Chapter 109: The Face Behind the Avatar

Mai brought Han Yurim back to her home.

In real life, she would never have taken in a homeless child, but this was a livestream, wasn’t it?

Even on a life server, a streamer’s skill was in seizing interesting moments as they came.

“Mai unni. Honestly, I’d rather sleep outside than stay here.”

“Get out.”

After shutting down Han Yurim’s complaint about the cramped room, Mai sat down on the bed.

Bang bang!

Someone banged on the door. She didn’t need to look to know who it was—but that didn’t mean she could ignore it.

With an inward sigh, Mai approached the front door and opened it.

“I’ll pay the rent, so just—wait.”

She trailed off mid-sentence.

It wasn’t the sharp-tongued middle-aged woman she’d expected—it was someone she didn’t recognize.

“Huh?”

Bang!

She narrowly avoided the sudden gunshot by pure chance.

If Mai had stepped just a little closer to the door, or if the man had fired just a little sooner, she wouldn’t have dodged it.

The man, having missed his shot, swung his leg at her.

Mai’s body was lifted off the ground and hurled backward.

Her back slammed against the wall. Pain exploded through her body, and her vision swam. Dizzy and disoriented, she forced herself to raise her head.

The man approached, aiming the gun again.

Reacting on instinct, Mai threw both hands up in desperation.

And then—

Fwoosh.

Flames burst from Mai’s hands and engulfed the man.

“Gyaaah!”

Leaving the screaming man behind, Mai fled the house.

She stopped in an empty alley and caught her breath, piecing together the situation.

She hadn’t done anything that would make her a target for that kind of guy.

Her RP had been totally normal. She’d just typed a few words into the system—nothing that should’ve actually affected the game.

What the hell was going on? She couldn’t make sense of it.

“Getting stronger in a crisis is one of the classic clichés.”

A voice chirped beside her.

Han Yurim had followed her.

Mai narrowed her eyes.

If there was a reason for the attack, there was only one possible cause.

“Don’t tell me… did you escape from some lab or something?”

“Mai unni. You’ve been watching too many anime.”

“Then why the hell was that guy after you?”

“Obviously, he was after you, Mai unni. I have no idea.”

She couldn’t tell if Yurim was being sincere or just playing dumb.

[That little brat’s chatter is adorable www]
[Totally the villain behind the scenes www]
[There’s something weird about this game. The others are saying similar stuff right now.]

The flood of comments told Mai that the other members were experiencing similar situations.

She didn’t know exactly how, but it was clear—Han Yurim had massively tampered with the game.

That much was undeniable.

“…”

“Unni, you can stare at me all you want, but I’ve got nothing to give. I’m just a penniless vagrant, remember?”

She wanted to ask, What did you do to the game?, but couldn’t. This was the life server. She had to avoid breaking immersion.

If only she had Yurim’s DM info, she’d just message her—but Han Yurim was an outsider. She didn’t even know her personal contact.

There was no helping it. She’d have to wing it for now and try to dig up information once the stream was over.

And just as Mai reached that decision, Han Yurim casually dropped a comment.

“You’ve got talent as a mage, unni. Isn’t that the reason?”

“…Magic?”

As the title ArcanePunk 1009 suggested, this game’s world was ruled by magic.

Magic was woven into everyday life. Mages were treated with respect. Magic was the source of every industry.

Nothing functioned without it, which was why Mai had maxed out her magic-related talents during character creation.

And that’s the cause?

“Magical talent doesn’t just awaken for no reason. In this world, becoming a mage is a one-way ticket to a better life. If that kind of rare talent could just blossom randomly out of sheer luck, wouldn’t that be even more ridiculous?”

“But…”

Mai was about to say, ArcanePunk 1009 isn’t the kind of game where initial talent settings change the story.

Heck, can a game like that even exist in the first place?—but stopped herself.

Logically, Mai was right.

ArcanePunk 1009 wasn’t “that kind of game,” and in fact, “that kind of game” shouldn’t even be possible.

But common sense is just a consensus—an average of what the majority agrees on.

And beings that broke that average had always existed in every era.

A game like this shouldn’t exist—but somehow, Mai had been playing games like it more and more recently.

All of them, games created by the very person standing in front of her: Han Yurim.

 

In other words, it made sense to assume that this server, which Han Yurim had tampered with, was similar to the games she had made before.

How she did it, Mai had no idea. Could adding just a few custom mods really do all this?

Well, it must’ve worked—so she did it. It wasn’t Mai’s job to worry about that.

Mai glanced at Han Yurim and opened her mouth to speak.

“…”

“Please call me Yurim-chan.”

Mai nearly bit her tongue.

It was even more painful because she knew what Han Yurim looked like in real life.

That aloof, cool, and distinctly psychopathic human being—Mai was supposed to call her Yurim-chan?

Honestly, it made her a little uncomfortable. It felt like calling Cthulhu “Cthulhu-chan.” Exactly that kind of wrong.

“Yurim…chan.”

But that was in reality. In-game, this was the most fitting approach.

Mai, who was around high school age in-game, couldn’t possibly refer to someone who looked no older than a fourth grader in any other way.

“Unni, you look tired. Could it be you overused your mana?”

“It’s not the mana.”

“Then did you run too much? Lack of exercise. Be careful.”

“It’s not that either.”

“Got it. It must be because I’m too cute? I am dangerously adorable, after all.”

Mai barely managed to swallow the words Are you insane?

[A manifestation of pure self-love www]
[That shamelessness is off the charts]
[Eh? But Yurim is cute? Why the reaction?]

While most people reacted similarly to Mai, a few were just now connecting to the internet.

Han Yurim’s controversies had spread not only across Korea but hit Japan, China, the U.S., and even Europe like a tidal wave.

It had been the perfect incident for cyber sleuths to dissect and turn into videos.

So by now, almost everyone knew that Han Yurim’s avatar looked just like her real self.

And even knowing that, she said things like this. That level of shamelessness was truly something else.

‘She is cute, though…’

Every time she opened her mouth it was shocking, but when she kept it closed, there was no angel like her.

Her avatar had always been beautifully designed, but now it looked even better.

‘Maybe because her real-life image kept overlaying it, like a graphics upgrade.’

It was thanks to how Han Yurim’s real appearance popped into her mind every time she saw the avatar.

Mai remembered the first time she saw Han Yurim.

That surreal aura that changed the whole atmosphere around her still visited her dreams now and then.

There’s something called the Bill Clinton neuron—a part of the brain that activates in response to interactions with particularly famous people.

For that to happen, it takes prolonged exposure and a strong emotional connection.

And Han Yurim’s appearance felt like it awakened that part of the brain all at once, leaving a deep imprint.

What had shocked Mai most when she met Han Yurim was that she’d kept such an incredible weapon hidden all this time.

After she’d secured her place in the industry, she casually revealed her face like placing a cherry on top of a cake—but that cherry might’ve been tastier than the whole cake.

Han Yurim’s strategic choice sparked a certain imagination.

‘Could she be hiding even more weapons?’

“Unni. Your eyes are scary. No matter how much of a super ultra gorgeous girl I am, I’m still too young to be worth a lot in human trafficking. Just saying.”

Or maybe not. Maybe she’s not thinking that deeply about it.

Maybe she was just going with the flow, not the type to plan everything out.

Come to think of it, her face reveal had only happened because someone shouted, “Han Yurim! One Piece does exist, right?!”—and she’d replied, “I left everything in that place.” Otherwise, it probably wouldn’t have happened.

“She just rewarded someone for getting the right answer,” to be exact.

“…Wait, Mai. Did you just say that out loud?”

“No?”

“You didn’t?”

Then what was that? How did she respond like that?

“Unni. That’s not what’s important right now. We’re being chased, remember? We should deal with that first.”

They could investigate Han Yurim’s strange telepathy another time—Mai fell deep into thought.

She had played ArcanePunk 1009 before, but the one she was playing now wasn’t the normal ArcanePunk 1009—it was the ArcanePunk 1009 Han Yurim had tampered with.

Relying on past knowledge was meaningless.

She had to make the best choice in the current circumstances.

“…Let’s head to a hotel first.”

“Excellent choice. That’s the classic cliché—train your magic there and start your revenge.”

“I don’t care about revenge. I just don’t want to sleep on the street.”

“One night is no big deal.”

“You planning to sleep on the street, Yurim-chan?”

“Hurry up and lead the way.”

One day later. We were faced with a major problem.

“Yurim-chan. How do you use magic in this game? Before, it was just… ugh. I’ll break character for a sec and speak meta. Before, you could just click the icon. Why is that gone now?”

“Oh, that.”

“That what?”

“I don’t know either?”

Also—why are you asking me?

Anyone watching would think I was the one who developed this game mod.