The Perfect Score That No One Could Reach

I stood alone in the training simulation room, staring at the impossible result. “Haa…” It was the day I’d decided to run a training simulation. Honestly, I was a little curious myself. Just how difficult was it that no one had ever achieved a perfect score?

Considering the capsule’s distribution rate, the sheer number of users, and how accessible it was, hundreds of millions must have tried it at the very least. Even if the developers had made it ridiculously hard, not a single person had succeeded? “Is it really that tough?”

So I gave it a casual go, just to warm up. The result?

“...?”

Maybe the reason no one had ever gotten a perfect score wasn’t because the system was too difficult. It was simply because people couldn’t do it. So the perfect score that had never existed—was it really the players’ fault after all?

It was.

‘This easy, and no one could get a perfect score?’

Wondering if I’d misunderstood something, I replayed the tests I’d just taken, one by one. There had been two in total.

The first was a test where balls flew at me from every direction. It seemed to focus mainly on agility and evasion rate. ‘It was almost laughable.’

Monsters leaping out of dark caves. Unpredictable attacks raining down in city streets. Compared to the experiences I’d had in my previous world, this was child’s play. I could have dodged everything with my eyes closed, relying only on sound. In fact, that’s exactly what I did from the middle onward. By the end I was so bored I even struck a one-legged chicken-fighting pose.

‘And I still dodged them all.’

More accurately, I never even gave them a chance to hit me. ‘If I got touched by something like that, I’d deserve to drop dead.’

Fifteen years wasn’t spent in vain.

The second test was running through an environment that changed in real time while avoiding obstacles. A sharp beep sounded, the floor behind me collapsed, and an arrow pointed forward. Obstacles suddenly popping out from all sides. Crumbling ground. Constantly shifting terrain. In short, a course where you had to keep moving or fall.

Jumping, sliding, changing direction—I had to avoid unpredictable traps. Of course, this might have been difficult enough for ordinary people. But for someone who had cleared countless gates, it was easier than drinking cold porridge.

‘I even started running backwards halfway through.’

The final score was a perfect 500. Someone else might have been overjoyed at taking first place with a perfect score, but not me. I was used to it. The position of number one.

Hundreds of millions of humans. Thousands of monster species. Hundreds of gates. I had always been the strongest. If there had been just two more people like me, the world would never have been destroyed. Because even I couldn’t protect the entire planet alone.

As I thought about the past, I shook my head. ‘It’s already over.’ Thinking about it now was meaningless.

That aside…

“This is a little worrying…”

At this rate, there was no point in buying the capsule. It was too boring. Of course, I’d bought it to make money through streaming as well. But the most important thing was dopamine. After fifteen years of walking the razor’s edge, my brain was already soaked in it. If things continued like this, it wouldn’t be anything else that killed me—it would be boredom.

“Wait…?”

Maybe this was what the Demon King had been aiming for all along? A peaceful world with no battles. A cruel plan to make me die of boredom without any dopamine. If so, his scheme had worked perfectly.

‘As expected of the Demon King. What a terrifying bastard…’

Realizing the Demon King’s true nature only after a full year, I couldn’t help but shiver. And beside me, as if she had reached the same conclusion, Nyua was trembling like a squishy black jelly ball.

To arrive at the same conclusion at the exact same time—truly worthy of a Spirit King.

“Nyua…?”

I picked up the black ball who was looking at me with a puzzled expression and placed her on top of my head. Then I sat down on the manifested floor and thought about my future plans.

‘What should I do? I guess the only thing I can rely on is that…’

The training simulation had been more disappointing than I expected, but what I was really looking forward to was something else. Reality Mode.

A mode where ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠you experienced virtual reality with only the bare minimum of system assistance, using your actual physical specs instead of the superhuman character stats the game normally provided. If it was that mode, maybe I could actually enjoy myself.

Since the capsule couldn’t detect mana, my body was nothing more than the delicate physique of a slender woman. Still, because this body and I were essentially the same existence across different timelines, I did possess the same talent.

‘It’s just not trained yet.’

Even with an untrained body I’d scored perfectly on the training simulation, so feeling a little anxious was unavoidable. But right now, this was the only thing I could believe in.

“I need more dopamine. Otherwise I’m really going to die of boredom…”

Hearing my words, Nyua cried out in agreement.

“Nyuaat!!”

“Let’s turn on the stream tomorrow, yeah?”

“Nyua.”

“Right, just like you said. Let’s give it a try. We need the money too.”

Who knows? It might actually be fun once I start.

After leaving the capsule, I slept deeply for a day. When I woke up, I turned on the stream using the Pajijik account I’d prepared in advance. My username was Haerang. It was the alias I’d been called by in my previous world—roughly meaning “killer whale.”

There were many reasons the name Haerang had been given to me back then, but… well, it was probably mostly because of my appearance. Jet-black hair and eyes turned red from awakening. In a way, it did give off orca vibes. When I said that, everyone had waved their hands in denial, claiming it was because of my ferocious personality. My comrades had said so, anyway.

‘I don’t believe such fabricated nonsense.’

Obviously, anyone who spouted such ridiculous lies had their limbs broken one by one. But that was their fault for slandering me. It definitely wasn’t because my personality was trash ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠or because I was violent.

Anyway.

I started the stream under the name Haerang. Since it was my first broadcast, I didn’t expect many viewers. Still, to get at least some initial traffic, I’d planned to play the currently popular game Wilds Hunter.

“...What the hell is this situation?”

Only a few minutes after turning on the stream, viewers started pouring in like a flood. For the first five or so, I thought, ‘Oh, must be because of the game.’ ‘Did I pick a good one?’

But then, in less than thirty seconds, it jumped ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to fifty. “Huh?”

From that point I started wondering if I was actually that popular. And after that the numbers exploded. Before even ten minutes had passed since starting the stream, the viewer count hit 2,458.

The absurd situation left me laughing helplessly. “...Did I have a hidden talent for stirring up drama?”

I knew it was nonsense, but I was so dumbfounded that the words slipped out anyway. Normally a first broadcast’s chat would have been quiet and empty, but right now—

Messages were flying up at dozens per second. A normal person on their first stream would have been completely overwhelmed by the sudden flood of chat. They wouldn’t be used to reading it, and wouldn’t know how to respond.

But that had nothing to do with me. Dozens, hundreds of messages—I could follow them all with my eyes. The moment I finished reading the incoming chat, I immediately understood why so many people had rushed in.

‘...It’s because of yesterday’s training simulation score.’

Almost every message was about that score. I didn’t know where the leak had come from, but clearly people had been talking about my result all over the community.

I quickly opened the capsule’s built-in search and typed in “Haerang.” A flood of posts poured out. I clicked on the one with the highest number of recommendations. It already had hundreds of comments.

‘Not even twenty-four hours have passed and it’s this big. Impressive.’

The general consensus, after skimming, could be summed up in one sentence: “This score doesn’t make sense.”

Some claimed the score was manipulated. Others insisted the leaderboard itself was bugged. A few said it might be real skill… but those opinions were extremely rare.

And today, when someone started streaming with the exact same name as the one on the leaderboard, a random user spotted it, posted about it on the community, and everyone rushed over through the link.

A perfect storm of coincidences. ‘Haa… I’ve only been streaming for how long?’

It was an unbelievable chain of events. I never imagined that running the training simulation once—just to get used to the capsule—would cause this much chaos.

Still, no matter how I thought about it, this wasn’t a bad situation. No. Honestly, it was an incredibly good one.

‘If I had actually used a hack like the chat is claiming, the story would be different.’

But since I hadn’t used any hacks, this was an opportunity. Of course I had expected to succeed as a streamer eventually. But I thought it would naturally take time—word of mouth, gradual viewer growth, that sort of thing.

Yet thanks to this insane coincidence, I had massive influx on my very first broadcast. The result was obvious. I would rise much faster than I had anticipated.

Watching the chat still exploding without pause, I pondered for a moment what I should say. Since things had turned out this way, I felt like making the most of this chance.

Right then, a donation opened the conversation for me.

‘Perfect.’ A naturally flowing question. Thanks to this, I could speak more easily.

Still, since it was the first donation, I should answer properly. ‘So this is how it’s done…’

I cleared my throat lightly and spoke slowly.

“CitrusLover, thank you for the 1,000 won donation. By training simulation score, you mean the one currently sitting at first place, right? Looking at the chat, it seems everyone came because of my username and that score…”

I trailed off slightly, testing the waters.

The chat grew even wilder after I answered.

And then came a blatantly sarcastic donation.

‘Mm. Perfect.’

I hadn’t planned it, but the stage was set beautifully. Everyone doubting me, demanding an explanation, raising their voices. This wasn’t my first time in this kind of situation. In fact, I was used to it.

Back when the whole world trembled in fear of gates and the Demon King, I had faced far worse suspicion and pressure countless times. You don’t believe me? Then prove it? It had always been like that.

When hundreds, thousands of eyes glared at me and sharp words stabbed me, I never said anything. I simply showed them. Who I was. Why I was called the strongest.

And the ending was always the same. People shutting their mouths. Eyes cast downward. Words shrinking in embarrassment. And eventually, people began to praise me.

Those who had cursed me started singing my praises. The eyes that had doubted me now sparkled with respect. Later, there were even followers who said they wanted to be like me, wanted to help me.

This time would be no different. I just had to show them. Show them exactly who the person they came to see really was.

I didn’t bother answering those demanding an explanation. I simply moved my hand and clicked on the training simulation. The room turned white. Looking at the people staring at me with suspicious eyes, I spoke calmly.

“Showing is faster than talking, right? I’ll prove it right now.”

‘I can’t believe they even put up a mission.’

Other viewers also declared it was a safe bet and began raising the mission reward, laughing and chatting among themselves. Before long, the total mission reward had reached five million won. I smiled faintly.

A good start. “I should thank you in advance. Thank you for the five million won.”

Then I adjusted the screen so they could see my appearance clearly. I didn’t want any more “fake” accusations.

The moment my figure appeared on screen, people started panicking.

Suddenly all talk of explanations vanished, replaced entirely by comments about my appearance. ‘What are they even doing…’

I shook my head slightly and proceeded with the training simulation. The people who had been chatting among themselves soon fell silent at the next scene.

“Ugh.”

Five million won. Tastes pretty sweet. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠