Who Is the Guilty One?
"Don't say weird stuff and just watch the video. Our Camilla is pretty cute, isn't she?"
The moment I went live, a counseling session had kicked off. Even after the little uproar that exposed my personal tastes, the stream was still going strong.
They kept clinging to me, and I felt a little bad just coldly shaking them off and leaving. It had been a while since I'd streamed, and one of the viewers had actually solved a problem weighing on me — so I was grateful, too.
That was why I hadn't ended the broadcast. I'd been puttering around with this and that, and somehow I'd ended up rewatching Camilla's cinematic.
Truth was, both I and most of the viewers had already seen it, but the chat wasn't complaining much. For a crowd of four thousand people, it was remarkably peaceful — almost unified.
These people knew by now. With nothing else going on, if they started whining, I might just pack up and leave.
Somehow I'd become the kind of bad streamer who held going offline over their heads like a threat, but… well. Once you were on this side of the camera, having a weapon like that was reassuring as hell.
And when I said I was ending the stream, watching the viewers apologize and beg me not to leave was weirdly satisfying, too.
I had a feeling this was a habit I'd never be able to break.
So there I was, bantering with the chat, running a quiet little stream, shooting the breeze about Camilla and Abyss, when—
"A Mun-cheol?"
Something interesting had just walked in.
There were massive channels with well over a million subscribers. Among them, a famous one that reviewed traffic accidents — looking at the scene, the black box footage, and determining fault ratios.
X Mun-cheol TV.
That was where the term came from.
You showed a replay to an authoritative streamer or pro gamer in a particular title, and they judged whose fault it was.
That was a Mun-cheol.
Famous streamers would take on Mun-cheol requests and hand down clear verdicts, and the process often produced Vtube-worthy clips that got uploaded. Because of that, it had quietly become a major content format.
Most of the cases came from solo queue, where disputes ran hottest, and since it was essentially a bet, the stakes could get surprisingly high.
It was similar to the old spectator feedback format, but with a sharper, more provocative edge mixed in.
The arguments that broke out constantly in solo queue. Teammates who wouldn't take your side. The political maneuvering.
Anyone who played Abyss could relate.
It was a kind of public trial.
Pointing at the person who was clearly in the wrong in front of a big crowd and declaring you played worse could deliver that sweet, cathartic rush — but it could also feel like a witch hunt, a mob pointing fingers at a sinner, and the losing side could walk away seriously hurt.
That was why both parties had to agree before a Mun-cheol could happen.
"The other person agreed too, right?"
"A 1 million won pot??"
My eyes went wide at a number that blew right past my expectations.
The way he was throwing around 10,000-won donations like they were 1,000-won ones already felt off compared to regular viewers — but I hadn't expected the Mun-cheol itself to be on a completely different scale.
I was a little surprised, but for me it was pure upside. Just the middleman's judgment fee alone meant I was pocketing 200,000 won.
"I whispered you my Discord. Come on in and let me know when you're ready."
"Ah— hello."
While that was going on, a somewhat deep, solid mid-low voice came through.
"Welcome. Are you the one who requested the Mun-cheol?"
"Yes. I'm MobileUnit — the one who donated."
While that was happening, Discord's little ding went off and another voice joined.
Different from the client's — thinner, reedy, the kind of voice that sounded like it had no backbone.
"Ah, h-hello…."
"You're here? Hi. Here for the Mun-cheol?"
"Y-yes… um, that guy told me to come here."
The chat's reaction flipped completely the other way.
"Looking at the match history, the one who played Theodora… same nickname. MobileUnit, right?"
"Yes."
"And the one who played Haven is, uh. BestADCLeeMinwook?"
"…Yes."
"MobileUnit requested the Mun-cheol, but Minwook — do you know who I am?"
"Yes. Sometimes when I'm waiting in queue I watch you out of boredom."
Before diving into the actual judgment, I pinned down the points that needed pinning down first.
"You said a 1 million won pot — are the two of you each putting in 1 million, or 500,000 each?"
Then came a slightly unconfident voice.
"Well, this is my first Mun-cheol so I don't really know if people do 100/100 or 50/50…."
"Hmm. You two work that out between yourselves."
My fee was locked at 200,000 either way. Honestly, I probably would've taken it even if it were only 100,000, but still.
"I proposed 1 million each."
"Ah, then—"
"Let's do 1 million each, take 100,000 each as the fee, and the winner walks with 1.8 million."
"BestADCLeeMinwook, do you agree?"
"Uh…."
"You said you were confident you'd win, didn't you? You suggested the 1 million won pot first because you were sure you'd win, right?"
The client's voice rose a notch. As the judge, I stepped in to cool the overheating atmosphere.
"Alright, alright, no need to get so heated — a verdict's coming either way. More importantly, Minwook suggested the 1 million first?"
"Yes. I was the one who first proposed the Mun-cheol, but Haven said if we were doing it we should do it properly and suggested the 1 million won pot."
"…."
Minwook, who'd already been quieter and softer-spoken than the client, went even quieter.
The chat stirred in sympathetic agreement.
Whether he saw the chat or some wind just caught him, the quiet Minwook finally opened his mouth.
"Let's do the 1 million won pot… so 1 million each…."