Chapter 33
Community (2)
The next day, in front of the workshop.
Sungchul clicked his tongue at Sehyun’s ridiculous statement.
“What kind of nonsense is that?”
“Have you ever seen me talk nonsense before?”
“Then what else would you call it? Saying out of nowhere that you’ll make a community?”
Well, such an extreme reaction was natural.
What is a community?
It’s an independent group composed of players.
Normally, when people think of communities, they picture large ones like Foundation or Randellof.
But depending on the purpose, many small to mid-sized communities exist as well.
Of course, Choi Sungchul knew this.
But the reason he reacted so strongly was different.
Players are people with immense abilities.
Their official organizations, communities, could easily ignore human laws if they wished.
That’s why the conditions to be officially recognized were also strict.
It wasn’t something a single individual could just make at will.
Why else do you think Outplayers exist?
“But think about it, hyung.”
“Think about what?”
“I may have said outrageous things before, but have I ever done something impossible?”
“……”
That wasn’t wrong either.
The things Sehyun had done so far had always gone far beyond Sungchul’s sense of common sense.
Letting out a sigh, Sungchul spoke seriously.
“Even so, this time it really won’t be easy.”
Even Sungchul, who had long been part of a Foundation-affiliated team, had not yet managed to create an independent community.
In Korea, to form an independent community, one needed the permission of the Foundation, which acted as a government.
And the conditions they required were broadly twofold.
“First, there must be at least one team capable of performing the player’s fundamental duty: sealing rifts.”
The birth of a community began with an organization of players that sealed rifts.
Therefore, having a team capable of this was the basic requirement.
To seal a rift, a minimum of four positions were needed:
A close-range tank, a close-range fighter, a rear combatant, and rear support.
But this was only the minimum.
Normally, players of various elemental types—fire, ice, and so forth—would be included to maximize synergy.
“But in your case, you’ve only got Inha. Counting me, that makes three. Without more people—”
“That’s not a problem.”
Sehyun shook a cool pack in front of Sungchul.
The same cool packs he had supplied to the Randellof family.
With this artifact, they had reduced combat personnel by nearly half.
“You see, artifacts are worth more than people.”
Players normally had their own natural roles, dictated by their personal abilities.
But Sehyun’s artifacts transcended those limits.
Give someone a defensive artifact, and they became a tank. Hand them a sword, and they became a melee fighter.
Roles could shift freely, depending on the artifact.
And that’s not all.
It wasn’t just about switching roles.
Depending on how they were used, one person could even cover the roles of two.
“Inha alone could handle two roles. The same goes for me.”
When it came to using artifacts, Inha surpassed even Sehyun, the creator.
Not only two roles—she could easily manage three.
“In the end, what the review board looks at isn’t numbers but performance. With what we’ve done so far, the two of us alone could produce the record of a full team.”
“……That’s true.”
At first, Sungchul had been worried, but Sehyun and Inha’s achievements had been overwhelming.
Recently, they had even become famous for clearing one rift per hour.
“Well, let’s say the manpower problem is covered. The real issue is the next condition.”
Sehyun knew what he meant.
The most problematic condition.
“Getting official recognition from the Foundation.”
The Foundation’s certification process was notorious for its difficulty.
Even old bloodline families often failed the screening.
That was why most people built up experience on Foundation teams first, then went independent.
If you had worked without issues in their teams, it was proof you wouldn’t cause friction after independence.
The problem was that even Sungchul, who had long served with the Foundation, had failed to clear that barrier.
“If I couldn’t do it, what chance do you—a rookie—have?”
Worse, Sehyun had even gotten on the bad side of Rachel, the Foundation’s team manager.
At this point, even if he tried to enter and get certified, there was no way they’d approve him.
Yet Sehyun remained oddly calm.
“There’s a way around that too.”
“A way… don’t tell me.”
Sungchul’s eyes widened in realization.
Connections weren’t limited to the Foundation.
If you had sponsorship from a group of equal standing, there was a way to bypass them.
And Sehyun did have ties with such an organization.
“You mean… with Randellof!”
The plan was simple: formally register under Randellof’s umbrella, then submit the recommendation to the Foundation.
That way, Sehyun would be recognized not as an individual but as a member of Randellof.
The Foundation, wary of powerful overseas communities, would find it hard to refuse without a solid reason.
That would make everything smooth sailing.
“Ah, but I’m not using that method.”
“What…!”
Sehyun dismissed it outright.
He had no intention of becoming anyone’s subordinate.
Not even of being labeled as such.
Who knows how that leash might tighten later.
Even with solid plans, you never knew what variables the future held.
It was best to minimize risks.
“And besides, it could draw unwanted opposition.”
“Opposition? What kind?”
“Last time, they already caused trouble just because Randellof entered the country.”
Now imagine trying to plant a Randellof community in Korea.
Rather than just watching, they might actively block it.
That would complicate things—and a simple goal like “founding a community” might get dragged into a power struggle between two major organizations.
Sungchul let out a long sigh.
“Then isn’t it hopeless?”
“Well, if we stick strictly to the official route, yes.”
“The official route…?”
In truth, the conditions were little more than excuses.
What mattered in the end was whether you pleased the Foundation or not.
Sehyun pressed his thumb and forefinger together, making a circle, and grinned.
“Money…?”
“Hey!”
Sehyun quickly covered Sungchul’s mouth.
“Really, money? How can you be so vulgar.”
Wagging his finger, Sehyun declared proudly:
“It’s sincerity. Sincerity!”
“That’s just another word for mon—”
“Hsssshh!!!”
Sehyun clicked his tongue sharply.
“With sincerity, you see? The sincerity to bring in more members! The sincerity that proves you’re a capable leader!”
“……”
Watching him nod in satisfaction at his own twisted logic, Sungchul could only shake his head.
“This is a tried and true method throughout history.”
After all, even the Foundation needed money to function.
While they collected dues from communities, they couldn’t just tax indiscriminately under the name of central government.
They won’t outright refuse, not if there’s ‘sincerity’ on the table.
Show them sincerity, and of course, they’d “repay” it.
The Foundation, forever strapped for funds to manage all players, would hardly reject such offers.
Under-the-table donations in exchange for community approval were surely common.
Even when Ha Ilhwan ousted the Foundation and seized control of the player society, such practices had persisted.
The question is just how big the ‘sincerity’ needs to be to tempt them.
But Sehyun had that covered too.
“You mentioned Randellof earlier, didn’t you?”
He tossed another sword into a wooden crate already packed with blades and shut the lid.
He slapped on a shipping label.
Recipient: The Randellof Family.
“I don’t intend to be their subordinate. But as equals in business? I’ll milk it for all it’s worth.”
The money from that deal would pour in.
Enough to show the Foundation all the “sincerity” it needed.
Somewhere, in an antique-looking study.
Shelves were lined with countless LP records.
Chhhhk—
The old record player crackled occasionally.
On the spinning disc was a label: “Outplayer.151.”
Rachel sank into the sofa, listening to the static.
“……”
Or rather, she was recalling the information hidden within the waveforms that sounded like static.
[Track No.1: Detected subject’s wave patterns in floor indentations and scattered wood fragments.]
Tap, tap—
Rachel drummed her finger on the armrest.
Aside from the crackling record, the study was silent, but her mind buzzed with information.
[Track No.2: Detected identical pattern in rock generated by Player Sungchul’s ability.]
Rachel perceived everything through waves.
She heard through waves.
She saw through waves.
She felt through waves.
So far, nothing had ever escaped her wave detection.
She could sense what ordinary people couldn’t see, hear, or feel—no one escaped her net.
But then why…!
Why was only that one blurry, as if mosaicked out?
[Track No.3: Detected same pattern in suspected technique of Chae Inha. But not originating from Inha herself.]
If nothing else, that made identifying the subject easier.
She was no longer thrown off by the chaotic distortion of his waveforms.
In fact, the list of incidents tied to “151” had already been narrowed down.
The static-like wave reports rolling in confirmed it.
So he was tied to the club incident after all.
When Phantom and Chester’s suspicious testimonies were rechecked against the crime scene, 151’s wave signature was found.
But something else stood out.
Wait… he’s using Phantom’s ability?
It was the same ability, but applied so differently.
Moving through space freely, boldly.
Each distinct stellar force wavelength traversing dimensions.
A technique Phantom could never have performed.
It all pointed to one conclusion: the suspect could copy others’ powers.
Nam Sehyun…
She was already convinced he was the culprit. But she had no proof.
Rachel looked at her hand.
When she first met him, she had shaken it—yet felt nothing.
At the time, she thought nothing of it.
But looking back, that was stranger still.
What if that void had been intentional?
But is that even possible…?
Her mind grew muddled, thoughts piling on each other and drifting from any conclusion.
Click—
She lifted the record needle. The static that clouded her head vanished.
“…I joined the management team to avoid things like this.”
But even leaving the archive, she couldn’t shake the confusion.
“You’re back, senpai?”
At a nearby desk, Kael raised a hand, typing sluggishly at his keyboard with tired eyes.
“How much longer on the case reports?”
“Two more hours.”
So unlike his usual energetic self.
He always wilted when confined indoors.
But only Kael, with his [Data Center] ability, could handle all this information.
That’s why “Management Team 2,” in charge of handling data, was made up of him alone.
“By the way, senpai. That guy.”
“Which guy?”
“The one hanging around with Chae Inha. The one you’re stalking.”
“…Who’s stalking who, exactly?”
“At this point, it’s stalking. You even went to listen to info about 151 today.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“His name popped up in UK immigration records.”
“……!!!!”
If Kael had pulled that from the system…
“He registered himself as a player.”
“…In Korea, he always slipped away like a fish—now he openly declares himself.”
Rachel grabbed her coat and umbrella.
“Headed to headquarters?”
The meaning was clear.
To London, the city of rain.
To the Foundation’s headquarters.
“But will it be okay? Even if you go, you can’t exactly—”
“No.”
This time was like Inha, but different.
If he had declared himself a player, then the management team’s authority to interfere was limited.
But that was only as a team member.
“I’ll have to settle it directly with my father.”
Rachel had decided to use the hidden trump card she had never once played since walking away—
The power of her family’s name.
