but it was better than doing nothing.

“Unni! Look, a meteor shower!”

At Bunnyrun’s exclamation, I stopped my training and looked out the window.

Against the backdrop of deep space, countless streaks of light rained down like a glowing downpour.

A shimmering curtain of meteorites merged together, creating a breathtaking scene.

I murmured, “Meteor showers occur when space debris enters a planet’s atmosphere. In the vacuum of space, meteors are too small and dim to shine like that…”

“Yurim-noona! Multiple unidentified ships detected on the front radar!”

“Just as I expected—a festival is about to begin. Let’s join in.”

“This isn’t a festival—it’s a battle!”

“That is a festival.”

Han Yurim had imposed almost no restrictions on the server.

There were no limits on team size. No bans on looting. No penalties for hijacking enemy ships.

Rules that should’ve been necessary for server stability—she had boldly removed them all.

Which led to this situation.

“Well, there are 400 of us. That gives us the advantage, right?”

Even forming a mega-alliance of over 400 players was perfectly fine in Han Yurim’s server.

The Hako Alliance was a coalition of small streamers who banded together.

Their goal? One thing only—broadcasting success.

Right now, Cosmic Ossuary was at the peak of public interest.

Not only was it Han Yurim’s new game, but it also had an insane reward: a Free Game Development License.

A prize like that naturally drew the world’s attention.

If they could make a big enough impact, they could shoot straight to mid-tier streamers in an instant.

Of course, doing it once wasn’t enough—one had to pull it off three times in a row to truly establish themselves.

But if someone couldn’t manage even that, they were never going to succeed in streaming anyway.

If they wanted to make it, they had to go all in.

If they were going to give up just because it was hard, they shouldn’t have stepped into the streaming scene in the first place.

Getting back on track, the best way to draw the most attention in this situation was to find the [Free Game Creation Rights].

Even if they failed to find it, it didn’t matter.

Simply getting close to the [Free Game Creation Rights] was enough to appeal to hundreds of thousands of people.

If the community even so much as mentioned, “Hey, this planet they went to looks suspicious.”—with the current level of attention and hype, their viewership would instantly spike by several thousand.

Moreover, aiming for the [Free Game Creation Rights] was the least controversial strategy.

The [Hako Alliance] was large enough to compete for dominance within the server, and most streamers who clashed with them were crushed in the early stages.

If the Hako Alliance got too aggressive, the big-name corporations looking to create content would have fewer opportunities to shine.

It was the perfect way to get various fandoms to cross their arms and watch.

However, if they used this hype purely for adventure rather than piracy or conquest, it would actually create more space for the major streamers to perform.

Simply put, the [Hako Alliance]’s current playstyle was deeply tied to the survival strategies of small streamers.

“If 400 people go all in, won’t they actually find it?”

“If they do, their MeTube subscribers will skyrocket at a record-breaking pace in internet history.”

“Nah, people will just watch for fun and not subscribe.”

Pahaha—amid their lighthearted banter, the [Hako Alliance]’s First Fleet suddenly paused, tilting their heads in confusion.

“We held back a bit out of consideration, but… is this really okay?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what’s stopping someone from gathering, say, a thousand people, forming an alliance, and declaring endless raids? It’s a free server, after all.”

“True.”

“Wouldn’t that cause absolute chaos? Did Han Yurim consider this when she opened the server?”

“Maybe she figured that since all participants are streamers, they’d manage themselves?”

“Then she shouldn’t have accepted just anyone. Did you see the entry requirements? As long as someone streamed at least once a month ago, they could join. Even someone who streamed once five years ago and then quit can participate.”

“Hmm.”

That was definitely strange.

Someone who had only streamed once in the past and then quit? That was no different from a regular viewer.

In other words, Han Yurim’s server was essentially a game played alongside thousands of spectators.

In a server with such “free rules,” chaos breaking out ten times over wouldn’t even be surprising.

“Maybe she plans to adjust the rules as needed?”

“With over 5,000 participants? How would she manage that?”

“Beats me.”

The Hako Alliance found themselves unexpectedly caught in a mystery.

“Maybe the game was designed in a way that free rules wouldn’t be a problem?”

In reality, even their alliance wasn’t created using the game’s built-in systems.

There were party and guild systems available, but they hadn’t used them to invite people—they had just banded together on their own.

To make things even trickier, the server’s only official rule was:

“All real-time information exchange must be conducted solely through the in-game system.”

That made things extremely difficult.

To run an alliance smoothly, they had to establish a communication system between ships, and that system was ridiculously expensive.

It consumed a whopping 25% of their initial points, making it seem like Han Yurim was indirectly warning them not to form alliances.

“Want to hear something even funnier? Some old, busted mecha eats up half of your starting points.”

“Who the hell would pick that?”

“Exactly.”

Pahaha—after a burst of laughter, the [Hako Alliance] shook their heads in disbelief.

“Or maybe she just doesn’t care. Like you said, she can just deal with problems as they arise.”

“Yeah, that’s probably—”

Their conversation was cut short.

A sudden explosion erupted, engulfing them.

“What the hell?!”

“Ahead of us!”

Panic struck.

Ahead of them, an enormous spaceship—

No.

A battleship was slowly emerging from space.

Chhh— A forced communication link was established, and the enemy commander’s face appeared on the ship’s screen.

A blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl with an eyepatch over her left eye.

“Shit, is that Han Yurim?”

“NPC?”

“Looks like an NPC, right? Han Yurim’s under the same conditions as us—there’s no way she could have a ship like that already.”

[“Surrender is not accepted. Do your best to entertain me.”]

The NPC, resembling Han Yurim… or maybe Thierry… made a bold declaration.

Vwooom—

The massive battleship’s cannons fully deployed, gathering energy.

And then—

“We’re screwed.”

BOOOOOOM!

In an instant, over half of the [Hako Alliance]’s fleet—more than a hundred ships—was obliterated.

The reason Han Yurim didn’t care whether alliances formed or if people declared endless raids—

It was because <Cosmic Ossuary> was an extremely hardcore world where it didn’t matter if a thousand or even ten thousand people gathered.

In the end, they would be the ones getting raided instead.

Meanwhile, arriving at the battlefield a bit late, Paepae clicked their tongue at the sight of the colossal warship.

“Yeah… there’s no way we’re winning this. How the hell do you even fight that?”

“Guess it wasn’t a festival after all. More like a funeral.”

“Han Yurim, what do we do? Do we run?”

“……”

“Hey. Why aren’t you answering? Should we retreat or not?”

Paepae furrowed their brows and turned their head, wondering what was taking so long for a response.

Then, they blinked.

…0, 1, 2.

Thinking they had miscounted, Paepae carefully counted the crew members inside the ship.

But no matter how many times they counted, the result remained the same.

With a dumbfounded expression, Paepae muttered,

“Where the hell is Han Yurim?”

“…Over there.”

Someone pointed straight ahead.

That was space.

How could Han Yurim be there?

That thought barely lasted a second before Paepae let out a dry laugh.

Han Yurim was soaring through the void—toward the enemy’s massive battleship.

So enhancement-type Awakeners can do that, huh. First time I’ve seen it.

Paepae murmured to themselves.

“If she’s not even using a mecha for infiltration… what the hell does she use it for?”