Gwanjongcheonma’s Game Broadcast - Chapter 177

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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Episode 177
“A pup? Did you just call me a pup?”
Seo Jae-won let out a hollow laugh, as if the very air had been knocked from his lungs.
To speak to a Singularity like that—such crude language.
He fixed Jo Ho-jin with a burning stare,
but the man’s naturally sharp eyes could not be intimidated by mere sight.
Instead, the laser of Jo Ho-jin’s gaze made him take a small step back.
“Didn’t you speak first? Asking who in blazes assigned the seating like this?”
Seo Jae-won’s eyes drifted to the man’s protruding belly.
As if he were sprawled in some comfortable chair,
a name tag fashioned from a necklace lay draped across his stomach.
[Director: Jo Ho-jin]
Only then did Seo Jae-won grasp the situation.
This year’s team director appeared to be none other than this rotund, middle-aged man.
Under normal circumstances, one would certainly be expected to remember such a thing.
But to Seo Jae-won, the staff around him were all of a piece.
Who the director was and which assistants accompanied him—
he’d never spared them a moment’s attention, not even when they stood before his eyes.
Whoever took that platform and droned on, he’d only stare at his smartphone.
What he knew was one thing alone.
Until now, whether director or anyone else, none had dared treat a Singularity carelessly.
“Did I say something wrong? If something’s changed from last year, at least give me a heads up.”
“If you don’t like it, step down.”
“What… what do you mean?”
“If you can’t handle it, get out. I’ll have you disqualified.”
……!
Gulp.
Seo Jae-won, overwhelmed by Jo Ho-jin’s presence, swallowed involuntarily.
‘Is this man… serious?’
He was different.
The previous director—whoever that had been—
but this new one was different. Vastly different.
‘Is that what a director’s title actually means?’
In fact, this was the proper order of things.
The Singularities had overstepped their authority so often before,
but they were merely ‘players,’ and Jo Ho-jin was the players’ ‘leader.’
“Step back, Jae-won.”
Perhaps he found Seo Jae-won’s hesitation unsightly.
Perhaps he felt the need to smooth things over.
Kim Si-hwan gently pulled Seo Jae-won back and stepped forward in his place.
“Director. What’s the criteria?”
“Criteria?”
“Yes. If the seating arrangement was your choice, I’d like to ask what your reasoning was. Iron Fist isn’t even the most popular event in Korea, and these four here don’t exactly have extensive national team experience, do they?”
At that, Jo Ho-jin nodded readily.
“You’re not entirely wrong. Cheon Hae-rang is joining the national team for the first time, and Byeon Tae-san has only just returned after a long hiatus.”
“Then why…?”
“I simply did the arithmetic.”
“Arithmetic?”
As if it were nothing difficult, Jo Ho-jin shrugged.
“When I laid out the full record of national team competition, the win-loss margin was pathetic. Well, since you’ve never won even once, that’s hardly surprising.”
Jo Ho-jin raised his voice as if to ensure everyone heard what came next.
“In some cases, the margin dropped into the negative dozens. The national team goes out to elevate our country’s prestige—at this level, wouldn’t it be better not to compete at all?”
“Director!”
“Listen well, all of you. I don’t know how your previous directors treated you, but everything you enjoy here comes at a price. This luxury business class, for instance. You wear the Taegeuk mark on your chest—don’t go out there thinking you can skate by. Not anymore.”
An awkward silence fell over the cabin.
Discomfort was plain on the faces of the players in their white uniforms.
Yet no one raised an objection.
Not even Kim Si-hwan, who had protested just moments before.
Jo Ho-jin, who had just spoken with such vigor, suddenly softened into a gentle smile.
“So no more complaints. Return to your seats. Minus-35 Kim Si-hwan.”
Snap.
Thick sinews bulged across Kim Si-hwan’s forehead beneath his blonde hair.
Minus thirty-five.
That was the number of losses Kim Si-hwan had suffered at the international tournament.
His clenched fist trembled violently.
But if he ignored what the Manager before him was saying,
he’d really end up getting off the airplane.
“Seating is merely the beginning, everyone.”
Jo Ho-jin’s sonorous voice filled the cabin.
“From this point forward, the South Korean national team will operate strictly on merit—not popularity or entitlement. You’d do well to consider why the Korean Capsule Association and the government saw fit to entrust me with this position.”
He was like a man with two faces.
During the media day shoot, this man had given nothing but textbook-perfect interviews,
but now he wielded Singularities like a demon.
Hae-rang observed every moment of it carefully.
And he formed a single thought.
‘Genuine talent.’
It wasn’t mere favoritism because they had a cordial relationship.
Had he met Jo Ho-jin in his previous life, he would have made him a subordinate without question.
His ability to command an organization was that exceptional.
Likely, that same rigorous standard applied to the Heavenly Demon Divine Cult.
He sat in the front merely because he had no national team experience, putting him at zero—
but if his performance lagged, he would withdraw to the rear without hesitation.
-Passengers, please remain in your seats.
With the flight attendant’s announcement, Jo Ho-jin and everyone else took their places.
“Damn it…….”
Kim Si-hwan and Seo Jae-won had no choice but to sit as well.
They despised their seating assignment.
The section they occupied
was the very back of the airplane.
* * *
Las Vegas.
A city where even a simple walk down the street makes your eyes spin.
“Phew. I’m exhausted.”
“Exhausted or not, there’s still work to do.”
The official schedule began tomorrow,
and today had no set itinerary.
Some of the Singularities sought rest,
while the rest bolted straight out of the hotel.
“Manager this, manager that—let him yap all he wants. We’re free to go on days with no schedule. Right?”
Seo Jae-won spoke loudly in front of the lobby.
“Ugh. Embarrassing. That’s what ugly American Koreans look like.”
Watching Seo Jae-won’s group leave through the doors, Da-hong made a face of disgust.
Then she turned to ask the woman beside her.
“Hyeon-bin, you said this was your first time in Las Vegas. Don’t you want to see it?”
“I can see plenty after the tournament. I don’t want to be an ugly American Korean.”
“What, are you mocking your senior?”
“Hehe. When will Hae-rang arrive?”
“He should be here soon. Everything needs to go smoothly with the Manager.”
Da-hong checked the time and glanced around.
Soon two familiar men entered her line of sight.
Or rather, three.
“Manager?”
Hae-rang, Joint, and Jo Ho-jin appeared together.
She’d heard that Hae-rang and Joint had something to discuss with the Manager,
but he’d brought him along immediately.
Hae-rang approached the two and spoke in a bright voice.
“The company agreed to cooperate. They say we can start training right away.”
“Wow. That’s wonderful. I was worried we’d have to train at a private capsule room. You did that, Manager, didn’t you?”
At Da-hong’s words, Jo Ho-jin smiled warmly.
“How could I sit idle when national representatives want to train? I appealed to the company to let us use it a day early. Apparently, this isn’t even the first time they’ve done something like this.”
“It’s not something that’s never happened before? How could that be?”
The Singularities couldn’t have started training the very day they arrived in America.
Jo Ho-jin, reading Da-hong’s expression, broke into a wry smile.
“I’m not talking about the Korean National Team. Back when we had training facility contracts with other countries, requests like this came up fairly often.”
“Ah… haha. So the country that should be working hardest went sightseeing instead, while other nations trained even harder. I’m embarrassed.”
Da-hong, as a former Singularity, felt shame wash over her.
Though truthfully, it had nothing to do with her.
The moment they arrived, she’d been training alone at the private capsule room mentioned earlier.
When she brought up the idea of training to Kim Si-hwan, all she got back was cynicism.
Cynicism that she was making a fuss over nothing.
Jo Ho-jin waved his hand dismissively, as if to say he knew all about the situation.
“The shame belongs to the Association. It’s like spitting into your own face, but I hear the previous directors would’ve silenced such requests anyway. They said the first day should be spent resting properly.”
“Well, there were times like that.”
“Now it feels like the broken gears are finally starting to slot into place. Though there still seem to be faulty parts left….”
Jo Ho-jin’s gaze followed the team toward the exit.
His sharp eyes gleamed like those of a wild beast.
“Mark my words. This result is going to trigger major changes in gaming policy going forward.”
At the word “policy,” Ma Hyeon-bin’s eyes widened, and Da-hong swallowed hard.
And Hae-rang curved his lips into an enigmatic smile.
“Thank you for the courtesy, Director. We’ll head out now.”
“Calling training a courtesy—you really are quite an unusual fellow.”
From a director’s perspective, hardworking players are always endearing.
The way Jo Ho-jin looked at Hae-rang was like a grandfather gazing at his grandchild.
“Policy changes don’t necessarily lead in a bad direction. I genuinely wish for your team’s success.”
Because that way, a flood of rewards would pour down on them.
Jo Ho-jin turned his back, leaving the rest unsaid.
* * *
A game broadcast with no streamer.
Truly a contradiction in terms.
It’s like a bun with no red bean filling,
or a team with no captain.
Yet despite all that, Choi Gang-sik switched on the broadcast.
[Gwanjong Cheonma’s Game Broadcast]
And beside the title, he added three words.
[Gwanjong Cheonma’s Game Broadcast – Cheering Room]
“How will this go?”
Though he’d started a cheering broadcast, there was no host to replace Hae-rang.
He was simply relaying the Capsule Cup broadcast as-is.
If there were even a handful of viewers who wanted to cheer for Hae-rang,
he wanted them to gather here and talk together.
A hundred people.
Or even just ten—he’d be happy if they joined him here to cheer for Hae-rang.
As it turned out, Choi Gang-sik’s thinking was hopelessly naive.
[Viewer Count: 20,232]
“This can’t be….”
Over twenty thousand viewers poured into a team without its captain.
It was something truly no one had anticipated.
-Open it! Open it! Open it! Open it! Open it! Open it! Open it!
-It’s on!
-Let’s go let’s gooooooooooooo
-Gwanjong Cheonma’s international debut!
-Yes! We’ve been waiting for this day!
-Bro you know what Thousand Holes is right! ㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋ
-Who here wants to go to America with Gwanjong?
└The nuance is so strange ㅋㅋㅋㅋ
Without Hae-rang, and with no gamer to provide commentary in his place,
the relay broadcast inevitably had a delay compared to the main feed.
But such things were entirely immaterial to the viewers.
Choi Gang-sik felt a sharp sting at the bridge of his nose.
So many people were genuinely cheering for Hae-rang with all their hearts.
He sent the message with trembling fingers.
[We’ve got more than ten thousand in the broadcast right now.]
Tremble.
Far away.
On the other side of the world, Hae-rang’s hands trembled just as finely.
Even without broadcasting, the fans’ hearts seemed to be imprinted on his own.
The connection called nation.
The connection called teammates.
And the connection called viewers.
Their encouragement and praise — all for him.
There were more than enough reasons why Hae-rang had to excel at the Capsule Cup.
“Should we go?”
Hae-rang, standing at the forefront, asked his team members.
Their expressions, varied as they were, each revealed their own resolve.
“Team Heavenly Demon Cult. Advancing into battle.”
The World Virtual Game Championship.
The curtain rose on the tournament that gaming fans called the Capsule Cup.
The Iron Fist Nine’s Round of 16 opponent, beginning with team battles,
was Japan.

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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