First Broadcast
Chirp, chirp—
I woke to the sound of birdsong drifting in from outside the window.
Harsh sunlight was seeping through the thick blackout curtains.
I turned my head in a daze and caught sight of the clock hanging on the wall.
11:00 a.m.
"Ughhh..."
Getting up was a total pain in the ass.
Now that I was back in Korea, I should be enjoying this freedom.
At the very least, nobody here was going to spot me sleeping in and launch a missile at my position.
For the record, that was from experience.
I’d once slept an hour too long in a camp, only to have a cruise missile come out of the sky out of nowhere.
After that, I never once overslept again—until now.
But things were different here.
No bombings. No snipers. No getting unlucky on the road and dying in an IED blast.
Instead, there was a soft bed, heating, and internet.
Now this was heaven.
"Mm..."
Lying in the same position any longer was making my back ache a little, so I rolled to the edge of the bed.
Letting the arm that had been hanging off the side go limp, I yawned.
"Haaah..."
I wiped away the moisture gathering in my eyes and stared into space for a while.
Gradually, last night began to come back to me.
After I went to the convenience store to buy beer, the way the part-timer lowered her hand under the counter had tripped some kind of panic button in my head.
It was all because of those fucking rebel bastards.
People you thought were civilians would act kindly, and the moment you let your guard down, they’d pull out a gun and start spraying bullets at you.
I’d seen that too many times to count.
There were guns everywhere on the battlefield.
Under ordinary family tables. Inside refrigerators. Beneath beds. Hell, even in flowerpots.
Some would come up offering food and put a pistol through your face, or pretend to be an injured civilian, only for the moment our medics approached, to blow their torso apart with a shotgun.
When every person you met was trying to kill you and your comrades, the real problem was if you didn't become suspicious.
That didn’t mean what I’d done was right, though.
Grabbing a stranger by the wrist and losing my temper like that had clearly been wrong.
In the end, I’d managed to get her number as a way of apologizing.
Fortunately, she didn’t seem to be planning on filing charges; when she took her phone from my hand, a happy smile spread across her face.
To think she’d be that delighted just because a guy asked for her number.
Seeing how flustered and overjoyed she’d been actually made me feel a little embarrassed.
Anyway, yesterday had more or less ended well.
The part-timer accepted my apology, and I got my precious beer.
Now all I had to do was...
"...turn on the broadcast."
I hadn’t decided to try internet streaming because I had some grand dream about becoming a broadcaster.
It was just a practical choice for making a living now that I’d been discharged.
Still, I’d already done my research on streaming platforms before returning to Korea from Solomon.
It was the same famous platform that had existed in the previous world, too.
And with Jennifer’s help—the one who’d streamed before joining the Solomon International Legion—I’d already made my account.
I raised my head and looked around my room.
The computer, microphone, and webcam on my desk had all been set up the day before.
"What should I stream about?"
I sprang up, sat on the bed, and thought it over.
Doing a broadcast for military nuts who liked army stuff seemed like the safest bet, but it also felt too common.
A former soldier reviewing games. A former soldier telling war stories. That sort of thing.
I needed something that set me apart from everyone else.
Something Korean viewers couldn’t easily experience themselves, something that would grab them by the collar and drag them in.
Something like...
"Oh?"
Wasn’t it obvious?
I just had to tell my own story.
The tale of a veteran who survived and came back alive from a war in the distant Middle East.
Even thinking about it made it feel like a compelling broadcast concept.
I’d spent the whole day agonizing over something this simple, huh?
Had I picked up sand in my brain after rolling around in the desert?
My head honestly felt like it was running on fumes.
"All right. Let’s go live."
Clap—
I gave a light clap and pushed myself up from the bed.
Strike while the iron’s hot, they say, so I couldn’t just sit around.
Besides, it was Saturday; even if I started streaming now, there’d probably be a few people watching.
Whirrr—
I turned on the computer and monitor, then sat down in my chair.
The moment the familiar desktop appeared, I launched the streaming program and finished the basic setup.
The stream title would be simple.
[A Veteran of the Fifth Middle East War Telling War Stories]
All right. Let’s do this.
.
.
.
.
"Fuck."
This was a nightmare.
It had been two hours since I started broadcasting.
Not a single viewer had come in.
People had dropped by now and then, but they left again without saying a word.
Had I done something wrong?
I thought about it carefully, then looked over my stream screen.
The webcam was aimed at the keyboard on my desk.
Maybe I should adjust the camera angle?
Maybe people weren’t gathering because my face wasn’t showing.
It was a little awkward to say it myself, but my looks were honestly exceptional in this world.
Using Frida’s words, I had a face that could slap celebrities in the mouth and come out on top.
My white hair and red eyes were anything but ordinary.
My face was sculpted and fine-featured, like it had been carved with a knife.
Wouldn't that be enough to catch viewers’ attention?
After adjusting the camera angle and adding “cam broadcast” to the title, I leaned back in my chair and went into endless waiting mode.
Please. Somebody, anyone, come in.
[Viewer Count: 1]
"!"
Finally, something bit.
I should’ve adjusted the camera sooner.
It seemed like I really had left my brain somewhere in the Solomon desert.
While I was busy mocking myself, the first historic message appeared in chat.
"Hello!"
Ah, this felt like being rescued by friendly troops after wandering around enemy territory for a week.
After a full two hours of waiting, this was my first real moment of communication with a viewer, and I was absurdly happy about it.
"No. After rolling around on the battlefield, it just changed color like this."
Technically, it had become like this after the drug doping in Solomon.
If I let anything about the drugs slip, the hounds from Solomon would probably come hunting me down personally, so I gave them a vague answer instead.
While I was chatting with the viewers, the number of people slowly began to climb.
So this was the effect of a cam broadcast?
The viewers who still didn't know what my broadcast was about were starting to ask questions.
As a proper broadcaster, it was only right to answer them earnestly.
"Let me introduce myself properly. I’m Chris, a former member of the Solomon International Legion who fought in the Fifth Middle East War that ended this year."
My real name was Kim Seong-hyeon.
Chris was the name the squad had used for me.
"Want me to show proof?"
Since it looked like the viewers didn’t trust me, I figured I’d have to bring out some solid evidence.
"Please wait a moment."
After saying that into the mic, I started digging through the boxes scattered around my room.
I moved aside the box full of clothes, and when I opened the one next to it, my photo album was revealed.
Carefully hugging the precious album—full of memories from the International Legion—against my chest, I rummaged around the bottom of the box.
The cool touch of metal brushed against my fingertips.
It was the medal of honor awarded to me by Solomon.
This should be enough.
I turned back toward the viewers who were still firing off questions nonstop.
"Yes. This is a medal of honor awarded by the Solomon Ministry of Defense. My name is engraved right here, see? Chris Kim."
Sitting in my chair, I held the medal up to the camera and shook it for them, and the viewers’ reaction wasn’t bad at all.
"I figured that alone wouldn’t be enough proof, huh?"
I’d prepared for that.
The photo collection Mei had taken of me on the battlefield!
Among them, I pointed at a picture of myself wearing combat fatigues and holding a rifle, then looked back at the camera.
"That’s me. It was probably taken in the summer of 2023."
"Sigh... what would it take for you to trust me...?"
I asked cautiously the one viewer who was clinging to this more stubbornly than anyone else.
Should I show them how close air support works?
The viewer kept demanding more proof from me.
"Of course I have a uniform. And service records too. Hang on a second."
I hurriedly pulled a desert-camouflage combat uniform out of a box of clothes lying around the room, then grabbed a black case from the same box where I’d taken out the medal and photo album.
Running back to my chair, I sat down and held up the combat jacket and the service certificate tucked inside the case for the camera to see.
It was the real thing, stamped clearly with the crown emblem of the Solomon Ministry of Defense.
"Is that good enough?"
"Phew..."
As the debate over whether I’d really served or not finally died down, it felt like all the strength had drained out of my body.
Broadcasting was more exhausting than I’d expected.
Trying to keep track of how viewers reacted, reading the mood, and speaking while managing my own gestures and expressions made my head hurt.
Honestly, I wanted to take a little break, but the viewers who had just gotten interested in this new content were still hungry for more.
"Hahaha..."
This is the broadcast you chose...
Endure it with malice. Endure it with grit.
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