Time to Prove It
Streamers often spent their downtime browsing online gaming communities, especially since the viewer base on Ogogok largely overlapped with those very forums.
"Whoa, what the hell is this now?"
Go Jaehyun was an active Royal Commando professional player and streamer who went by the in-game tag SIN. Naturally, he had woven his handle into his streaming identity: God Jaehyun.
A few viewers who had already caught wind of it chimed in immediately. Having only just gone live, Jaehyun had never seen the clip before.
"Quite a few of you have seen this already? Guess I'll take a look."
As if it were the hottest topic across the forums, fierce debates were already breaking out in his chat over whether the player was hacking or legit. Jaehyun clicked play on the embedded video.
"Whoa... that aim is insane."
The video showed So Rihwa's personal screen. With her assist correction tuned down to a flat zero, she drilled ten consecutive shots dead center through the bullseye. Even against a stationary target, Royal Commando simulated authentic firearm recoil down to the last shudder. Putting ten rounds through the exact same pinpoint hole was practically unthinkable.
"This isn't a hack. Look at that crosshair movement—it's way too natural."
Jaehyun concluded without a moment's hesitation, snorting under his breath. He was someone who ground ranked games in the celestial tier every single day, routinely queuing into pro lobbies. While Blue Storm kept a tight leash on cheaters in Royal Commando, he had still run into his fair share of aimbots over the years. Never once had he seen a cheat program track with such seamless, organic micro-adjustments. To call someone a hacker just because they had crisp mechanics, when anyone with eyes could see how natural the crosshair flowed, was downright laughable.
At first, the chat had been overwhelmingly convinced she was cheating, but Jaehyun's firm assertion threw them into disarray. The lobby split into those still clinging to the hack theory and those backing down. Jaehyun was already winding up to roast the hack-crying parrots in his chat, but the phrase "assist set to zero" made him freeze.
"Zero assist? Okay, that's actually weird."
The anti-cheat crusaders seized upon his words like a declaration of victory, flooding the screen at lightning speed.
The chat was in full meltdown. A quick glance at the popular recommendations on the Royal Commando Gallery confirmed it—the entire board was plastered with posts about the mysterious female cheater.
"Wait, you're telling me this is happening right now?"
Chat fired back in unison. In truth, Jaehyun's curiosity was piqued. Looking purely at her aim, there was no doubt she wasn't using third-party software. But hitting a cluster like that with zero assist? That was something he had never witnessed. Even among pros, they occasionally opened private custom lobbies to practice on zero assist; minimizing reliance on system corrections allowed for snappier, more fluid movement at the extreme upper ceiling. Yet he could say with complete certainty: there was not a single active pro capable of pulling off grouping like that on zero assist.
"Damn, now I'm dying to see this for myself. Let's go watch."
Even God Jaehyun, an active professional, couldn't suppress the itch. And right at that moment, the viewer count on Jo Meohyeop's channel broke past fifteen thousand.
At some point, the public sentiment in the chat had solidified into an echo chamber of accusations. Since her assist had been confirmed at zero percent, the only remaining explanation for that level of marksmanship was foul play.
Firing on zero percent assist was functionally identical to shouldering and discharging an actual assault rifle in reality. But in this modern Central Plains, how many ordinary citizens had ever held a live assault rifle, much less fired one? Her feats were the uncanny hybrid of having hailed from the Republic of Korea—one of the few modern nations enforcing mandatory military conscription—coupled with five grueling years of internal martial cultivation. Naturally, lacking any clue about her past, the viewers had nowhere else to turn except the word "cheater."
"Well, we'll find out once we drop into a match," Meohyeop said.
"Yes, I suppose so."
"Come to think of it, since you skipped the tutorial, do you even know Trooper's skills and ultimate?"
"I've watched enough streams to understand how they work," Rihwa replied. "Though I've never actually used them myself."
"Right, we'll keep that in mind when we watch."
"So... everyone's calling me a hacker, but how am I even supposed to prove I'm not?"
"I've played this game for years," Meohyeop reassured her. "I can tell just by watching your movement and trigger discipline. Hacks stick out like a sore thumb in live matches. Shooting a stationary target in the practice range and managing an aimbot mid-fight are two completely different beasts."
Meohyeop was treading on eggshells, adopting the most humble posture possible. It was a complete hundred-and-eighty-degree turn from his furious, foul-mouthed outburst just moments earlier.
This shameless flip-flop was guided purely by seasoned streamer instinct. Something in Rihwa's voice sounded genuinely aggravated, planting a nagging doubt in the back of his mind. If he pinned her as a fraudulent scammer now only for her to be cleared later, he might end up with yet another dreaded entry under the "Controversies" tab of his Namuwiki page.
"Wait, why are there so many viewers pouring in? Did someone play carrier pigeon again?"
Before clicking the queue button, Meohyeop blinked at the surging numbers in sheer disbelief. Every streamer wanted high viewership, of course, but toxic, drama-fueled notoriety like this was a double-edged sword.
In the streaming world, there were always "carrier pigeons"—viewers who clipped juicy drama and spread it across every other channel's chat. Clearly, those busybodies had blown this wide open. Checking the active viewer list as the chat suggested, Meohyeop spotted several notable creator handles lurking in the chat.
"Hey, hey, keep it between us, guys! Why are you broadcasting this to everyone? Why blow it out of proportion? Wadeulwadeul-nim might not even be hacking!"
The prevailing consensus in the chat remained unshakable: So Rihwa was guilty. Anticipating a swift, glorious reality check, the chat was in a celebratory frenzy.
Just as the public shaming reached its fever pitch, the matchmaking chime rang. Given Royal Commando's overwhelming popularity, finding a lobby took less than thirty seconds.
"I need to watch you from the backline, so I'll play support."
Without a word, Rihwa locked in Trooper—the only character she had ever handled—while Meohyeop selected Siren, a backline support who channeled buffs and healing through music.
"Ah, wait. Hidden MMR applies to normal matches too. Isn't this lobby going to be pretty sweaty then?"
As if suddenly remembering, Meohyeop checked the profiles of their allies and enemies. Displayed on each card was their competitive rank. True to his prediction, the players sat around Gold tier. Considering Meohyeop was Diamond and Rihwa had zero match history, the system had averaged them out right in the middle.
With everything on the line, So Rihwa minimized the broadcast chat overlay and regulated her breathing through her mental cultivation technique. An ordinary civilian placed under this kind of scrutiny might have felt their heart hammering against their ribs, but with profound martial arts woven into her being, she stabilized her mindset with a single calm exhalation.
3, 2, 1. Match Start.
Accompanied by the system prompt, the match officially began. Rihwa dashed out at the head of the pack without hesitation. Having watched plenty of Royal Commando broadcasts, she understood Trooper's general gameplay loop: maintain mid-range positioning, consistently lay down suppressive fire, and make smart use of his utility grenade.
"Ah, this tank bastard... he's a stream sniper."
A heavy sigh drifted from Meohyeop's direction. Rihwa glanced back over her shoulder, only to see their tank—the vanguard who should have been leading the charge—standing right in front of Meohyeop, spamming emotes.
"Even in a situation like this, they're stream sniping? Persistent bastards, I swear."
By design, Royal Commando operated on a standard team composition of one tank, two damage dealers, and two supports. The tank had to establish frontline presence and draw aggro so the two DPS could safely deal damage. If their sole tank was a trolling stream sniper, the front line was as good as dead. Fortunately, Meohyeop had muted in-game chat and general voice channels, keeping only party voice active, sparing them the sniper's obnoxious blabbering.
With unprecedented attention gathered on this single match, the viewers were naturally incensed to see a troll muddying the waters.
"Should we remake?" Meohyeop asked, tentatively checking her reaction.
"No need," Rihwa declined. "Even without a tank, you'll be able to tell how I play, won't you?"
She had a point. Her personal perspective was already being shared live with tens of thousands of viewers. If she were running third-party cheats, crosshair snapping and abnormal camera tracking would be immediately obvious; a griefing tank had little bearing on verifying an aimbot.
"Alright."
Moments later, red outlines flickered into view. With their tank still obstructing Meohyeop's vision and refusing to move up, their damage dealer had been forced directly onto the vanguard line.
Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-bang!
The instant the enemy entered sight, the barrel of Rihwa's Trooper spat fire. It was a reaction speed that discharged the exact millisecond a strand of the opponent's hair peeked past the corner.
"Huh?"
Meohyeop gasped in bewilderment. The kill feed had updated far too quickly: Wadeulwadeul had eliminated an enemy named RippedPants.
It was so lightning-fast that neither Meohyeop nor the audience could properly process what had just occurred.
Yet this was merely the prelude. Totally dialed in, So Rihwa smoothly unclipped a fresh magazine from her hip and reloaded.