Chapter 37: Backseat Challenge Lv.999 (1)

Mr. Lee tried to defend against Aeipolla’s turret raids, but every attempt ended in failure.  

If it had been a different tactic, maybe it would’ve been understandable. But it was always the same routine:  

Smoke bomb. Vision play.  

Yet, they still couldn’t catch him.  

[All Chat] BackstabbedWoundsAreDisgraceful: Slow  

Even when the inner turret on the lane he was guarding was destroyed.  

[All Chat] BackstabbedWoundsAreDisgraceful: When did you start thinking turrets were safe?  

Even when Aeipolla reached the core turret.  

[All Chat] BackstabbedWoundsAreDisgraceful: For me, demolition is murder.  

That damn storm cloud.  

A 3-minute cooldown for a smoke bomb that lasted 30 seconds, constantly shaking up the battlefield.  

Weren’t the tier guides adamant that this ability was trash and should never be used?  

Could it be that those players didn’t understand Aeipolla?  

Or maybe it was just that Bronze-tier players were unable to handle the sudden apparition of this smoke-ghost.  

Sure, when the area-of-effect skills rained down like a storm, the smoke’s presence became less significant.  

But the real problem was the mascot stuck to Aeipolla like glue.  

What were they thinking, spamming heals as if they were eating ramen?  

The mascot wouldn’t leave Aeipolla’s side, wouldn’t die without taking Aeipolla along, and just kept blindly healing.  

And they’d fully equipped themselves with recovery-focused items, so now their healing not only restored health but also gave Aeipolla movement speed buffs and massive shields.  

At least they only knew how to mindlessly charge forward, making them easy to pick off.  

But every time they were killed, they drained Mr. Lee and his teammates’ abilities and ultimates, throwing the game into chaos.  

It wasn’t just Mr. Lee struggling—his teammates seemed just as disoriented.  

[All Chat] BackstabbedWoundsAreDisgraceful: Are you scared?  

Everyone, being around Bronze-tier, kept clustering together in a desperate attempt to stop Aeipolla.  

But there was always someone who ended up a step too late.  

Not that the opposing team was sitting idle.  

With Aeipolla and the mascot drawing all the attention, the other three grouped up, ruthlessly picking off anyone who lagged behind, slowly pushing the front line back.  

Why did they get caught?  

“I mean, I was heading over to block them when I got ambushed!”  

“Yeah, well, you were alone—that’s why you got caught!”  

“What do you mean alone? I was trying to group up, and I still got caught. Why can’t you guys just stop Aeipolla already?”  

The one who got caught always had the most to say.  

Before long, Mr. Lee’s team chat was on fire.  

[Team Chat] ActorBecomesGeniusActor: ^^ Who the hell fed Aeipolla?  

[Team Chat] ActorBecomesGeniusActor: Bronze players, ^^ got your mouths zipped shut?  

[Team Chat] ActorBecomesGeniusActor: How about trying to actually say something? lolol  

[Team Chat] TerminalLungCancer: Listening to you, anyone would think Kirine screwed us over herself, lol.  

[Team Chat] TerminalLungCancer: Useless tools being useless, huh, lol.  

[Team Chat] ActorBecomesGeniusActor: Wanna make your mom disappear?  

Right. This was the notorious Naore experience, where even a dull moment turned into chaos.  

Why had he struggled so hard to hit Silver rank in this mess of a game?  

“Sigh. Goddamn it…”  

With a heavy sigh, Mr. Lee deleted Naore from his computer, ending the game he had poured his entire twenties into.  

*       *      *

Since that day, I practiced Naore alone for a few more days.  

It was because I wanted to confidently say to Komari, “I’m good at this.”  

I dove into ranked games for some intense training.  

And so, a few days later, the day I had promised with Komari arrived.  

[Komari: I’ll treat you to a meal today.]  

[Me: You don’t have to.]  

[Komari: No, it’s to butter you up in advance for today’s content.]  

[Me: You cannibal.]  

[Komari: ?]  

At first, I thought it would just be a simple collaboration where we each play our games online.  

But apparently, like Dora, she wanted a setup where we sit side by side and stream together.  

The team leader let me go, so I decided to show up.  

But since she even insisted on treating me to a meal, I started to feel a bit worried.  

It seemed like it could turn into a grueling day.  

Komari is cold—especially when it comes to Naore.  

A few hours later, while mixing soy sauce into my ordered beef bowl, I asked Komari,  

“So, I play the game, and you coach me from behind?”  

“Yes.”  

“And the reason for this is?”  

“To knock some sense into the Naseams.”  

Basically, the content is this:  

She wanted to use me as an example to show those who constantly backseat her during ranked games that their advice not only fails to help but just annoys the player.  

“It’s a kind of mirror therapy.”  

It was a clever plan, no doubt.  

But even if I get annoyed by Komari’s backseating, I probably won’t show any extreme emotions.  

What truly infuriates me is when the boss suddenly takes an unannounced day off or… other omitted grievances.  

“You’re right, Naseams are pretty relentless. Even after warnings and bans, it’s amazing how new ones keep showing up.”  

“It’s because there are too many players. Honestly, in this country, it’s harder to find someone who doesn’t play Naore. There are way too many self-proclaimed experts.”  

And yet, here I am, pulling off the impossible.  

A pure newbie who has never touched Naore before.  

“Anyway, I get it. But this seems like a tough thing to do, right?”  

“Yeah. That’s why I’m buying you a meal. It’s all staged, but I hope you’ll bear with it.”  

“Hmm.”  

It’s a decent content idea.  

It might even reduce the workload of our suffering managers a bit.  

Maybe it’s time to build a new Impel Down anyway.  

But I can’t deny the effects are temporary.  

As Komari mentioned, Naseams are everywhere, and new ones pop up every day.  

Even if you calm the audience down today, new Naseams will inevitably flow in from somewhere.  

If we’re doing this, a more assertive crackdown might be necessary.  

The real problem is that Komari loves Naore so much she refuses to take even a month-long break, despite my recommendation.  

More than anything, though…  

“This just makes Komari the villain.”  

Someone will undoubtedly accuse us of nitpicking instead of genuinely having a problem with the therapy.  

“They said it was about content, but isn’t this just bullying the staff? I didn’t think Komari was like that,” they’ll say.  

No matter how much we plan this among ourselves, even if it’s just our version of WWE, things can easily escalate into a wildfire in the community. And that fire will likely lead to wild speculation.  

Like rumors of conflicts between staff and VTubers, for instance.  

Back during Dora’s time, when she wouldn’t let go of me, I could laugh it off as cute. But competitive-mode Komari and her relentless sniping are honestly terrifying even from a member-management perspective.  

Still, as Komari said, once you take down those toxic “naore” users, it makes things easier for everyone involved.  

As I ate my meal, brainstorming, a great idea suddenly came to me.  

“Hmm. Food alone doesn’t seem like enough.”  

“What… Should I buy something else? Beef’s fine too.”  

“No, no. Not more food. I want to tweak the content you suggested.”  

“Huh? That’s a first in a while. What kind of tweak?”  

A way to filter out insufferable backseat gamers without making Komari look bad.  

And that is…  

“A backseat-challenge stream.”  

“A backseat challenge?”  

“Exactly. You’ll watch me play a game, and if you fail to hold back from giving advice, you get a penalty.”  

“A penalty?”  

I pulled out my phone and showed Komari a game.  

It was Rubber Duck House.  

In the game, you just sit and watch a pool where rubber ducks regularly fall in, completing a collection as you go.  

The goal is literally to do nothing but adjust the camera and watch.  

For dopamine-seeking “naore” enthusiasts, and Komari and her viewers who thrive on that rush, it would be pure agony.  

“This is… kind of awful…”  

“Every time you backseat, you have to play this game for an hour. How about it?”  

“An hour each time?!”  

“Well, 10 minutes is too short, and 30 minutes feels kind of lame.”  

“I mean, I guess…”  

After thinking for a moment, Komari responded.  

“If we do this, viewers might drop like flies…”  

“It’s just one day. Think about it: so many streamers do Naore, but people specifically come to you for a reason—it’s your charm. Skipping it for a day won’t matter.”  

Honestly, since it’s a popular game, there are plenty of passing viewers. But the ones who stick around have already settled in by now.  

Komari’s naore streams aren’t exactly new; they’ve been a staple for months.  

Not to mention, her tier isn’t low—it’s Emerald.  

There’s no Emerald in the Battle Colosseum, but it’s like being just under Diamond.  

“And really, anyone who leaves because you skipped naore for a day isn’t worth keeping around. They’re probably the real toxic viewers.”  

Hearing this, Komari’s eyes lit up, as if she agreed.  

“Alright. Let’s try it. Just don’t play like a bug, okay?”  

On our way back after finishing our meal, we treated ourselves to some ice cream—something special about ice cream as dessert after a warm meal, especially on a cool or chilly day.

Back home, I set up my illustration at the bottom right corner of the screen.  

On top of it, I placed Komari’s moving Live2D model.  

I had even prepared my mouth movements in advance, syncing perfectly.  

As expected of the strongest member of the first generation, my software skills were top-tier.  

Sitting in front of the keyboard and mouse, I finally decided to reveal the truth I had been hiding from Komari until now.  

“By the way, you might lose your mind trying to backseat me.”  

“Come on, Jia. It’s not like you’re bad at games. I’ve seen you handle most games just fine.”  

“That’s true, but Naore is a bit… different.”  

I smirked as I logged into my account.  

Click, click. Navigating through my information, a shiny metal badge appeared.  

[ScarsOnMyBackAreProofOfMyFailure]  

Iron II – 66 LP  

Komari stared at the screen, momentarily speechless.  

After all, Iron is the lowest tier in Naore, infamous as the place where non-humans—bugs—reside.  

Given that I was a Battle Colosseum Diamond-tier player, someone who could even hold their own against pros, my being in Iron seemed to shock her quite a bit.  

“Wait… Why is your tier…”  

“Well, last weekend I practiced with the boss and then played ranked games solo. I destroyed my lane’s tower and even pushed to their base.  

But my team was so bad we just kept losing!”  

“What champion were you playing?”  

“Aipola. She’s got this epic tower demolition animation.”  

“…..”  

Komari’s expression suggested she now understood.  

A sigh. A shake of her head.  

After some silent contemplation, resting her chin in her hands, Komari finally spoke.  

“I’ve got the perfect stream title for today.”  

She started typing away on the broadcast program, filling in the title field.  

[Stream Title: The Pro Who Beat Battle Colosseum’s Best, Now a Bug in Another World?]  

I scratched my temple, muttering under my breath.  

Honestly, I felt a little annoyed.  

“I only ended up in Iron because my team kept throwing. Calling me a bug is a bit much…”