Magic. Impossibility is Nothing

Impossibility is merely the excuse of the weak. — Muhammad Ali.

Impossibility is not a fact. It's an opinion. — Paulo Coelho.

Impossible is nothing. — David Beckham.

There is no such thing as impossible. — King Alexander.

I hovered the mouse over the broadcast start button on my monitor, clicking it on and off dozens of times, writing and deleting the off-air notice. It was a schizophrenic display of indecisiveness I'd never have imagined back in my Lee Jinsu days.

This inexplicable irritation, anxiety, and cocktail of pains had me frozen in place.

Fuck it... just hit start. If it really doesn't work out, I can always turn it off later.

Finally, at 7:30, clutching my stomach, I clicked the broadcast start button.

Of course, the blood-soaked bedding was already in the washer. I'd even showered clean. The reality check from changing my diaper one more time during that wasn't a big deal.

As soon as the stream went live, viewers flooded in. Yesterday, after finishing the logistics night shift and getting paid, I'd just waved the envelope at the camera and abruptly ended the stream without another word. It was a reckless shutdown technique I'd learned from my now-mentor VTuber. That VTuber mentor was definitely a streaming genius. Viewer numbers were exploding.

Despite some chats fact-checking that beauties are sleepyheads, I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠pretended not to notice.

"Ahem... ugh... Hey, bros."

My voice wasn't its usual booming construction site bark. It was the kind of drained, sickly groan that'd make cold sweat break out just from hearing it.

The viewers picked up on my condition just from my voice, flooding the chat with concern and mockery.

"Nah... it's not from lifting a pallet... haa..."

Clutching my lower belly and groaning, I continued.

"Bros, I seriously debated turning on the stream like fifty times today. Never felt pain like this in my life. Worse than when a hammer smashed my foot, or when I fell from scaffolding at the ashiba and cracked a rib. It's just... fucking awful. I mean, painful. Or more like, shitty feeling."

Viewers genuinely worried and urged me to go to the hospital. But I couldn't. Or rather, I wouldn't. Hospitals are for respawning after death. Not for pain. Besides, this wasn't an illness—it was the perfectly natural, fucking shitty physiological design the creator baked into women's bodies. That's probably why it's called a period.

"Haa... the world's so fucking unfair. Why do women have to go through this once a month? Feels like a demolition Breka's parked in my gut, jackhammering my insides—brrrrt brrrrt brrrrt."

"Don't laugh. I'm serious. Woke up this morning and my pad was a blood ocean—like someone stabbed me in my sleep. Still wearing a diaper right now."

"Painkillers? You never heard, 'What doesn't kill you makes you stronger'?"

The chat mocked my suffering relentlessly. Back in the day, I was no different from these viewers. At the orphanage, when I was basically a delinquent, I'd trash-talked a fellow kid.

Blood? Big deal, drama queen!

Men go to the army for two years of that shit... oh wait, I'm an orphan, no family for that.

Damn, such a whiner.

Looking back, past me during my wild youth deserves a stabbing. This horrific pain hits intermittently, like my guts are being wrung out. Forget baby prep—this is a straight-up curse on women.

"Agh! Should I just end the stream?!"

I slammed the desk. I wanted to smash the whole planet.

"Haa... whining? I'm a fucking tough guy. Real tough guys take a knife to the gut and still haul gombang."

Saying that, I squirmed in my chair, groaning. My back felt like it was snapping, lower belly like it was being squeezed, and worst of all, the gross discomfort was eating away at my mental state in real time.

One chat line caught my eye amid the flood.

"Battlelands lecture?"

I released my belly and pulled the mic closer.

"Streamers need Battlelands lectures? Anyone can just teach 'em?"

The viewers had a point. 1-tiers crush no matter the team, so anyone works. But 3- and 4-tiers' support and obedience matter more. Even top-gun 1-tiers hit 30 kills or 20 depending on wing support. In this condition, solo queue would just give me a headache. Teaching others lets me vent pain and stress... or at least less exhausting.

"...4-tier grunt training... On site, training grunts was my role too."

I shifted in my seat. Lowbie Battlelands coaching? Mouth-watering content. Pain felt a bit lighter already.

"If 1-tier's airbending master, 2-tier tribute payer, 3-4 tiers grunts... 5-tier's gotta be unemployed, right?"

One term derailed the chat into weird territory. How do you handle ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠these basement-dwelling, desire-driven shut-ins? I furrowed my brow and tapped the stand mic.

"Bros, bad words = ban."

"Anyway, today I'll host basic safety and practical training for 3-tier and below."

I set the title and waited.

"Fun story while we wait?"

"Everyone's curious, so here's a tale."

"Way back, when I knew jack about labor gigs. First day on a temp agency call."

Good times. Getting 20% skimmed by the agency boss. Waiting at the office, getting kidnapped into a van. Before foreign workers flooded in—pure Korean turf. Memories.

"Before starting, foreman hands me his card for coffee."

Coffee and a smoke before work is labor law. Applies to logistics too. Why else the constant cig stink from offices? Everyone's puffing and sipping.

Anyway.

"Skipped Let's Be, grabbed every fancy Georgia Theopia Cantantan type. Heh heh heh, pfft, puhaahahat. *Cough cough*. Looking back, total asshole move."

Can't forget the foreman's wide-eyed stare.

"But why's no one contacting yet? Don't they trust their skills...?"

Weird. No takers for top physical 2-tier Lee Jua, certified by Odin and Zeus?