The Con Artist Became a 33-Win Streak PoChamp Pro (2)

In PoChamps, your tier is determined by the grade of the Ball — the icon that serves as the IP's signature symbol.

Beginner.

Monster.

Super.

Hyper.

Master.

The same way gacha games call anything Diamond and above "Legend," PoChamps has its own sacred threshold: Master — the so-called Master Ball tier. That is the rank you are supposed to climb toward.

Players who coast on free wins tend to get their ankles clipped at Hyper. But dig a little deeper, grind out the matches, and Master Ball becomes reachable.

From Master Ball onward, a point system locks in your rating and ranking… but that was not something I needed to worry about right now.

What mattered was that my rank was climbing at a catastrophic pace.

From the moment I started queue games in Beginner, I had already stacked a blistering seventeen-win streak.

And yet the number plastered across my stream title still read 11-Win Streak.

Why the discrepancy?

Was I too stupid to count?

Did a win not count unless it was a clean 3–0 shutout?

"I already said wins against bots don't count toward the streak."

And the opponent?

A bot, of course.

Not everyone you face in the low ranks is human. The company sprinkles in ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠some shady AI so that players can "at least beat some NPCs and climb to Super," or so the thinking goes.

What, you're telling me a trainer who spammed three six-hundred-BST Dragon-types and didn't even bring a Poison move for the Fairy weakness — then got 3–0 swept — was a real person?

Could be. It's a game you can play on a phone, so anyone can wander onto the battle board.

They're beginners, after all.

Buried somewhere in my win streak was the record of a guy whose wrist I metaphorically snapped — the kind of friend who would dive straight into the store, drop a one-star review-bomb, and write boring af.

"From Super onward, it should be all real people, right?"

Good. Conversation was happening.

So, roughly speaking, of my seventeen wins against people — wait, six of those wins had to be bots. They had to be bots — I had scraped out a real streak, and a handful of viewers had willingly settled into my stream.

Typing in chat.

I hadn't even locked chat to followers only. Anyone could wander in and scribble whatever they wanted. But chatting on a stream takes real courage.

Especially in a no-name streamer's room?

In an environment that could easily collapse into a one-on-one conversation between streamer and a single viewer?

Hauling a log by yourself is never easy.

In a room with dozens of people rotating through chat, sure. But in a place like this, the mere existence of someone actively typing mattered.

This part is weirdly similar to the idol industry.

For a no-name idol, how precious is that one hardcore fan who always shows up and stays active? There are internet stories about fans who found their idol part-time jobs and even mailed them underwear — okay, maybe not that far — but an active fan's presence is still critically important.

Especially now, in a live broadcast where conversation was actually flowing both ways.

"Yep, yep."

Just reacting to questions flying in from chat was enough to farm free audio content.

"I'm planning to keep running this."

I had packed my six-monster roster exclusively with creatures sitting inside the top twenty usage rates at high rating. Two of them were even built as trap picks specifically to snipe the meta cancers inside that list.

And I had been running that exact same entry for seventeen matches straight, so of course the viewers were starting to feel a little monotony creep in.

But there was nothing I could do about it.

I knew perfectly well that "going to tournaments / going to war" was code for hey, maybe try using something else for once…

"It's a freeload squad, after all."

You can only use what you have.

I paused the queue for a moment and opened the box where my entries were saved.

"I built this party out of the ones I scouted in, so my hands are kind of tied."

An empty box.

All I owned were the six on my main entry, plus a handful of absolute garbage I would never touch in rated — the kind of trash even YouTubers wouldn't bother shilling as "sleeper picks."

"I don't have money."

"I don't even have PoHome. Never set one up separately before."

I hadn't bought a single piece of paid content — not even the stuff everyone else would call a "no-brainer value pack." My entire entry had been scraped together with nothing but in-game currency.

At least the win streak was stacking rewards. I'd be able to re-roll a few moves or pull a couple of new ones eventually.

From a viewer's perspective, I probably looked like a ruthless little freeloader.

Even for a no-name streamer, who the hell broadcasted with this much pure hunger?

"…Heh heh heh."

So they'd figured it out.

Donate, then.

"Surely you don't ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠think I bought a Switch 2, hooked it up to my PC, and started streaming from that."

A paid game anyone could play on their phone.

Any proper streamer would drop the cash for a console running nearly five hundred dollars — with a price hike already scheduled — wire it up separately, and play that way.

But me, Eun Harin?

I was already bulk-ordering frozen clearance food and rationing every meal. Buy a device that cost more than my entire net worth?

Impossible.

I'd already sunk almost everything I had — rent and food set aside — into a streaming PC and a microphone. How was I supposed to afford that on top?

And it wasn't like I could just snag one used off the street.

A line that came in sharp and pointed.

Thinking back on the glamorous life of my previous existence, I might have choked up — but the current me had no rebuttal.

"Yes! I am broke!"

So the only option was to lean into it and enjoy the ride.

"Donations, follows, and once paid subs get approved — subscriptions too, please!"

…More precisely, the only option was to perform desperation.

It wasn't hard. Compared to the tongue-twisting I'd done to empty the bank accounts of women at host clubs, this was almost comfortably straightforward.

"Got a character you want to see? Next match, I'll put it on lead and win with it! Clean 3–0 sweep!"

Former host-club ace.

Becoming the viewers' clown was nothing.

The problem was that every so often, that damn Cassandra's Curse would kick in.

The silver lining: the distrust that curse generated was also the path that would keep me fed.

"I'll try anything, boss!"

A mission had been dropped.

Not through the mission window I'd set up — just a verbal promise tossed into chat.

Ah. That pattern.

The classic stream mission bait-and-switch. There was a reason platforms built dedicated mission UIs and escrow systems that worked like auction deposits.

Promise a reward, watch the streamer grind their soul out clearing it, then vanish — and the hardworking streamer becomes a free laborer.

But what choice did I have?

"Got it. Straight win streak all the way to Hyper. Same sample team the whole way."

Whether they were serious or not, I had to run.

Even if that one person turned out to be a mission scammer, the other seven watching me right now would see the effort.

Sacrifice one scammer as tribute, harvest the sympathy of seven floaters, convert four of them into regulars — and that was my win.

For a no-name streamer to survive.

Even if…

Even if I could already see the future where they were a scammer.

Before I knew it, the stream had blown past the eight-hour mark and was closing in on three in the morning.

My rank: Hyper.

The bracket where people who thought they were pretty good all clustered together — a PoChamp detention center packed with demons who still hadn't made Master.

Thanks to the win-streak bonus, I had racked up a full twenty-five wins (bots included), touched Hyper, and even arrived twenty minutes ahead of schedule. And yet…

Just as I'd seen before the mission was even offered, the viewer who posted it had vanished.

"……Probably went to sleep."

I swallowed the dual curse words.

Instead, I needed to think about other gains.

"Hmm. It was ten thousand won, though. Hmm."

I let the disappointment show, selling the image of a streamer whose motivation had just been gutted.

"Guys."

I stopped queuing and flipped back to the lobby screen.

"Sorry, but I'm gonna pick this up again tomorrow."

Someone might ask: then what was the "No Stream End" in the title for?

But here's the thing… it wasn't just because this was a no-name stream. Depending on the situation and the mood, anything could change.

See?

No-stream-end or not — the viewers were already making plans to come back.

"I stream fixed at 6 PM. I turn it on every day around then, so drop by whenever."

End stream.

That was it. Over.

"Thank you so much for coming. See you tomorrow."

I said my goodbyes as politely and courteously as I could, then ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠hit End Broadcast.

I waited a long while after that, confirmed the stream had fully closed, and finally stood up from my chair.

"Mission-scamming son of a…"

I barely held the swearing in.

Yell too loud and someone might file a noise complaint.

A one-room studio with no soundproof booth. Part of why I played up the soft-spoken voice was strategy — but it wasn't only that. I didn't talk quietly for no reason.

"If I just had money."

Ten thousand won.

I'd known from the start I would never see that money, and it still stung.

With that ten thousand won, I could have…

"Ah, forget it. Just do what needs doing."

I shoved the disappointment aside, muted the PC, and opened a different screen.

Didn't I have work to do after the stream?

What mattered right now was making money.

Building a foundation through streaming was one thing. What ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I needed to do now was something else entirely.

"Let's see… today's match schedule is…"

Sports betting.