The Fraud Verification Seat

The stream chat, frozen in shock for a fraction of a second, detonated. The sheer uproar left Jo Meohyeop completely flustered; even to his trained eye, that marksmanship could never belong to an amateur. The possibility that So Rihwa had played him for a fool was suddenly very real.

"……It's finished," So Rihwa said sheepishly into her mic when Jo Meohyeop failed to react.

"Ah, ah. Right. So it is!"

"Did I… do something wrong?"

Watching the stream chat scroll in real time alongside him, she heard the sudden hostility erupting from thousands of viewers. Her voice shrank, thoroughly deflated.

"No, no. You didn't do anything wrong. But, uh, Wadeulwadeul-nim."

"Yes?"

"Is this… really your first time playing?"

In truth, Jo Meohyeop hated doubting her. Unlike the viewers in chat, he had shared a brief moment of personal rapport with her earlier. She simply didn't strike him as the kind of person who would spin elaborate fabrications.

Even so, he was obligated to ask. Asking the burning question on every viewer's mind was the solemn duty of a professional streamer.

"Yes, it really is."

"Just out of curiosity, how low did you set your motion assist?"

"I just wanted to test it out, so I set it to zero percent."

"……Excuse me?"

Jo Meohyeop had brought up the assist setting in a desperate bid to shield her. If the game's motion calibration happened to sync miraculously with someone's natural physique, and they possessed freakish raw athleticism, landing ten consecutive bullseyes wasn't entirely impossible.

Yet So Rihwa had just dropped an utter megaton bomb. This was beyond the realm of anything Jo Meohyeop could defend.

A motion assist setting of zero percent meant relying entirely on raw human biomechanics. In Royal Commando, every playable operative was modeled after highly trained special forces personnel.

How many ordinary civilians could replicate the disciplined posture, recoil control, and fluid ergonomics of elite commandos through their own unassisted movements? In competitive reality, even top-tier professionals calibrated their assist to at least twenty percent, with higher-assist players cranking it up to forty. For So Rihwa to claim zero percent assist after demonstrating textbook stance and surgical precision was an immediate invitation for the community to burn her at the stake.

"This is getting a bit much……"

Jo Meohyeop's disaster radar was second to none. His sixth sense warned him that if he attempted to defend this, he would be dragged straight down into the fiery abyss of public cancellation alongside her.

"Was I not supposed to do that?"

"No, it's not that you're not allowed, it's just……"

Her voice sounded so utterly earnest and baffled that Jo Meohyeop felt his stomach twist. Still, there was no helping it now. A streamer had to stand with the audience.

"Wadeul-ah. I'm older than you, so I'm dropping the formalities."

"……Oh, sure. So suddenly?"

"Yeah. You know I always talk casually whenever I do guest collabs with viewers."

That was true enough. So Rihwa was well aware of his streaming persona, so she took no offense.

"Alright."

"Wadeul-ah."

"Yes?"

"Do you want to die?"

Jo Meohyeop lowered his tone into a menacing growl. This was the theatrical grit of a veteran broadcaster. Internally, he felt guilty as hell, but this tough-love interrogation was the only way both of them were getting out of this alive.

"……Huh?" So Rihwa stammered, caught off guard.

"Hey, think about it for a second. Even the pros calibrate their assist to twenty percent. How the hell am I supposed to react when a self-proclaimed total beginner claims she put ten straight rounds dead center at zero percent assist?"

"I didn't think that far ahead. Should I have lied instead?"

"Bitch, what you're doing right now is lying!"

Jo Meohyeop intentionally ramped up the aggression. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠It matched his brand, and more importantly, it was precisely the blood sports his viewers craved. He could always patch things up with a private apology off-stream later.

Fortunately, the chat's wrath had softened somewhat into amusement. If Wadeulwadeul came clean here and adorably admitted that she had pulled a stunt for attention, her cute voice might just save her from total destruction. Jo Meohyeop prayed frantically inside his head as he pressed her.

"Look, I'll let it slide if you just come clean right now. You're not an actual beginner, are you?"

"I really am a beginner. You saw my room earlier. On my income, how could I ever afford to visit a capsule room?"

Jo Meohyeop desperately wanted to smack his own forehead. In his mind, that was her final golden opportunity. Doubling down on her story was going to turn this into a catastrophe.

As So Rihwa continued her stubborn denial, Jo Meohyeop wanted to reach through the screen, grab her by the collar, and scream. I'm trying to save your life right now! But that silent cry could never reach her.

"Everyone, please. I swear I'm not faking it……"

Pushed to the brink of frustration, So Rihwa attempted to address the stream audience directly in a meek, quivering voice. Naturally, it was like pouring gasoline onto a roaring bonfire.

Jo Meohyeop let out a long, weary sigh. There was no turning back now.

"That settles it, Wadeul-ah. You're getting disciplined today."

"Pardon?"

"We're changing the content."

In the corner of Jo Meohyeop's stream overlay, the text reading Part 1: Newbie Guest Seat / Wadeulwadeul vanished, swiftly replaced by freshly typed letters.

For Jo Meohyeop, it was an inevitable tactical retreat; for the audience, it was pure comedy gold. The only person suffering through this injustice was So Rihwa. Nothing stung worse than being branded a fraud when she had spoken nothing but the absolute truth.

"I'm really not faking anything……"

"Do you know how to share your capsule screen?"

"No. I told you, this is my very first time even sitting in a capsule."

"Right, right. Sure. First, open your Social menu."

By this point, even Jo Meohyeop had largely concluded that So Rihwa was a malicious clout chaser. In this game, even active esports professionals ended up staggering like drunkards and getting picked off by Silver-tier players when stripped of motion assist.

The chat remained overwhelmingly hostile. Jo Meohyeop simply ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠wanted to wrap up this segment as quickly as possible.

"Okay, I'm in the Social tab."

"Go into the Video tab from there."

"Done."

"Scroll all the way down. There's an option for Screen Sharing. Check the box that says 'Share to Party' and start streaming."

"Understood."

Her voice thoroughly crestfallen, So Rihwa complied with his instructions step by step. She was keenly aware of the reality: not just the viewers, but Jo Meohyeop himself ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠thought she was a liar.

"I turned it on."

"Okay. I see it."

A window displaying So Rihwa's perspective appeared on Jo Meohyeop's feed. Now the audience could see her exact viewpoint.

"Go into your Settings and show us your Motion Assist tab."

"Okay."

So Rihwa silently navigated into the settings menu and brought up the calibration slider. Just as she had claimed, the assist value was sitting squarely at zero percent. Still, she could easily have adjusted it to zero after firing the shots, so this alone proved nothing.

"It's zero, right?"

"Yeah. Now exit the settings without touching a single thing, and shoot again."

Jo Meohyeop had expected her to break down and confess once backed into a corner; after all, her bluff was about to be laid completely bare. Instead, So Rihwa followed his command with quiet composure.

Picking up her assault rifle once more, she walked up to the tutorial firing range.

The audience now had an unobstructed view of her zero percent assist setting. There was zero opportunity for her to tamper with it. Jo Meohyeop already envisioned the inevitable conclusion: she would whiff horribly, mumble that her previous performance had just been beginner's luck, and that would be the end of it.

Bang!

Even as that thought crossed his mind, So Rihwa leveled her rifle. But astonishingly, her weapon mount and shoulder weld were flawless. Her posture radiated the lethal precision of a veteran sergeant on the day of his discharge.

Beyond that, So Rihwa was a master who had honed peerless martial arts within the depths of a secluded cavern. Her neuromuscular control and sensory reflexes eclipsed ordinary mortals by light-years. Hitting stationary tutorial targets was child's play.

Bang-bang-bang-bang-bang!

As if channeling her pent-up annoyance, her trigger finger moved far faster than before. In the blink of an eye, ten rounds punched clean through the absolute center of the bullseye.

The instructor NPC repeated its scripted praise. Instantly, Jo Meohyeop and his thousands of viewers were rendered utterly speechless.

A sea of question marks flooded the screen. Lowering her rifle, So Rihwa turned to Jo Meohyeop with a distinctly resentful gaze.

"Are you satisfied now?"

"……What the hell?"

Jo Meohyeop could not process what his eyes were seeing. He was a Diamond-tier competitor resting comfortably in the top ten percent of the player base. To pull off a stunt like that with zero percent motion assist was something not even active esports pros could accomplish. Yet an absolute novice had just pulled it off effortlessly.

"Wait, hold on. Guys, my brain is short-circuiting so hard right now."

"Why? Are you going to say I'm faking this too?"

A sharp edge finally surfaced in So Rihwa's tone, reminiscent of a cornered small animal hissing in self-defense.

Jo Meohyeop, his audience, and the tidal wave of newcomers—swelling the viewer count to nearly eight thousand as word spread of the unfolding drama—plunged into collective panic.

"No, fuck, guys. Does this make any sense to you?!"

Jo Meohyeop appealed frantically to his chat. The viewers, who typically maintained a theatrical, adversarial banter with him, found themselves completely aligned with his bewilderment for once.

"Well… if it's just stationary tutorial targets, I guess you could technically pull it off if you practiced that specific drill over and over. If that's literally the only thing she practiced, maybe."

Jo Meohyeop offered a hesitant rationalization. In truth, the suspicion of third-party cheats had crossed his mind as well, but accusing someone of hacking was an extremely volatile line he preferred not to cross.

"Come play a regular match with me."

Without realizing it, Jo Meohyeop had reverted to polite speech—a clear testament to the chaotic scramble inside his head.

"……No, thank you."

"Excuse me?"

The unexpected refusal brought his thought process to a screeching halt. So Rihwa's voice remained small, but each syllable was articulated with crisp defiance.

"You treated me like a liar right from the start, and it's obvious nobody here will believe a word I say no matter what I do. Why should I?"

Her words were indisputably fair. Jo Meohyeop had been so consumed with steering the broadcast that he had completely trampled on her feelings.

Of course, his aggressive posture had been an attempt to shield her in his own way, but if she truly wasn't a fraud, she had every right in the world to be furious.

"……I suppose that's true. But if we end it here, you'll still be leaving with all these suspicions hanging over your head. Are you really okay with that?"

"Why wouldn't I be? It's not like I'm a professional streamer, and I don't even play games."

So Rihwa gave a cynical shrug. But Jo Meohyeop knew he couldn't let the stream conclude on this note. For the sake of his channel and his own conscience, this had to be settled cleanly.

"If you prove that you're not using hacks or faking your gameplay, I'll give you one million silver liang."

Jo Meohyeop played his ultimate trump card. If So Rihwa truly wasn't faking her impoverished circumstances, this was an offer she couldn't possibly refuse. From this point forward, it was a high-stakes game of chicken. So Rihwa seemed to ponder the proposition for a brief moment before murmuring softly.

"……Make it two million, and I'll do it."

She had counter-offered right on the spot. Jo Meohyeop marveled internally at just how formidable she was, but now was hardly the time to haggle. Extinguishing the blazing fire was his top priority.

"Deal. Two million is fine."

"Great. Queue up."

The negotiation concluded in seconds.

Unbeknownst to either So Rihwa or Jo Meohyeop, word of this unprecedented fraud verification spectacle was spreading across gaming communities and web forums like wildfire.

The stage was growing far larger than anyone had anticipated.