Chapter 90: The Empire’s Wrath and the Rise of the Predator

It might seem like a sudden topic, but generally, online streamers are worse at gaming than regular players.

At first glance, it may seem odd that someone whose job is playing games isn’t necessarily good at them.

However, this is actually quite natural.

Think about it simply. Who would be better at a game: an office worker who plays in their free time or an unemployed person who spends all day gaming?

Obviously, the latter.

The same logic applies to streamers.

Sure, online streamers technically have gaming as their job.

But here’s the key point—being good at games isn’t what matters most in their profession.

What matters is being entertaining.

Unlike unemployed gamers, who have nothing else to offer but skill, streamers need to focus on making their content engaging.

The ones who research new builds, optimize damage cycles, and discover the most efficient strategies are always the jobless no-lifers, not the office workers.

This has been an unchanging truth ever since games were first released.

And why am I bringing this up all of a sudden?

Because a huge number of these no-lifers have joined the beta test for Cosmic Ossuary.

“Wow, we actually got in?”

“I never thought casually turning on my stream during guild raids would count. No one even watched those—they were just for recording.”

Anyone who had streamed even one minute of gameplay was eligible to participate.

This absurdly low bar meant that over half of the server’s participants were just regular players.

And that had massive consequences.

Not all regular players were gaming addicts.

But every gaming addict was, at some point, a regular player.

Between a witty, charismatic streamer who also happens to be an insane gamer and a socially awkward shut-in who’s a god at gaming—who do you think is more common?

Obviously, the latter.

Genuine talent is rare enough as it is. Expecting someone to have both skill and charisma? Nearly impossible.

“Damn, this game’s brutal.”

“You think we’ll actually accomplish anything in two weeks?”

And then…

Among the no-lifers, among those who had devoted their entire lives to gaming, even deeper individuals entered the server.

If we were to compare this to Moonlight Sculptor, these would be the Dark Gamers.

To be more precise, they were gold farmers.

Gold farming refers to the act of converting in-game currency into real-world money.

It’s an activity that game companies officially prohibit, but they rarely enforce the ban.

If they can’t even crack down on bot farms, what chance do they have of stopping gold farmers? It’s practically impossible.

Anyway, the point is—those who take up gold farming as their job treat games as their entire reality.

For them, gaming is their workplace and their livelihood. The moment they fall behind, they go hungry. So naturally, they have to take it seriously.

The funny thing? Most gold farmers think they’re great at games.

It’s an interesting perspective.

See, the ability to make money and the ability to play a game well are two completely different skill sets.

Gold farmers excel at repetitive, high-efficiency grinding that generates in-game wealth.

But actually mastering a game? That requires dissecting the system and aiming for peak performance.

The two paths don’t overlap at all.

Someone who studies ways to earn in-game currency and someone who researches how to defeat the final boss cannot be the same type of person.

That said, it’s true that gold farmers do dig deep into games. That’s how they maximize their profits.

So, are gold farmers actually good at games?

Absolutely not.

You know how annoying it is when someone criticizes a movie they haven’t even watched?

Gold farmers are the same.

Because of how the system works, they can’t be the first to explore new content. So when they talk about a game they haven’t fully played, it’s complete nonsense.

That doesn’t mean they’re bad at games, though.

They do have one particular talent.

And that is—

“Hey, you think we can incite the Human Empire with this?”

Gold farmers, for some bizarre reason, are masters of causing chaos.

The data always showed the same trend.

Whether it’s because naturally disruptive people are drawn to gold farming, or because gold farming develops those skills over time, is unclear.

Strictly speaking, gold farming is all about optimizing efficient grinding. So why does it always seem to produce expert troublemakers?

Who knows?

Not that it’s a bad thing. Every game needs a few mischievous troublemakers to keep things fun.

Still, isn’t it fascinating?

Where else but in a game could such a bizarre talent flourish?

One such legendary gold farmer—known as KingTel—had a reputation for hopping between games like a swarm of locusts, ruining in-game economies wherever he went.

And the moment he entered the Cosmic Ossuary beta test, he immediately teamed up with his fellow gold farmers.

Together, they pledged allegiance to the Human Empire.

Their reason?

They had watched Han Yurim’s gameplay.

A player infiltrating a spaceship, threatening an NPC, and deliberately overloading a black hole engine…

The moment KingTel saw that level of freedom and lifelike NPC reactions, he realized something:

He could manipulate the Emperor of the Human Empire into issuing a kill order against the [United Alliance].

Another scheme involving Han Yurim?

Yes.

Again, it was Han Yurim.

Nine times out of ten, if there was chaos, she was at the center of it.

So why was KingTel doing this?

No deep reason.

It was fun.

“The investigation report is ready.”

The Human Empire’s Living God, Laftane, read over KingTel’s findings.

The newly formed United Alliance was allegedly targeting an abandoned planet—one considered the ancestral home of humanity.

“The reason?”

“Please, listen to this.”

In response to Laftane’s question, KingTel played a secret recording he had managed to obtain.

[“If we actually kill Keraton, there’ll definitely be a treasure trove inside, right?”]

[“There’s nowhere else it could be.”]

[“What do you think will happen if we get our hands on it? Wow.”]

[“If we all get it, won’t it feel like we own the whole world?”]

Keraton was the official name of the massive cosmic tentacle monster.

Laftane’s expression turned intrigued.

“A treasure trove?”

“We don’t know exactly what it is. But based on their excitement, it must be something incredibly dangerous.”

KingTel, without a shred of hesitation, lied through his teeth.

This was an advanced chaos strategy—manipulation and deception.

“If we let them be, they’ll grow into an uncontrollable force. The very security of humanity is at stake.”

“A variable, huh?”

Laftane remained unimpressed.

In truth, there wasn’t enough reason for the Human Empire to act against the [United Alliance].

The universe was vast—far beyond human imagination.

And the Human Empire?

It had already conquered one-third of this universe.

For an empire of such magnitude, there was no need to concern itself with a mere 50,000-strong faction of pirates or rebels.

Instead of wasting time on trivial matters, it was far more beneficial to focus on researching entropy reversal technology to prevent the inevitable end of the universe.

Or so it should have been.

“Please, listen to this as well.”

Anticipating this reaction, KingTel played one more recording.

[“What’s Han Yurim up to now?”]

[“Still running around, probably. Or maybe blowing up the Empire again.”]

Click.

The recording stopped.

And with a grin, KingTel spoke.

“Han Yurim also seems to be connected to this alliance.”

“Han Yurim…!”

For the first time, Laftane revealed his emotions.

“You’re telling me she’s in league with those terrorists?”

“Yes.”

“That means siding with the empire’s enemy, which is as good as declaring the empire as their enemy.”

Han Yurim had long been the emperor’s trigger point.

Ever since she attacked the empire’s energy facilities, obliterated the imperial fleet, and stole the empire’s sacred relics, it had always been the same.

If someone asked, “Again? Han Yurim, again?” The answer was yes. Again, it’s Han Yurim.

Whenever they wondered what the cause of a problem was, guessing Han Yurim was right five times out of ten.

“There is no manipulation in the recording.”

“Upon deploying additional intelligence operatives, we confirmed that the organization is indeed associated with Han Yurim. More than just one or two members—most of them mention her with familiarity.”

“There’s nothing more to see, then.”

With the testimony of the empire’s top engineer and the head of its intelligence division, Laftane solemnly declared,

“[Unified Alliance] is now declared an enemy of the empire. Wipe them out completely—down to the last ant.”

From the [Unified Alliance]’s perspective, this was an absurdly unfair situation.

Come on. If they were really involved, wouldn’t the participants be mentioning the server master instead?

And the fact that someone not only recorded a conversation but also reported it like a tattletale?

That was ridiculous enough. But the real absurdity was that this game even allowed recordings to be valid evidence.

But what could they do?

This was a game where that kind of thing was possible, and [KingTel] had simply understood the mechanics better and played the game more effectively.

And so—

This was why the [Unified Alliance] was attacked by the Empire.

“…What the f*ck, that actually worked?”

Upon quickly grasping the situation through various intelligence networks (donations), Palpali muttered the highest form of praise a gamer could give before summarizing the situation.

“It’s like they’re coming after some intergalactic public enemy. This is a full-scale assault.”

“That’s pretty much what it is.”

“This is so unfair.”

Sure, they were connected to Han Yurim, but not in that way. Yet, there was no way to prove their innocence, which made the whole situation even more frustrating.

“Hmm.”

After some deliberation, Palpali made a quick decision.

“Forget everything—let’s head straight to the raid.”

“Will that even work?”

“All we need is the free game development rights. There’s no point in getting tangled with the Empire. It’s faster to just kill the giant tentacle monster.”

“But we’re going to be caught in a pincer attack…”

It didn’t seem like a viable plan, but truthfully, there was no better alternative than Palpali’s strategy.

And so, the [Unified Alliance] ignored the Empire’s fleet and attempted a warp jump to hunt the massive space tentacle monster, Keraton.

The sight of nearly ten thousand warships warping simultaneously was nothing short of spectacular. But considering that a bloodthirsty enemy was chasing them, it was less awe-inspiring and more tragically desperate.

“Unload everything!”

At Palpali’s command, the [Unified Alliance] unleashed a full-force assault on Keraton.

Pulse laser cannons cut through the vacuum of space, while plasma beams locked onto their target.

A torrential downpour of meteor-like projectiles rained upon Keraton, who let out a thunderous roar.

[Uwoooooooh!]

Anyone could tell—it was a cry of agony.

“It’s working!”

Palpali shouted in excitement, and the rest of the [Unified Alliance] echoed his joy.

Keraton’s tentacles rapidly split apart, taking out dozens of their warships in an instant. But they still had nearly ten thousand ships remaining.

They were confident.

If things kept going at this pace, they would complete the raid successfully.

“Hyung! They caught up!”

If only the Imperial Army hadn’t appeared.

Tens of thousands of Imperial warships emerged from hyperspace.

Judging by their size—nearly twice that of the [Unified Alliance]’s vessels—they were the newest models.

Palpali clicked his tongue inwardly.

This was the end of the line.

The Imperial fleet opened fire.

Their target: the [Unified Alliance], led by the empire’s most wanted criminal, Han Yurim.

“No! That’s not how it is!”

Whether or not they heard Palpali’s protest, the 36th Imperial Fleet bathed the void of space in blinding light.

Palpali closed his eyes.

He braced himself for the inevitable Game Over screen.

And then—he opened them again.

And his mouth fell open.

A single sword split the world in two.

“Unnie, I think that ‘beast’ refers to a person, not an animal.”

“A beast is a beast—there’s no need to differentiate.”

Han Yurim and Bunnyrun’s voices reverberated across the battlefield, as if they had gained the ability to project their voices everywhere.

With a sweeping motion of her blade, Han Yurim sliced through countless photon weapons.

Shiiing!

She swung once more, leaving a clear line across space itself, as though drawing a boundary.

Then, she made her declaration.

“Anyone who crosses this line to harm my comrades—prepare to die.”

At that, Palpali muttered under his breath.

“…I told you, it’s not that kind of relationship…”