Aren't You Getting a Little Too Invested?

"So you're saying it's not a hack or a bug?"

"Right. The higher-ups say it isn't."

Employee Lee Ji-na, who had reported an eccentric user the moment she spotted them during her routine player-monitoring shift, received a rather puzzling answer after about four days had passed.

They were telling her the user was simply playing the game legitimately — no hacks, no exploits.

But that wasn't the part that confused her.

"The higher-ups? Which higher-ups?"

"...Why do you even need to know that? If it's the higher-ups, then it's the higher-ups."

"No, there are a ton of 'higher-ups.' This isn't even headquarters."

They were right in the heart of Seoul, and yes, this was Nutri Company — the largest of all Korean corporations — but this office was not the head office.

Nutri Company subsidiaries had already spread across every corner of the globe, and this place was merely one of those countless branches: the Korea branch.

Word had it the head office was somewhere in the United States, though honestly, she wasn't even sure it was actually in America.

She'd joined as a rank-and-file employee, after all, and next to nothing had been made public about the company to begin with.

Her supervisor, the assistant manager, answered half-heartedly while staring at the computer monitor sitting on his conspicuously empty desk.

Not a trace of work on it. No documents, no paperwork. Spotless.

"Enough, enough. Don't go poking your curiosity where it doesn't belong. You think it's easy to get hired here? Stick your neck out for no reason and you'll get cut loose. This company hates anything that sticks out."

"......"

"It's comfortable here, isn't it? All we do is monitor players and prep the occasional event. Why are you trying to dig so deep?"

"Because I'm curious, that's why. It's been half a year since I joined and all I've done is monitor players."

Lee Ji-na thoroughly enjoyed being a salary lupin — a paid slacker — but the real problem was that she was forced into it even when she didn't want to be.

She'd graduated from a good university, built an immaculate résumé, fought her way through competition of several hundred applicants for a single opening... only to end up monitoring player reports.

This isn't what I signed up for.

The assistant manager sighed at her sulking face and began clacking away at the keyboard.

The only thing they ever actually bothered with: Deoen's official website.

"Instead of just standing there, go post a notice that this Lily person isn't using hacks. It's an absolute circus over it lately."

"Yes, understood."

"And once the Siege War starts we'll be slammed, so prep for that in the meantime. If you've got nothing else to do."

The assistant manager waved a dismissive hand, and Lee Ji-na gave a small bow before returning to her own desk.

Just like her supervisor's, it showed barely any sign of actual work being done.

Well, fine. Same old same old, I suppose. Honestly, there isn't a single company these days that isn't like this anyway.

And so one employee began hammering away at her keyboard like a cog in a great machine.

Sagwi. The most ordinary, most numerous life form in Deoen.

Think of the slimes that show up in every fantasy world, or the orange mushrooms from that one game. They occupy exactly that kind of niche.

Which is probably why, no matter where you went, you'd find monsters tied to the Sagwi in one way or another.

The spear moved.

Black Sagwi were sliced clean in two by the razor-sharp tip of the spearhead.

Bodies burst apart, and two more were skewered in a single thrust. Immediately after, the Sagwi chasing along behind caught sight of their brethren's corpses and scattered in a panic, fleeing for their lives.

The spear was drawn back into a pale white hand — then flung straight at the fleeing Sagwi.

The moment it pierced one, the Sagwi around it were caught in the violent gust of displaced air, lost their footing, and toppled over.

As I walked forward step by unhurried step, the Sagwi crawled away on their bellies as fast as they could manage.

I'd felt it before, but there's something strangely unsettling about monsters that run away. In most games, monsters just come at you with unconditional hostility.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

"...Aren't you all getting a little too invested in this?"

If they kept this up, killing them would start feeling weirdly guilt-ridden.

"......"

The Sagwi stole a glance up at me.

Wide, glistening eyes, as if to ask, You're... not going to spare me, are you?

I stared at it for a moment — then ran it through with my green spear.

The Sagwi scattered and dissolved into nothing.

As touching as it was, I don't spare monsters just because they look pitiful.

Leave a monster alive out of sympathy, and it only goes on to claim more victims.

It was a truth I'd learned through countless repetitions, and besides, even a well-behaved Sagwi that didn't attack anyone would be fine to kill — this was a game, after all.

And with two thousand of them already down, I was hardly in a position to be saying any of it.

After a grueling five hours, I'd finally filled the quota of three thousand.

I'd figured it would take two or three at most, but the hunting grounds were far less populated than expected — and here and there I even spotted traces of someone having deliberately swept the area clean.

"A manager? Hmm... I suppose I do need to pick one, don't I."

I couldn't moderate the chat myself every single time, and relying on Yena's help had its limits.

But how was I supposed to choose, though?

Didn't feel like I could just hand it to anyone.

One of the most bone-deep lessons I'd learned as a Saintess was that if you hand out authority and positions carelessly, everything goes straight to hell.

Just how dangerous is an ignorant noble with power, after all?

More than once I'd handed off a decision only to find myself in crisis because of it.

...Come to think of it, maybe that's part of why I quit being a Saintess in the first place.

"I'll do the class change tomorrow, during Yena's content, so for now I'll just take donations for about five minutes."

Five minutes should be plenty.

Day one had brought in quite a lot, granted, but there had also been that whole mess of accusations that I'd run off with donation money — people were still questioning whether I was a hacker or what ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠have you. Maybe around 300 would come in?

The moment I flipped the donation setting to ON, a fanfare burst through the stream — pa-ba-ba-BAM, pa-BAM! — and a synthesized female voice rang out across the broadcast.

"...I'm sorry, what?"

A million won? Again?

And the message — completely ignoring the amount, like it was some piddly thousand-won donation — said nothing except ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠what they'd wanted to say all along.

Was that supposed to be cool, or just doing whatever they pleased?

"...First of all, thank you, Lily's First Sword, for the million won. By 'the forums,' you mean the official website, right?"

I opened the settings Yena had configured for me.

A window thoughtfully labeled "Place to insert external site links" — she'd even left a note on it.

Below it were links to the major sites: NewTube, Twitch, the Deoen official website, and so on.

As soon as I entered the official Deoen site address, part of the stream screen switched over to the website.

I clicked the most recent announcement at the top.