1.

What are the advantages of having a massive fandom? The revenue, the social status, the fame—the benefits that come with celebrity are too numerous to list. Of course, the disadvantages are just as significant, and many stars buckle under the pressure, wishing for a return to their ordinary lives. But the greatest advantage is that a large fandom will follow and believe in you, almost unconditionally.

It's a conviction, like a religion. Even if you express ideas that deviate from social norms, they understand and support you. They go further, rationalizing your actions and even trying to convert others to their way of thinking.

Though an extreme example, the phenomenon of many voices uniting to create change is real, even in daily life.

The most prominent example is a player's fandom.

Shin Hyeseong and Shin Hyejeong. The voices of their rabid fans, who would defend them even if they committed murder, are a force to be reckoned with. As with most celebrities, truly toxic fans are a minority. When that minority shouts, people ignore them. If they grow into a sizable bloc, they are ostracized. A healthy fan culture is what keeps it a wholesome hobby for everyone else.

But when a hundred, a thousand, ten thousand people unite their voices, their opinion becomes the truth. Even if everyone knows it's wrong, the sheer force of the majority creates a coercive power that brings about change.

For those who make up this vocal minority, this is a heady experience. The thrill of changing something, despite knowing it's wrong, is intoxicating. When would they have ever dreamed of changing society in their ordinary lives? As individuals, they are insignificant cogs in the social machine, people without the power to change a single thing, even in their own homes.

"Apologize!"

They force people they could never hope to meet in their wildest dreams to bow their heads. They tear down anyone who gets too close to their idols. For them, justice is defined by their idols, and any other outcome is an unacceptable, corrupt absurdity.

Naturally, they viewed the national team selection as the epitome of a rigged system.

—Does it make sense for SJ to be in second place?

—Not even the second-place guild, but third-place Jeong Cheol is number one overall? Something is wrong here.

—It was weird from the start that they even held a national selection this year.

—Something fishy is going on!

—And in the middle of all this, Kim Buja and Jeong Seora's hug is the #1 trending topic? What are they trying to hide!

A fierce backlash erupted. It's no exaggeration to say that Shin Hyejeong and Shin Hyeseong commanded half of the male and female fandoms in South Korea, respectively. For their fans, the siblings' performance as national representatives, along with the highlight reels and photos, was a year's worth of bragging rights. It was a badge of honor to flaunt at other fandoms, proof that their idols were more than just pretty faces.

They had to reclaim that honor, especially from the guild that dared to spread the ridiculous rumor that Jeong Seora was prettier than Shin Hyejeong.

The moment the selection ended, online communities were flooded with attempts to muddy the waters. That was the power of a fandom—a power that could attempt to overturn a result as clear as the Jeong Cheol Guild's victory.

It was a matter of unity. The difference in cohesion between a mass of people focused on a single target and the fragmented majority is vast. It was how they had managed to bend reality to their will so many times before. The silent complicity of the other fans, who dismissed the toxic elements as a vocal minority, also played a part.

But unfortunately for them, it wasn't a magic bullet.

—Here we go again with their fandom pests.

—Seriously, there's never a quiet day when those two are involved.

—Still, this is pretty tame. Normally, they wouldn't have even let the qualifiers happen.

Those in the know, especially fellow fans of players and celebrities, knew the score. They were aware of the toxic habits within the shared fandom of the Shin siblings. In the past, they had simply avoided the conflict, as their own fandoms were smaller and couldn't stand against the overwhelming, reckless force. But this time was different.

—Yeah, anyone can see they got absolutely wrecked.

—They're just embarrassing their own idols.

—Go watch the final clip of Shin Hyeseong getting stomped and then come back.

—You should be ashamed. If it were me, I'd be throwing eggs at my hero for getting wrecked by a tutorial-level player.

What goes around comes around. Their narrative had never become the truth because they were powerful or right; it was because others chose not to fight. This time, the backlash didn't force an apology, but it did create an atmosphere where even most of the Shin siblings' fans had to concede the point.

The debate raged on. Conspiracy theories and cheating allegations still flew, but this time, the mob's power didn't sway public opinion.

The conclusion was irrefutable. The skill gap was undeniable. In the world of players, this was a result so decisive that it made even the most zealous fans—those who would rationalize any logic for their stars—nod in acceptance.

—This time, you can clearly see how much Jeong Cheol prepared. Let's just admit what we have to… Honestly, SJ was too complacent for the past five years. Pushing Park Sijun, getting arrogant while others were catching up… If Jeong Cheol goes and gets good results, it's a win for Korea, which buffs SJ for a year too. They can just prepare properly and take the spot back next year.

The heated national team selection ended with those words. The fall of a five-year dynasty and the rise of a new star. Everyone hoped that 2023 would be the year South Korea reclaimed its title as a gaming powerhouse.

* * *

While people argued online, Kim Buja was savoring the victory.

He asked Seora, "How did you even think of hiding inside a monster corpse? That was a brilliant call."

"I've been your subscriber for years, Buja. The moment I thought about just buying time, that was the first thing that came to mind."

"Of course. I knew it was thanks to me."

What did it matter if countless people were cursing his name?

"But are you okay? I heard you're getting a lot of hate." Seora checked in on him.

"It's actually a relief. They have nothing to say about the team match, so they're just nitpicking the individual one. As long as you're not getting the heat, Seora, that's all that matters."

He wasn't just saying it to score points. He truly didn't care.

"It's nothing new. I got cursed out way more than this back when I played games. Now, I have plenty of people defending me, and there's no way to frame me as a bug abuser or whatever. So besides the noise, I'm fine."

The sheer volume of attention was different now, so the amount of hate was incomparable, but he felt no real sense of crisis or humiliation. The reason was simple: his real life was comfortable and satisfying.

"Back in the day, I'd actually get a little scared in situations like this. I mean, my audience was less than a tenth of the dungeon market, so I rarely drew that kind of aggro. But there were still some formidable people among the remaining players, right? Unawakened veterans like your father. If one of them lost their mind and came after me in real life, there was nothing I could do. Fortunately, that never happened."

He wasn't the same Kim Buja. In the past, he had been an ordinary person barely making a living through games, even as he dominated the virtual world. Back then, the vitriol of the masses might have scared him.

"But now I have connections, and I'm confident I can handle anyone who comes looking for a fight. A ranker might be a problem, but I don't think I've earned that level of grudge."

What Kim Buja feared was death, not insults. A little hate was no big deal. If anything, the attention only increased the numbers in his bank account. Park Sijun was probably green with envy.

"Most importantly, your approval means more to me than that of a million strangers."

"Oh my. So suddenly?"

"Was that too smooth?"

"A little," she said, a soft laugh escaping her lips.

They raised their glasses in a celebratory toast. It wasn't a joke, nor was it a cheesy pickup line. Objectively speaking, how could he be swayed by the malicious comments of faceless strangers when Jeong Seora's radiant smile was right in front of him?

"Now that we're the national representatives, let's conquer the main event and seal the deal," he said with confidence, though he knew it wouldn't be easy. "I'll need some special training."

There were only about two weeks left. He needed to use that time to shore up the weaknesses he'd identified during the qualifiers. To do that, he needed one thing.

"Please prepare some Legendary-grade dungeons for me. With a boss-kill condition."

Grinding and spending cash when necessary was the immutable truth of gaming.

2.

'If you want to see the world's wealth gap in its starkest form, look at the players.'

In less than five years, this saying had become as established as an ancient proverb, perfectly capturing the harsh reality of modern times. Of course, the same held true for ordinary people. The chasm between the haves and the have-nots was beyond words, giving rise to an invisible class system.

Players were just a microcosm of this. Unlike the rest of the world, which had built its cultures and class structures over millennia, the world of dungeons and players had torn down old standards and established a new order in the short span of five years.

An extreme wealth gap. It was a concept that even players, living under this new order, could not escape. In fact, it was even more severe. Was it any wonder that top rankers joked that real money was just game currency?

It had no value. Risk your life, clear one dungeon, and you'd walk away with more money than you'd ever seen on TV. You could do that once, maybe twice a month, and still earn more than you could possibly spend before the next dungeon. How could anyone maintain a normal sense of economics? Compared to the hand-to-mouth existence of lower-level players, it was like they were living in a different world.

It was an overwhelming wealth gap. But even top players weren't entirely free from financial concerns.

"I have about $1.5 billion in liquid cash," Kim Buja stated.

"You must be the only one who can earn this much from 1-star dungeons, Buja," Jeong Seora replied.

Having clawed his way up from the bottom, Kim Buja felt this reality more keenly than anyone. He finally understood why he couldn't feel like money was money anymore. Back when he was a dollar short of buying a banana milk and had to wash down a single rice ball with tap water, he had felt the joy of saving every penny. But after becoming a player, he had forgotten that feeling.

"I thought I'd lost my concept of money because I was earning too much, but I was wrong. It's because this amount isn't enough to be considered real money, so I'm not satisfied."

As the value of players rose, so did the value of the items that enabled their success—far outpacing the value of money itself. For players who had no choice but to invest in their own survival, money would always be just game currency, a means to acquire better items.

"Sigh. To think I'd spend this much money on a single item in my lifetime."

"Still, with $1.5 billion, you might even be able to get a Legendary 1-star item if you're lucky," Seora reassured.

"If a Legendary is that cheap, it's probably something I'd have to replace almost immediately, right?"

"Well, that's true, but…"

High-end items were useless in the stat-normalized event. The reason he was buying an item now was as an investment to use the next two weeks more efficiently.

"If it's cheap and sells often, I could probably resell it without much of a loss. Let's go. Let's see if there's anything good for sale."

It was the day Kim Buja finally opened his wallet.

* * *

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