Chapter 29 : Submarine Patch Operator
by fnovelpia
Awakener Yoo Iseul.
Lately, she had been spending an increasing amount of time staring blankly at her beloved sword—formerly Excalibur, now “Iron Sword No. 3.”
The reason was, of course, the sword’s name.
Yoo Iseul.
She was a first-generation Awakener among first-generation Awakeners.
In the past, during the era when the anomalies were referred to as the “Great Catastrophe,” she was one of the great heroes who threw herself into the frontlines at the mere age of a high school student.
The extent of her experience as an Awakener could be summarized in a single sentence.
The chairman of the Awakener Association, the hero Yejun Hwan—
was not her mentor.
Yejun Hwan was her peer.
Her beloved sword, formerly Excalibur—
was an item she had obtained in less than a month after beginning her Awakener activities.
To Yoo Iseul, Excalibur was not just a sword.
Can an inanimate object become a friend?
Of course.
It can.
The phrase “attachment doll,” referring to a ragged, well-worn stuffed toy that someone refuses to throw away for decades, exists for a reason.
At least to her, Excalibur was far more than just a sword.
It was a blade that had been by her side for ten long years, fighting to resolve the anomalies—
a partner more precious than any friend.
And that incredibly precious sword of hers—
was forcibly renamed overnight by Lee Jia.
From Yoo Iseul’s perspective, there was no way she could feel good about it.
To put it simply—
Because of Lee Jia, Yoo Iseul had been forced to swallow the red pill.
Of course, it was Yoo Iseul herself who had asked Lee Jia to check the sword’s information in the first place.
But as everyone knows, Yoo Iseul was the type of woman who valued results far more than causes.
She may have caused the situation, but the one who delivered the result was Lee Jia.
Still.
If she tried to think as positively as possible—
Instead of the commonly known “iron sword,” the name actually referred to the third sword crafted by a blacksmith named “Iron.”
So maybe she didn’t have to be too depressed about it…
“Ahhh, my Excalibur!”
No matter how positively she tried to think—
the incredibly badass name “Excalibur” still shimmered in her mind, haunting her.
Leaving the name aside, there was one more thing about the sword she needed to think about.
Yoo Iseul recalled the conversation she had with Lee Jia just yesterday.
“But Iseul.”
“Iseul unnie.”
“Iseul. This sword… I’m not entirely sure, but I think it might have a hidden ability.”
“…Are you serious?”
“Yeah. Wiki doesn’t lie.”
Lee Jia had told Yoo Iseul three key pieces of information.
“First effect—It’s absolutely unbreakable.”
That much, she already knew.
Yoo Iseul’s sword—formerly Excalibur, now “Iron Sword No. 3″—
Even after ten years, not only had it not rusted, but it didn’t even have a single scratch.
“The second effect—it can cut through the properties of its target.”
That, of course, was something she already knew.
Then.
What was the third effect?
Even after swinging this sword at least a million times over the past ten years, there was still an ability that even Yoo Iseul herself had been unaware of?
“I don’t know.”
“…Hey, big-boobed pink hair. I’m not in the mood for jokes right now.”
“N-No, I’m not joking! I really don’t know. It’s been [REDACTED], so I can’t check.”
“Then how the hell do I un-redact it?”
“Well, I don’t know that either. But Radiant Myriad Stars might.”
“And how do I meet this ‘Radiant Myriad Stars’ person?”
“They’re not a person, they’re a god. I told you already.”
“…Do you want to get hit?”
“I’m not joking! And I really don’t know!”
“What the hell do you know, then?”
“I don’t know.”
The conversation with her was painfully frustrating.
But still, the mere fact that this sword had a “hidden ability” was valuable enough information.
After resolving the anomaly with Lee Jia, Yoo Iseul dedicated herself to training, cutting down her sleep to try and awaken the sword’s new ability.
The results were disappointing.
…Well.
It was an effect she hadn’t discovered in ten years.
There was no way she was going to figure it out overnight.
In the end.
With no real method coming to mind, Yoo Iseul thought she should try contacting Lee Jia again.
‘Right, she said she streams online, didn’t she?’
Since she had remembered, she decided she might as well check out the broadcast.
Just in time, Lee Jia was alive.
Stream Title:
[24-Hour No-Sleep Stream – Part 2: Horror Game “Al – The Call of Ghulazad”]
Yoo Iseul was completely clueless about VTubers.
“Look at this dumbass. Why’s her camera setup so weird?”
She mistook Lee Jia’s VTuber avatar for a real webcam feed.
Live Viewers:
4,287 people.
Even at 3 AM, there were that many people watching.
Apparently, Lee Jia was a big-time streamer.
Yoo Iseul knew nothing about VTubers.
She didn’t really know much about Lee Jia either.
She couldn’t understand a single thing the chat was spamming—
but one thing was crystal clear.
‘Damn. She fucking sucks at this game.’
[GYYYAAAAAAAHHHHH! JIAAAAAA!]
Lee Jia let out a bloodcurdling scream.
There weren’t even any ghosts.
Nothing had happened—
but she still screamed.
‘She’s a total scaredy-cat, too… How the hell did this girl survive getting stabbed?’
Yoo Iseul thought to herself.
Lee Jia—
The more she saw of her, the weirder she seemed.
Which, oddly enough, made her like her even more.
Bit by bit.
Yoo Iseul found herself growing more and more interested in Lee Jia.
The aftermath of the 24-hour stream was brutal.
Wow.
She was pretty sure she had lain down on her bed at around 7 PM yesterday.
And when she woke up, it was already 1 PM the next day.
She was still exhausted.
It wasn’t like her throat was shot or her back was aching.
She had a body that could take a stab wound and walk it off—there was no way a mere 24-hour stream was going to break her.
Still, yesterday was seriously dangerous.
If she had been just a little more tired, she would have passed out the moment she hit the bed.
And if that had happened, then right about now—
She’d probably be in a one-on-one meeting with Radiant Myriad Stars over at Omnia Archive.
Seriously, though, she was really curious.
The First Rule of the Official Scribes:
[You can only take a break when you’re dead. If you don’t go live at least once a day, you will be forcibly transferred to Omnia Archive.]
What the hell even was Omnia Archive?
And what exactly happened when someone got forcibly transferred there?
“…”
Well.
She didn’t know for sure, but the odds were pretty high that it was a punishment equivalent to being thrown in the trash.
Ignoring one’s duties wasn’t exactly something to be proud of.
Since she was already thinking about it, she decided to check the Official Scribe Rules one more time.
“Oh, fuck!”
She ended up cursing out loud.
Because—
[Official Scribe Rules]
You can only take a break when you’re dead.
If you don’t go live at least once a day, you will be forcibly transferred to Omnia Archive.
1-1. Once you go live, you must stream for at least 30 minutes.
You must write at least one new [Item] document per month.
(Requirement fulfilled this month.)
You must write at least one new [Anomaly] document per month.
(Requirement fulfilled this month.)
Failure to comply with these rules will result in immediate removal of Official Scribe status and disposal.
The Official Scribe Rules are updated in real-time.
Rule 1-1 had been added.
Ah.
Goddamn it.
She had always known that the rules would change someday—
but she hadn’t expected that day to come so soon.
Thirty…
Sigh.
Sure, thirty minutes was a very short amount of time.
And honestly, she already had the mindset that she should stream for at least four hours whenever she went live anyway.
The “End Stream in 10 Seconds” strat had been patched out.
This was huge.
No, seriously, why the hell was this game getting real-time updates so often?
Where in the world was there an admin this dedicated?
And there wasn’t even a damn patch notification.
If she hadn’t checked the wiki, she would’ve never known.
This was a stealth patch.
Did they not know that stealth patches were bad manners?
But the real issue—
was that this 30-minute requirement could easily change to an hour.
Then an hour could become two.
And two could become three.
Basically.
This felt like some kind of divine punishment.
Maybe this was a sign from the gods to quit screwing around with the end-stream strat.
First, there was The Price of Blasphemy.
Now, there was also The Price of Insolence.
This was bullshit.
She had streamed so diligently.
Her fan café had just surpassed 5,000 members today—meaning there were now 5,000 believers following Radiant Myriad Stars.
Shouldn’t she be getting some kind of divine acknowledgment and a blessing at this point?
…Okay, fine.
She could admit that the only reason her stream blew up so fast was thanks to her top-tier Live2D model.
But still.
If there was a Price of Blasphemy and a Price of Insolence, then there should also be some kind of divine reward.
If she kept working hard at her streams—
If the gods had even a shred of conscience—
then maybe they’d revoke that ridiculous new rule on their own.
There was a saying:
Aim high.
If her fan café hit 100,000 members and her peak viewership reached 100,000 people then Radiant Myriad Stars would have no choice but to acknowledge her.
And if they still didn’t lift that stupid rule by then—
Then screw it.
She’d quit.
Let them forcibly transfer her to Omnia Archive or whatever—she wouldn’t give a shit.
With that in mind, she started brainstorming future stream content.
Collabs?
Screw it.
She’d do them.
She had never planned on collaborating with other VTubers, but if she wanted to grow, there was no better way.
Competitions?
Sign up for all of them.
If a streamer tournament was being held, she’d enter it.
Confessions?
Do more of them.
There was no better go-to content than that.
Face cam?
Screw it, she’d do it. She’d buy the best camera on the market—one worth over 500,000 won.
This was war.
She was going to succeed in streaming and force Radiant Myriad Stars to acknowledge her, no matter what.
Just as she was furiously drafting her content plans—
Her phone rang.
Was it the Awakener Association?
Unlikely.
She had no friends. No family.
Which meant the only people who would ever call her were the Association.
But when she checked the caller ID—
It wasn’t them.
No.
Why the hell was this person calling her all of a sudden…?
“…Hello?”
[Where are you?]
“Ah, Iseul! Hello. What’s the—”
[I said, where are you?]
“…I’m at home?”
[Come to the Awakener Association training grounds.]
“…Right now?”
[Have you eaten?]
“No, I just woke up.”
[I’ll buy you food. Get over here. I’m hanging up.]
Click.
The call ended.
Just like that.
She didn’t even let her finish a sentence before hanging up.
What the actual hell was wrong with this woman?
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