The Constellation's Game [Laika]

The Constellation's Game [Laika]

I had two things to accomplish at the Gate Management Bureau today.

The first, obviously, was exchanging currency. The second was hunter registration.

Strictly speaking, registration wasn't something I had to do right this second, but sooner or later I'd need it anyway if I ever wanted to enter the Tower.

In the other world, the Tower had been managed by the fairy. Here on the Korean server, it was managed by the Korean government.

And honestly, there was no reason not to register.

Once it was done, I wouldn't have to trek all the way to Seoul Station anymore — I could exchange LP for KRW anytime, anywhere.

"How may I help you?"

"I'd like to exchange currency first, please."

Either way, the exchange had to come first. After today, secretly borrowing Mom's transit card would be… a thing of the absolute past.

I converted everything except 10 LP, and after the fee came out, a little over 445,000 won landed in my bank account.

Why did I keep 10 LP, you ask?

"Shall we proceed with your hunter registration as well?"

"Yes, please."

That's what it was — the registration fee.

It was precious blood-money, those 100,000 won, but there was nothing to be done about it.

Watching the system messages scroll past, it finally began to sink in that I was a real hunter now.

There was plenty I'd never seen in the beta version, so honestly, some of it felt pretty novel.

But what on earth was this Streaming System?

Some kind of internet broadcast?

"Mm, it's a bit different from internet streaming. This is a streaming function built directly into the Laika system itself — in other words, part of the system provided by the Constellation's Game."

What in the world was he talking about…?

Nothing like that existed in the beta.

"Wait, you really don't know about the Streaming System? Have you been living in the woods for the last ten years or something?"

Not the woods, exactly — just another world.

"In any case, if you want to make it as a hunter, I'd recommend using it as much as possible. It's the only channel through which you can communicate with the Constellations."

At the word Constellations, I flinched.

I'd never actually laid eyes on one, but it was a word I'd heard more times than I could count from that lunatic of a fairy.

Listening to the clerk now, I also found myself recalling things I'd read on the Awakened Wiki.

I remembered something about streaming being the primary income source for top-ranked hunters…

I'd assumed it just meant popular ones turning on internet broadcasts and raking in big money.

But a stream for communicating with Constellations?

So that's what she meant.

"Exactly right."

Curiosity stirred in me, but so did a certain resistance. I wasn't the type who enjoyed performing in front of an audience, and, well… the whole Constellation business gave me an uneasy feeling.

Which meant, if there was any way to turn this streaming thing off…

"What are you talking about? Why would you turn it off…?"

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

"Uh…"

"You keep your stream on and you play. Non-negotiable!"

Why?

"There's literally nothing to lose. Just leave your stream running while you play, and the Constellations sponsor you with LP… what possible reason is there not to? It's not like an internet broadcast where your face gets out there for the whole world to see."

The phrase LP sponsorship tempted me instantly, and the clerk's follow-up landed the killing blow.

"And it's not just rankers who get sponsored, you know. One hunter had a whale latch onto him before he'd even hit level 20… apparently they dropped 10,000 LP on him in a single day?"

Was he insane?

10,000 LP — isn't that a hundred million won?

"Of course, they say it's brutally hard at first, even getting a single subscriber… but even so, entering a gate with it switched off would be—"

The clerk kept adding explanation after explanation after that, but none of it was particularly important, and not much of it reached my ears anyway.

So earning that kind of LP through sponsorships was actually possible, huh.

If a cash-farming hero didn't seize this, it would be nothing short of dereliction of duty.

I was mulling that over when the clerk, apparently having spotted something interesting, opened his mouth again.

"By the way, you're already level 9?"

"Is that… a problem?"

"Oh, no, no, of course not. It's just that I've never seen someone reach level 9 before even completing hunter registration."

I'd read on the Awakened Wiki that most people register as hunters before entering a gate.

Without registration you couldn't use the Bureau's trading post, so gearing up first and then diving in was the obvious order of operations for any other hunter.

At any rate, after filling out a few more forms…

The hunter registration process was complete.

"Dave-nim, your hunter registration is finished."

"Thank you."

My mood was a little strange, having learned things I'd never anticipated — but what mattered was that I'd made it through registration without a hitch.

Truthfully, there had been one part I'd worried might invite some pushback.

If they'd checked my ID, things could've gotten pretty awkward.

My legal age on paper was 36.

But Dave's registered age in the system was 26.

As far as I was concerned, I obviously was 26(?), but I'd figured there might be a discrepancy worth raising eyebrows.

"Your ID, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠you mean?"

"None of that is required for hunter registration."

"For hunters, the information registered in the system matters far more than some scrap of paper anyway."

Well, if that's how it worked, I had nothing to say.

"Player Name: Dave. Nationality: Republic of Korea. Age: twenty-six. See? Correct, isn't it?"

Oh, absolutely. Correct as correct can be.

"Great. Then… that wraps up all the procedures."

"Thank you."

Aside from being a bit of a chatterbox, he seemed like a perfectly decent clerk.

Thanks to him, I'd even learned about streaming…

I was still thinking that when he added one more parting remark.

"Oh, hunter-nim, one moment."

"Yes?"

"Since you're already here — how about signing up for our Gate Comprehensive Insurance today as well?"

Excuse me?

"You're going to do a potential assessment while you're here anyway, aren't you?"

Um, no? I wasn't planning to?

"This is a plan only available to those thirty and under with a potential grade of D-Rank or higher, and this month's benefits are really quite something—"

A dull ache began throbbing behind my eyes.

I was afraid I'd have to retract my earlier assessment of him as a perfectly decent clerk.

It was past eight in the evening.

One corner of the Gate Management Bureau office was still brightly lit.

The Director's Office, to be exact — the seat that oversaw every administrative function of the Bureau.

Kim Yeongtae, its occupant, was pressing hard against his throbbing temples.

In truth, this marked over a month already of failing to leave work at a decent hour.

"So you're telling me… exactly fifty days remain?"

"That is correct, Director."

"Haah. It's driving me mad, honestly."

The reason Kim Yeongtae couldn't go home was simple.

The greatest crisis of his bureaucratic career was creeping up on him, silent and stealthy.

That crisis was the Gate Rampage.

Managing gates and suppressing rampages was, for all intents and purposes, the very reason the Gate Management Bureau existed…

And yet if things kept going unchecked for another fifty days, the Republic of Korea was on course for its first Gate Rampage in five years.

If he failed to stop it, Kim Yeongtae would have to strip off his uniform first. And the far greater problem would be the catastrophic civilian casualties.

"The budget? What did the Minister say?"

"Well…"

A Gate Rampage referred to a phenomenon in which unstable gates spawned simultaneously across the country.

Unlike stabilized gates, which posed no threat merely by existing, unstable gates were the dangerous kind — the ones that vomited monster waves out into the open world.

And a Gate Rampage was the state in which no one knew when or where those dangerous gates would appear.

Over the roughly fifteen days a rampage lasted, civilian areas inevitably suffered staggering losses. Countless people were certain to die.

So what did it take to prevent a Gate Rampage?

"I was told the supplementary budget this time would include gate stabilization funds."

"It was included."

"And?"

"The amount is… laughably insufficient."

What filled that gap was the Tower's contribution score.

Or in other words, an astronomical sum of LP.

Contribution naturally accumulated in proportion to the exploits of a nation's players inside gates — but the structure of the system meant that the shortfall always had to be topped up with LP before a rampage could be averted.

"How much are we short?"

"Somewhere in the vicinity of 230 billion won."

The numbers weren't exact, but burning roughly 100 to 200 million LP could extend a Gate Rampage by about thirty days.

Nearly two trillion won — spent merely to push back Korea's Gate Rampage by a single month.

One might call it pouring water into a bottomless pot, and that wouldn't be entirely wrong.

In fact, nations lacking sufficient player bases — the ones who couldn't secure contribution or LP — burned not a single won on stabilization. They handled Gate Rampages through post-disaster response rather than prevention: let the rampage happen, then hold the line against the monsters pouring out of the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠unstable gates that had already formed.

Even factoring in hunter employment costs, military expenditure, and reconstruction, that route came out far cheaper.

"Not even 500 billion — 230?"

"Yes."

But Kim Yeongtae had never believed that approach was right.

If the state was going to force the civilian population to share in the suffering, then what on earth was all that tax revenue for?

Consider, at the crudest extreme, the intangible value that came from the title alone of a nation where Gate Rampages do not occur. He believed it was money well worth spending, year after year.

Beyond that, there was the longer-term calculation: if the state actively supported its hunters so they could accumulate more contribution, the LP earned through the Gate Management Bureau alone would eventually cover the stabilization costs entirely.

As proof of that, Korea had successfully staved off every rampage for five straight years.

Apparently, though, the powers that be saw things a little differently.

That bastard of a Minister. Absolute trash.

Calling his ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠direct superior — the Minister of National Defense — to mind, Kim Yeongtae ground his molars until they ached.

The man had treated him like a thorn in his eye since the day he took office, and now it seemed he was prepared to weather an actual Gate Rampage if it meant flushing Kim Yeongtae out of the Director's chair.

"Then how much more do we need?"

"We need another 200 billion immediately, but even if we find a way to cover that, the next shortfall is the real problem, Director."

"Mm."

"If a rampage arrives again thirty days from now, the budget will blow a hole of at least 700 billion."

"Hoo…"

Feeling suffocated, Kim Yeongtae turned to gaze out the window.

In his line of sight, citizens bustled through the streets as they did every day.

How much longer will this peace last?

In the many countries where Gate Rampages were simply a fact of life, scenes this tranquil no longer existed.

And now Kim Yeongtae… no longer had the confidence to stand against the will of those above him.

"Let's call it a day and head home."

"Yes, Director."

On his way out the door, Kim Yeongtae headed for the subway, as he always did.

He was, incredibly, the Director of the Gate Management Bureau — yet across nearly thirty years of public service, he had relied exclusively on public transportation.

Rattle — rattle—

But on the subway ride home that evening, something began to feel off.

A young man who had left the Bureau at nearly the same time had been walking one step ahead of Yeongtae on the very same route, the entire way.

Hmm. Hunter, by the look of him…

It held when transferring to Line 2. It held getting off at Seongsu Station.

It even held when they emerged from Exit 2 and entered the same apartment complex together.

"Heh heh."

So by the time they rode the elevator of Building 101 — the deepest recess of the complex — together, Yeongtae couldn't help but let out an awkward laugh.

Well, what are the odds.

But a moment later—

When the young man got off at the very same floor—

"…!"

Shock gave way to outright bewilderment; Yeongtae's eyes went round as saucers.

Because it meant the young man who'd happened to share his commute was the son from next door.

The neighbor's son… didn't they say he'd gone missing?

The family next door was no passing acquaintance to Yeongtae.

They had moved in together twenty years ago, when the complex was first built — old neighbors who had never once changed in all that time.

They hadn't exchanged much more than greetings lately, but before the son's disappearance, they had been close. Close enough that the news of it had genuinely broken his heart.

And the neighbor's son had been his own son Gyeongjun's high school classmate.

So he studied the young man's face carefully…

"…!"

It was definitely, unmistakably familiar.

Just before unlocking his own front door, Yeongtae found himself speaking up.

"Excuse me… but would you happen to know Kim Gyeongjun?"

And the young man… scratched the back of his head with an awkward expression before answering.

"Uh… it's been a while, ahjussi. I'm Geonyul — Gyeongjun's friend."

Kim Yeongtae's eyes went wide as full moons.