Chapter 89: The Rise of United Alliance and the Unexpected War

Every online community has its own unique style.

It’s a natural phenomenon—after all, community administrators only provide the system, while the actual users shape the culture.

People with similar interests tend to gather together, creating distinct groups.

Similarly, Mirinae and V-TV attracted entirely different audiences.

Mirinae treated its viewers like royalty. It naturally attracted people who preferred that dynamic, and broadcasters adapted to fit that mold.

On the other hand, V-TV treated its viewers like friends.

Since that atmosphere appealed to its audience, the broadcasters on the platform evolved accordingly.

The differences weren’t just in audience interaction but also in broadcasting styles.

V-TV focused on individual streams, while Mirinae required collaborations to survive.

That’s why Mirinae’s top organization, Palpali, was well-versed in managing people.

Palpali had run a massive crew for a long time, dealing with countless incidents and mediating numerous conflicts. Managing an in-game alliance was nothing in comparison.

“Come on, guys, think about it rationally. If we go at it alone, we won’t be able to clear the raid in time. It’s only logical to form an alliance.”

Mirinae and V-TV had a competitive relationship.

Their audiences often ridiculed each other, driven by the sentiment that their side had to win.

That sense of belonging wasn’t strange—it was a natural human tendency. However, broadcasters themselves didn’t necessarily share that rivalry.

For the most part, they didn’t have any special feelings toward Mirinae or V-TV.

Unless they were platform owners, streamers saw these services as nothing more than tools for broadcasting.

It was like asking someone working at Samsung why they didn’t harbor hatred toward Apple. Employees weren’t company owners—why would they care?

The same applied to streamers.

Loyalty to a workplace was a relic of the past. Maybe back when people swore allegiance to noble houses, but now? Not so much.

So, Palpali didn’t have any particular opinion about V-TV.

Yet, even if that was his personal stance, his actions didn’t necessarily reflect it.

Why?

Because this was entertainment.

A broadcaster’s job was to engage viewers, not to dull the atmosphere with comments like, “Mirinae or V-TV, it’s all the same.”

Of course, streamers needed to regulate viewers if things got out of hand. But now wasn’t the time for that.

Palpali checked the roster of the [Unified Alliance] he had assembled.

“Has there ever been a time when broadcasters joined forces on this scale?”

As far as he knew, the answer was no.

“Anyone who’s ever streamed before, sign up for the server.”

The [Unified Alliance] had a simple strategy:

Overwhelming force through sheer numbers.

They aimed to gather as many people as possible and take down their target in a single strike.

Even viewers who met the server entry requirements were being recruited en masse.

With Han Yurim’s game gaining massive attention, a flood of new participants was expected—far beyond the previous attempt.

At this point, it was hard to tell if this was a closed beta for streamers or just a regular game company beta test with streamers joining in.

But Palpali didn’t care.

All that mattered was the reward. The game environment wasn’t his concern.

[Clone sent 100 clouds!]
[Palpali, what are you gonna do if you actually win the free game production rights?]

“Clone-nim, thanks for the 100 clouds! I’ve decided not to think about that right now.”

For now, they would secure the reward. What to do with it could be decided later.

If they wasted time debating over an unclaimed prize, they wouldn’t even get the chance to form an alliance—let alone clear the raid.

“Anyway, we need at least ten thousand people for this to work. You guys want to see us win the prize, right? Then please participate actively.”

Broadcasters typically grew in one of three ways: the Path of Solitude, the Path of Controversy, and the Path of Networking.

• Path of Solitude – Masters of talking to themselves.
  These streamers could hold a broadcast and speak endlessly into the void until they built an audience.
  It was the hardest path but had the highest potential.
  Since they grew independently, they could craft an image of self-made success—a crucial factor in an industry where reputation was everything.

• Path of Controversy – Masters of provocation.
  These streamers thrived on discussing sensitive social issues, rapidly expanding their reach.
  Political YouTubers fell into this category.
  This method yielded fast and powerful growth but came with high risks.
  You never knew when YouTube would demonetize you or outright ban you from the platform.

• Path of Networking – Masters of collaboration.
  “Wait, why is networking the proper path? Shouldn’t growing independently be the standard?”

  Not in the streaming world.

  Here, networking was fundamental, and growing solo was considered an extreme route.

  A prime example was a streamer known as “TouchMeAndI’llBite”—his nickname in Eternal World.

  Once just an unemployed man who ridiculed streamers, he now made hundreds of thousands a month as a broadcaster himself.

  It was a true rags-to-riches story—one that even Spartacus would admire.

  He was already notorious as a toxic stream sniper, but his real break came when he targeted Han Yurim.

  He capitalized on the attention, launching a YouTube channel at the perfect moment.

  Success required opportunities, but more importantly, the ability to seize them.

  And today, that theory was once again being proven true.

There were a lot of Han Yurim kids. Since so many people had targeted Han Yurim, it was only natural.

Some succeeded, while others failed, but in the end, what mattered was this—it had grown large enough for the community to jokingly call it “Han Yurim’s Subordinate Pirate Crew.”

Gundeumul gazed into space.

Although they barely qualified as ships, thousands of vessels lined up in space, their ranks stretching far and wide.

At this scale, no matter how notorious a space pirate was, they wouldn’t dare to challenge them.

The size of [United Alliance] was growing by the day.

Initially, existing players who hadn’t given it much thought were drawn in by its sheer scale, while others joined the server with the intent of pledging allegiance to [United Alliance] from the start. It kept expanding endlessly.

As a result, [United Alliance] had now become a massive coalition of around 30,000 members.

Gundeumul had also joined [United Alliance].

Actually, most streamers who had once targeted Han Yurim—the so-called “subordinate pirate crew”—had joined [United Alliance].

The reason? It just seemed like the most fun way to enjoy Han Yurim’s game at the moment.

For former Han Yurim snipers, the rule was simple: they played the game down to the very last detail, even licking the plate clean.

No one had set this rule, but it had become an unspoken agreement.

“Hey, Gundeumul. What’s your job level?”

“It’s low. I died a few times. What about you, Yurigongju?”

“Mine’s low too.”

For the record, both of them were former Han Yurim snipers.

And also, for the record, both of them were men.

Gundeumul had taken on a sort of leader role in “Han Yurim’s Subordinate Pirate Crew.”

Not that they had any official ranking system, but former Han Yurim sniper streamers naturally gravitated toward Gundeumul.

It was because he had the highest standing.

His live stream had an average of 500 viewers.

His MeTube videos averaged 50,000 views.

With those numbers, he could confidently call himself a mid-tier streamer anywhere.

“I should’ve leveled up more diligently.”

“Who has the highest level in the server right now?”

“Probably Han Yurim.”

Han Yurim’s level was unmatched across the entire server.

To catch up, one would have to repeatedly perform the insane feat of single-handedly taking down massive warships—without dying. The first part was hard enough, but the second was even harder.

The only reason no one was making a fuss about it was because Han Yurim’s gaming skills were already legendary. Otherwise, there would’ve been at least five accusations of cheating by now.

“What’s Han Yurim’s level now?”

“Not sure. She’s been hiding it in her streams for a while.”

“Why’s that?”

“Maybe she’s saving it for a surprise?”

The explanation made sense, and Gundeumul nodded.

Yurigongju spoke up.

“At this scale, even a giant tentacle monster wouldn’t stand a chance, right?”

“Not necessarily.”

No one knew the exact specs of the giant tentacle monster.

Its health, its abilities, whether it could even be killed at all—everything was a mystery.

They had asked Han Yurim about it, but the only response she gave was, “Unraveling the unknown is the true essence of adventure.”

“Still, with this many people, we should be able to beat the raid. I mean, we have 30,000 players.”

“True.”

“And this isn’t even the final number. By the time the beta test ends, we’ll have over 50,000 members. If we still can’t kill it, that means the monster was designed to be unkillable in the first place—which wouldn’t make sense.”

Putting rewards on a monster that couldn’t be defeated would be nothing short of a scam.

Han Yurim wouldn’t do that.

That was Gundeumul’s conclusion.

“When does the raid start?”

“It’s Day 8 of the server now, so probably on Day 13?”

The server would only be open for a total of 14 days.

In this game, the more time invested, the stronger one became.

This meant the highest chance of success was on Day 14, but since the final day would be packed with wrap-up events for streamers, Day 13 was the best choice.

And so, Gundeumul spent the remaining time leveling up diligently.

One day passed.

Two days.

Three days.

Four days.

The morning of Day 12 arrived.

That day, as usual, Gundeumul was farming experience alongside his fellow former Han Yurim snipers, hunting space monsters.

And just as he was about to acquire a new ability—

“Gundeumul! Emergency!”

Yurigongju rushed over in a panic.

Gundeumul tilted his head in confusion.

An emergency? How?

[United Alliance] was nearly 50,000 strong.

Unless the Human Empire had suddenly gone mad and declared war, there was no reason for an emergency.

“The Human Empire has attacked! They’ve issued an extermination order!”

“…What?”

“Didn’t we conclude that the Human Empire had no reason to attack us? They leave even bigger groups alone.”

“I don’t know why either!”

Gundeumul was stunned.

This was completely unexpected.

Seriously.

Why?