The Face Behind Nyangnyang
I hadn't jumped to conclusions simply because the names matched. There were more than enough clues for me to feel certain. The phone number listed on the application was identical. The distinctive verbal habits sprinkled throughout her self-introduction. But what convinced me beyond any doubt was the perspective embedded in the video this applicant had sent, claiming it as her own work.
Anyone who walks the path of martial arts inevitably views the world through the lens of their chosen techniques. This video was no exception. Its creator was searching for the wind within every motion—the gentle softness that could redirect catastrophe when disaster unfolded before their eyes, and the raging storm that followed when they seized the offensive.
Ha-rin was someone I had raised from the very bottom, so I knew exactly how she perceived the world. This was unmistakably her gaze.
After rolling beneath me for so long, her perspective on martial arts has grown even more refined than Seol-ah's, yet her editing skills are still quite rough. They weren't utterly hopeless, but they couldn't compare to the work produced by Seol-ah or the other editors Enri had recommended.
I would set this one aside for now and review the rest first.
After all, this was an interview. Personal feelings should yield to objective judgment.
After spending the entire day combing through every email the applicants had sent, that was my final impression: the people Enri's editor had filtered out usually had their reasons. And there was almost no one whose perspective on martial arts rivaled Ha-rin's current level.
I tapped the mouse absently while pondering, then sent a message to Seol-ah. She wouldn't be asleep at this hour.
My prediction was exactly right.
“Could you evaluate a video for me? Specifically, whether it shows potential for growth.”
It was better to leave this sort of assessment to someone experienced rather than a novice like myself. Just as I could gauge talent with a single glance at a martial artist, those who worked with video likely possessed a similar instinct. With that thought, I sent her the file. A brief “please wait a moment” appeared, followed by silence.
Before long, her reply arrived.
Harsh criticism for someone she had never met. Then again, perhaps it was easier to be so blunt precisely because they were strangers. She proceeded to dissect the footage scene by scene, explaining exactly why Ha-rin's work fell short and where it went wrong. From the sound of it, the rest of her verdict was easy to predict.
It was unfortunate, but Ha-rin would not be joining us.
Oh well. Nothing to be done. I would simply have to personally impart some martial insight to the most promising candidate among those Enri's editor had approved.
After all the scathing commentary, Seol-ah's final remark caught me off guard. To offer such near-insulting critique and then conclude the person had promise?
Oh? Now that was interesting.
“What if you taught her yourself, Seol-ah?”
The chat went quiet for a full ten seconds before her next reply appeared.
Command? The word drew a helpless chuckle from me. I thanked her for the consultation and ended the chat, then dialed Ha-rin's number.
*
The word “going out” was profoundly foreign to Seol-ah.
In this era, the internet could solve nearly anything. If you wished, you could fulfill every need without ever stepping outside your door. At some point Seol-ah had given up on leaving her room entirely and found contentment living as a shut-in within her small one-room apartment. For a corner-dwelling loner like her, even a trip to the convenience store downstairs felt like a monumental and exhausting undertaking. Traveling to a bustling downtown area to meet other people required a resolution on par with embarking on an overseas journey—perhaps even greater.
Normally she would have suggested concluding the contract through email, but this time she could not bring herself to do so.
She could meet Ara in the flesh. She could see the person hidden behind the VR avatar. She could stand before her, look into her eyes, hear her voice, and feel the warmth of her breath.
That single truth had swept away every last trace of hesitation.
And so, for the first time in years—literally counting in years—she prepared to leave the house to meet someone. Standing before the mirror, Seol-ah could not decide whether her preparations were adequate.
The heavy dark circles beneath her eyes, the unkempt hair, the sloppy oversized hoodie and baggy pants—nothing about her appearance satisfied her. This was her first time meeting Ara in person. Was it really acceptable to appear like this?
Yet she had no other clothes at home. If only she had known, she would have bought more in advance.
Seol-ah regretted it deeply, but it was already too late to turn back. Any further hesitation might make her late, and the thought of making her idol and object of worship wait was unbearable. She would sooner bite her own tongue than commit such a sin.
After repeating to herself several times that everything would be fine, Seol-ah stepped outside.
A taxi was the only conceivable option. Crowded public transportation would have been pure torture, so there was no other choice. Praying the driver would remain silent, she stared at her phone for dozens of minutes until she finally reached the meeting place Ara had designated.
Perhaps because it was the weekend, the downtown café was overflowing with people. The sight of so many bodies packed inside sent Seol-ah spiraling into panic. She fled back outside and drew several deep breaths. The street was crowded too, but at least she could breathe.
What do I do?
The reply came instantly.
This lively person was already there? The group chat had only been created in the early hours of the previous morning, yet the energetic, talkative member who had dominated at least seventy percent of its conversation was already waiting inside?
What about Ara and the other editor? Were they not here yet?
Seol-ah’s breath caught as she imagined being left alone with this stranger. She desperately searched for a way out, but neither of the others responded. What now? How can I escape this situation?
“Excuse me.”
While Seol-ah stared blankly at her phone screen, searching for an escape, someone tapped her on the shoulder. She flinched violently and stumbled backward, banging her head against the glass. A pained groan escaped her, followed by a voice laced with genuine remorse.
“I’m so sorry! Did I startle you?”
“No… I’m fine.”
The automatic apology came out in a tiny voice. Then Seol-ah realized the voice sounded familiar. Where have I heard it before? Is this person a Hwaryong Muin player?
“You’re the one who applied to be Ara’s video editor, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Hello! My name is Lee Ha-rin! My skills are still lacking, but Ara-nim saw something in me and gave me this opportunity. Please take good care of me!”
As she listened to the bright greeting, Seol-ah searched her memory. The realization hit her.
“Nyangnyang.”
“Pardon?”
“You were actually a female high school student and not a middle-aged man?”
It was impossible. The bright, outgoing woman radiating extroverted energy was the same Nyangnyang who had been addicted to martial arts games since childhood? The person whose playtime could rival her own had turned out to be a girl and not some uncle?
The shock was so great that Seol-ah spoke her honest thoughts without realizing how rude she sounded. She clapped both hands over her mouth a second too late; the words could not be taken back.
When she glanced up nervously, Ha-rin simply laughed.
“Since you know me, you must be a Hwaryong Muin player too. And you’re a female player yourself, right?”
“Well… I’m an introvert and a shut-in.”
“What does that matter! I never imagined I’d meet one of the rare female Hwaryong Muin players here! What’s your username? Or should I ask your real name first?”
Ha-rin’s voice was so cheerfully bright it felt almost purifying. Seol-ah stammered for a moment before finally managing to answer.
“My name is Park Seol-ah. My in-game name is Na-seol.”
“…Na-seol? Wait, Na-seol-nim was actually a woman?!”
“Y-yes…”
“You spent so much time in Hwaryong Muin that I was sure you were a guy using a voice changer!”
Ha-rin insisted she truly hadn’t known and said she would have reached out much sooner if she had. Despite their previous conflict in-game, she greeted Seol-ah with genuine delight, as if the matters of the game and reality were completely separate.
But from Seol-ah’s perspective, things were different.
The other person was an editor so skilled that even Seol-ah had heard her name. Which meant the garbage-quality video Ara had sent yesterday must have been Ha-rin’s work. To think someone with such lacking skill would dare become an editor just because she was close to Ara… What gave her the right to receive so much affection from Ara? What made her so special?
“Na-seol-nim?”
“Ah, yes? What is it?”
Such jealous thoughts swirled only inside Seol-ah’s heart; they never reached her lips. In the end, without the barrier of VR, she was still just a corner-dwelling shut-in who found it difficult to speak.
“Ara-nim and the other editor should arrive soon, so why don’t we wait inside?”
“Y… yes.”
After they ordered coffee, Seol-ah sat listening as Ha-rin chattered away without pause. Then Ha-rin suddenly shot to her feet.
“Over here!”
Seol-ah followed the direction of Ha-rin’s excitedly waving hand and turned her head. The moment she saw the woman walking toward them from the café entrance, words failed her completely.
The indifferent eyes that seemed to gaze upon the world from a great distance. The deep black irises so dark they threatened to pull you in. The silky black hair. The flawless, snow-white skin. Every detail was identical to the Ara she had seen in VR.
For a moment Seol-ah genuinely wondered whether the Ara from inside the game had simply stepped into reality.
Am I dreaming?
Not daring to slap her own cheek, Seol-ah settled for pinching it instead. It definitely hurt.