The Heavenly Demon Starts MyTube (2)
While watching the FPS footage of his boss Enri playing, Ha-neul was seriously considering whether he ought to bill her for dental expenses. Her gameplay was downright torturous to witness.
All she had to do was wait in ambush, yet she couldn’t suppress her curiosity and charged forward, only to die instantly. Or she would successfully sneak up on an opponent, then get so fixated on tracking their outline that she fell to a counterattack. Or she would freeze in panic the moment an enemy appeared, forget to pull the trigger, and perish on the spot.
When Enri had boldly declared, “I’ve gotten good enough at Apis, so now I’m taking on FPS games!” Ha-neul had allowed himself a flicker of hope. She really had improved dramatically. Just watching her in Apis put her on the same level as streamers known for their skill. Maybe she would show a completely different side in a shooter.
Reality, however, was merciless. The only reason Enri had transformed in Apis was because Hwaryeong had remodeled her. Without that influence, her performance in a pure gun game remained exactly as pathetic as before. Anyone watching her wander between Silver and Bronze while loudly proclaiming herself a “Gold seed” would reach the same conclusion.
Her garbage plays did provide plenty of editing material, but Ha-neul felt no joy whatsoever. There was a limit to how trashy a streamer could be before people stopped laughing and started grinding their teeth. Comments like “Just end the suffering already” were growing more common.
Maybe he should suggest she drop the shooter phase and try something else. There was a decent new zombie game out recently. Just as that thought crossed his mind, his smartphone began to ring. It was Enri.
“Ha-neul. What are you doing right now?”
“Yes, boss.”
“Editing that garbage FPS play you did last time, boss.”
“Ha-neul. If you don’t want your salary, just say so.”
“Sorry. So what’s the matter?”
“Hwaryeong is planning to open a MyTube channel.”
“I already heard about that.”
The news that Hwaryeong was looking for someone to edit her MyTube videos had spread quickly among their circle. It made sense; the employer in question was Hwaryeong herself. The woman who dominated daily trending topics with her overwhelming and completely unorthodox plays. Whenever she went live, communities filled with discussions about her. No wonder her nickname had become the Queen of Firewood.
Given the quality and viral potential of her raw footage, success was virtually guaranteed—so long as her editor wasn’t incompetent enough to flip the table in frustration. Naturally, every editor with free time had applied to become Hwaryeong’s MyTube editor. Picking a competent one from that pile would be a task in itself.
As Ha-neul reached that conclusion, he suddenly had a sinking feeling he knew exactly why his boss was calling him.
“Um, boss. Just asking out of curiosity… you’re not thinking of asking me to help screen applicants for Hwaryeong, are you?”
“As expected of you, Ha-neul! So quick on the upta—”
Ha-neul closed the call immediately. Review dozens—no, possibly hundreds—of editor applications one by one? When he still had a mountain of footage left to edit? What nonsense was his boss spouting?
The phone rang again almost instantly. Much as he wanted to ignore it, the caller was unfortunately his employer. As long as his paycheck rested in her hands, Ha-neul could not disregard her.
“Ha-neul. Why did you hang up?”
“Sorry, boss. My finger slipped.”
“Really? You didn’t do it on purpose, right?”
Ha-neul found Enri’s innocent tone utterly detestable. What a black company boss! He would definitely report her to the Ministry of Employment and Labor one day.
“Come on. You do this kind of thing all the time.”
“That’s when we’re hiring for our own team. This is for someone else.”
“I’ll give you a bonus.”
“…How much?”
The number that flowed from Enri’s lips was nothing short of hypnotic. Imagining the sum landing in his account, Ha-neul shot up from his chair and shouted politely toward the person on the other end of the line.
“Understood, boss! When do I start?!”
“Right now.”
“Is it really all right for me to evaluate these people?”
Those were the first words out of the man named Ha-neul after Enri dragged him over and showed him the pile of applications.
“This person used to edit highlights for the Apis Korean league, and this one worked at a broadcasting station. And look at this person…”
He explained that the applicants’ credentials were simply too impressive. Even though he had worked in the industry for a long time, the people applying to become my editor were on another level entirely. He lacked the confidence to judge them.
When the man looked visibly overwhelmed, Enri slapped him hard on the back.
“What are you getting all intimidated for? Ha-neul, you’re the editor for a million-subscriber MyTuber!”
“That’s true, but…”
Indeed. Hadn’t Enri said that this man had helped her reach a million subscribers? In my opinion he was already quite remarkable, yet these applicants were even more so?
“Are there really that many impressive people?”
I asked because I genuinely couldn’t understand. Ha-neul’s gaze turned toward me. He studied my face for a moment, cleared his throat, then hurriedly looked back at the laptop screen.
“Yes. Extremely.”
“Still, there must be differences in degree, right?”
No matter how renowned someone was, there would always be hierarchy within that group. Humans loved building ladders, after all. Anyone with knowledge of the field should be able to distinguish the high from the low.
“There are. As many outstanding people as there are, there are also plenty of landmines and individuals whose style simply doesn’t match yours, Hwaryeong.”
“Style?”
“More precisely, their editing style.”
As he spoke, Ha-neul played a sample video from one of the applicants. It was a calm, subdued video that gently introduced scenery. Simply watching it brought peace of mind; one could feel the creator’s skill.
“This person specializes in this kind of video. Their skill is outstanding and they produce excellent work, but they wouldn’t be a good fit for you.”
I understood what he meant. It was a clash between what I could show and what this person could create.
“Since I agreed to help, I’ll sort out the ones whose skill is lacking or whose vibe doesn’t match. However, the final decision should be yours, Hwaryeong.”
“That’s more than enough.”
Since this was about choosing someone who would work for me, the final call had to be mine.
Enri’s editor was frighteningly efficient. Only two days after I asked for help, he had already filtered the applicants and sent me the curated list.
‘You should be satisfied no matter who you pick from these.’
Now all that remained was to choose my editor from these dozen or so candidates.
As I scanned the list, a familiar name caught my eye. Park Seol-ah. Could this be the Seol-ah I knew?
With that question in mind, I opened her application. According to her career history, she ran a fan MyTube channel dedicated to me?
Hmm. Then she must have edited videos from my streams. I decided to check her channel.
The channel operated by this person named Park Seol-ah was managed exceptionally well. Not only were the view counts high, but the fact that views and subscribers were nearly equal was impressive. Usually views tended to be much lower than subscriber count.
How exactly did she edit her videos to achieve such numbers? Curious, I clicked on the most viewed one.
It was the moment I had dropped a dragon from the sky in Sky’s End—the very first time I had turned on my stream. I remembered feeling disappointed because the fight had been far more anticlimactic than expected.
The video opened with a dragon flying in from the distant sky. Certainly, its appearance itself was imposing. Armor-like black scales, fierce eyes, a massive body. The sight of it spreading its wings and scattering clouds as it flew was magnificent. The only problem was that there was nothing inside.
The dragon that had descended with such dignity landed, shaking the earth, and the screen trembled with it. After a brief standoff between me and the dragon, the battle began.
Viewed through the edited footage, the fight appeared evenly matched. She had put a lot of effort into the presentation. In reality the dragon had been too weak to even touch me and had been unilaterally beaten before collapsing, but she had done everything possible to make its attacks look overwhelming. Thanks to that, the battle appeared intensely thrilling.
The climax came when the dragon, sensing it was at a disadvantage, tried to flee into the sky. In Park Seol-ah’s video, the camera did not follow me—it tracked the dragon as it ascended. The higher the dragon flew, the smaller I became, until I stood at the position of the sun and looked no different from any other insignificant creature on the ground.
When the dragon unleashed its magic upon the earth, the scene truly looked as if a transcendent being in the shape of a dragon was passing judgment on the world. Only after the dragon paused its assault did the camera plunge back downward, falling rapidly from the dragon’s point of view to the spot where I, the tiny creature, stood.
The earth was in ruins. Buildings had collapsed, the ground was burning, and countless fallen people groaned in agony. Yet in the middle of that devastation, I alone stood untouched, calmly looking up at the sky with an indifferent expression.
The sword I use is called the Falling Sun Sword.
While I narrated, the camera slowly moved behind me. At that moment I raised my sword and swung it downward. The dragon, which had been positioned at the sun, was sliced apart and plummeted. A transcendent existence crashed to the ground, and the video ended with me standing before its corpse.
She had put in tremendous work. To create a sense of urgency that had never existed in that fight… it was like watching a short film. So this was the art of video editing.
Intrigued, I looked through the other videos Park Seol-ah had created: me facing an Outer God, fighting Geomseon, battling the Blood Cult Leader at Hwasan, and finally destroying the previous Hwasan sect leader. Uploads had stopped after that point.
What I felt while watching was that the creator had some understanding of Murim, and that she viewed me as a kind of transcendent being and held me in reverence. No, reverence might not be accurate. It was closer to faith. A conviction that things should naturally be this way.
This person was most likely the Seol-ah I knew. Well, regardless of what thoughts or beliefs she held, the videos themselves were captivating. I would remember that and examine the other candidates.