Hidden Boss, a New Strategy Guide (2)

“Hmm. Fortunately, it doesn’t seem like a very sturdy monster.”

After checking the fallen boss, Yeongho scratched his cheek and glanced at the remaining ammo.

Exactly one round left in the magazine.

If he’d had even a few more weak points to exploit, he would’ve run out of bullets for sure.

Of course, to the people watching, that remark landed ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠very differently.

Maybe it was because his name had come up in chat.

Choi Pinam, who had been watching the broadcast, made his presence known with a donation.

“Wow! Thank you for the 1,000-coin donation, Choi Pinam! As for an explanation, I don’t really know either, so let’s just move on!”

While the chat room roared noisily, Yeongho, who had been following the viewers’ conversation, lifted his brows in surprise.

“Oh! So this isn’t really supposed to be the way you beat it, then? There must be another method?”

“The secret? Hmm... I just aimed at a weak point and shot it, so there isn’t really some special trick.”

“I’m not sure if it’s a bug either, but if you take a good look at those scales—”

“Ah! Dad! I have to go to my academy now! Everyone, sorry, but I’ve got to end the broadcast! Thanks for watching!”

Just as he was about to explain further, Seonhui checked the time, flustered, and shut the game off.

With the host cut off, Yeongho’s own feed also ended automatically, and his field of vision went dark.

The viewers vented their rage like a dog whose bowl had just been snatched away mid-meal.

But no matter how much they pitched a fit, the broadcast screen that had been cut off never returned.

Of course, the most wronged person of all was someone else entirely.

Even after throwing in a fair number of coins, Choi Pinam still hadn’t gotten an answer, and the donation was full of disappointment.

If the broadcaster had already shut down and left, then it was meaningless anyway.

The chat, stirred up by the streamer’s handle, burned even hotter than before.

But after leaving that long message, he was gone.

The broadcast screen never came back on.

The viewers, unable to leave in their disappointment, simply kept chatting hard in the ownerless room.

* * *

The moment Yeongho took off his VR goggles and set them down, he found his daughter moving briskly around the room.

“Is it really that late? Want Dad to drive you?”

“What are you saying? Your foot’s injured, so you can’t drive.”

“Ah, right. That’s true, isn’t it.”

He smiled awkwardly at her chiding, and then, suddenly, a strange sensation slid down the ridge of his upper lip.

He hurriedly pulled a tissue from the box on the computer desk and wiped his nose.

Huh? Why am I suddenly getting a nosebleed...

There was blood on the white tissue, staining it red.

Nosebleeds were nothing new back when he’d been working late every night, but this time he hadn’t even been under much strain while resting at home, so why now?

Is Seonhui’s room just really dry? Should I put in a humidifier or something?

Though it puzzled him, there wasn’t much of it and it stopped quickly, so he was just about to brush it off as the room being too dry when an alert popped up over the monitor on the desk.

“Even though I turned the stream off, there are still people there. Huh, that guy from earlier, the one called Choi Pinam, is asking if he can use the replay video.”

“Of course he can! Ah, damn it! If it weren’t for academy, I’d have had the chance to suck Choi Pinam’s viewers dry!”

“Hmm... then how about I skip just today and do the stream some more?”

He wondered whether it was even right to suggest skipping academy now that he was a father, but seeing how disappointed she seemed, he blurted the words out.

Seonhui stopped and turned to look at him, startled. After a moment of thought, she shook her head.

“I appreciate the offer, but if Mom finds out, she’ll blow a fuse. Just help me with the stream until before Dad goes back to work again. The reaction today was really good, wasn’t it?”

“Then maybe I should. I don’t really know much, but it did seem like a whole lot of people came to watch.”

“It was huge! Today was the first time I ever broke into triple-digit viewers, and by the end we were over a thousand!”

An average viewership of 1,000 meant enough to treat streaming as a full-time profession.

If she could keep that number up consistently, she could make a living on par with a decent office worker’s salary.

Of course, since it was only a one-day spike thanks to another streamer, the numbers would probably drop back to normal in the next broadcast.

Still, remembering the flood of shocked chat messages from viewers who had watched Dad’s play today, Seonhui couldn’t help hoping there would at least be a significant increase.

“Come to think of it, the mission rewards and donation amounts must be huge too!”

“Dad roughly calculated that—”

“I have to head out fast, so I’ll check the settlement later! Ah! Can you turn off the computer for me?”

“Yeah, be careful—”

Seonhui spilled out only what she wanted to say, then bolted out before the greeting was even finished.

It might have seemed rude, but Yeongho only laughed.

If he thought back to before quitting his job, the amount of conversation he’d had with his daughter today amounted to nearly more than a month’s worth of what they’d shared back then, because they simply hadn’t been together much at all.

Spending time with his child after so long just made him happy.

“Whew. Somehow I’m a little tired.”

Maybe because it had been nearly twenty years since he’d played a game again, he felt faintly dizzy.

Yeongho left a few words in the chat of his daughter’s stream, shut down the computer, and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠stepped out of the room.

* * *

“This is boring...”

Lying on the sofa with his chin in his hand, Yeongho turned off the TV and tossed the remote aside.

There wasn’t a single channel worth watching.

No, it wasn’t that the programs themselves were bad.

It was just that the experience from the game he’d been enjoying only moments ago was still so fresh in his mind that everything else felt dull by comparison.

So this was why kids got addicted to games.

Even the old mouse-and-keyboard games from way back then had been highly addictive, so how much stronger must it be for these hyper-real VR games?

Even he, who would be turning forty in a year or two, couldn’t stop thinking about it.

VR games. Maybe I should try one more round? I should be able to do it on my own, too.

He was going to be stuck at home for a month anyway, and since he’d promised to help with his daughter’s broadcast, he’d probably be playing VR games with her several more times.

Since he had nothing else to do, it seemed like a good idea to use the chance to get more familiar with VR by playing on his own.

So Yeongho went back into his daughter’s room to get the VR gear he’d left there earlier.

But a small problem arose.

This thing... hmm... how do you even use it? I shouldn’t just mess around with it, right?

He’d already used the VR goggles that linked the user’s data to virtual reality, but he’d never directly handled the other devices that actually ran the game itself, so he was afraid to touch them carelessly.

What if he broke one of his daughter’s things? How could he ever deal with her resentment?

“Well, now. I’m not bad with machines.”

He wondered if this was how old people felt when they first encountered smartphones.

He was awkwardly poking around the equipment, wondering if he should just search the internet for help, when—

Bang—!

“Hey! You took my VR goggles, ah, Father? What are you doing here...?”

“Oh, Jae-min, you’re home.”

Apparently so focused that he hadn’t even heard the front door open.

His second son, whom he hadn’t realized had come home at all, burst into the room, and when Yeongho met his face, he gave an awkward smile.