Cheongryeo watches Grand Halldal’s message popup.
Ironically, the one most dumbfounded by this situation is the very person who isn’t here—the one who triggered the popup.
[Huhhh—what the f,]
“There’s even a typo,” Cheongryeo said, as if observing an interesting phenomenon, propping his chin on his hand. Grand Halldal shrieked again from the popup.
[Aaah!!]
What a racket.
I resisted the urge to rub my brow and asked, “When did it start appearing?”
“Huh, this is the first time right now,” Cheongryeo replied without blinking, watching Grand Halldal’s crying popup for a few more seconds. Then he said dismissively, “That must be... the version of your previous body inhabiting the system.”
“.......”
“Ryu Geon woo.”
Cheongryeo smiled faintly. “It seems your body swapped recently. I’d like an explanation.”
“...!?”
He meant the body-swap incident between me and Grand Halldal. Right? Wait.
“Did you notice at the awards ceremony?”
Somehow, when he zoomed in with a telephoto lens and locked eyes with me, I sensed something odd.
“That’s right,” he admitted readily, tapping his chin with a finger. “Your judgment seemed clouded—uncharacteristically so.”
“.......”
Was he saying Grand Halldal looked stupid?
‘Look at his choice of words—he isn’t even in the industry.’
An outsider inhabiting an idol’s body and judging my faculties—ridiculous.
‘Tch.’
Anyway, the mood was ripe for me to explain why I’d looked that way.
“Something did happen,” I said, summarizing the shards of system code tied to Grand Halldal and the events at the time.
Cheongryeo’s reaction was mild. Perhaps because, unlike the horror of a building collapse, everything had been contained at a moderate level... or maybe he’d already guessed.
“I see. Oh, and you uploaded the photos you took online, right? I enjoyed them.”
“.......”
How did he know that? Forget it. He was thanking me with a smile—I had no comeback.
‘Let’s drop it.’
This guy really is spooky.
Anyway, I guessed why Cheongryeo was watching the status window.
“It must be because, in the system’s virtual world, you were the GM.”
“Makes sense.”
Indeed, Cheongryeo had once been the game master for the system’s in-story game—able to pause the game and manipulate settings. It had even let him pull my leg once, but also let me land a counter-strike on the system.
‘If that GM role’s power returned when I rebooted the system...’
Alright, time to test.
I silently summoned the status-window popup into the air.
[New! Reward for Update Completion]
[New! New Feature Unlocked]
[New! Survey]
...positioned away from Grand Halldal’s popups.
[Hyung...?]
I deliberately didn’t react. Cheongryeo spoke up.
“It looks like someone’s calling you.”
“Yeah. I’m sending a message so he won’t panic.”
That confirmed it: Cheongryeo only responded to Grand Halldal’s popup.
So...
‘He really can’t see the others?’
I watched his pupils, expression, and gesture—‘...natural.’ After decades in a profession requiring extreme emotional control, a fake reaction isn’t impossible but unlikely.
I uncrossed my arms.
‘This level is acceptable.’
He wouldn’t hide it this thoroughly just to screw with me—our history has trust at that level.
But Cheongryeo’s analysis was only beginning. He traced the condensation on a chilled glass with his gaze.
“Then the thing you call the system hasn’t vanished but is inhabiting multiple bodies.”
“.......”
“Even if it’s loot, absorbing and using it—don’t ◆ Nоvеlіgһt ◆ (Only on Nоvеlіgһt) you think that’s too risky?”
He lifted his eyes from the glass to meet mine.
‘What if you want to “restart”?’
“.......”
His look said exactly that—that conviction only someone who’d repeatedly experienced and theorized the system could have. Using it would be addictive.
‘Feels almost like fanaticism.’
A creepy chill ran up my spine despite the summer heat, making me doubt my own decision to exploit my system-altered body.
‘...Fuck.’
I swallowed and said, “I used it only to break away from T1 and go independent. I won’t use it again.”
“I see.”
Cheongryeo shrugged as if to say “suit yourself,” then casually added, “I’d like to verify something.”
“Huh?”
“The status window?”
“Yes.”
Attracted by that, another popup appeared instantly.
[Designate ‘GM’ as System Administrator?]
Are you insane? This guy can’t tell when to dial it back.
‘Fuck off.’
Revealing internal info to a competitor—unbelievable. I closed the popup.
Finally, I spoke, “I summoned the status window just now.”
“Really? You still can’t see it.”
“Right.”
That ended the conversation—but I felt unsettled, having realized something new.
‘I did say I’d shut down the company system... but damn, I can’t just scrub it without care.’
I remembered the popup that appeared when I ran into Kwon Heeseung last time—“Confirm holder of ■■■ Shard!”
That shard must be another piece of the system. Heeseung had it, so Cheongryeo, who’s also experienced the system, likely has a shard too.
That’s the problem.
'To absorb more of these shards, the company tier must rise.'
In other words: if I terminate the system, the company tier vanishes—and with it the shard in Cheongryeo’s possession.
...He’d face mission failure without the status window. Being experienced doesn’t guarantee he’d be okay.
‘Who knows how many restarts he’s done?’
If his reset syndrome flares up again, it’d be a nightmare—and if it backfires on me, I could die.
Plus, he once gave crucial help during the building collapse.
“.......”
‘Right.’
For conscience’s sake, there must be a line.
I concluded: ‘Keep the company system intact.’
But I can’t let random updates blindside me. I must understand the cause and principle of shard-triggered updates:
I need to anticipate and minimize variables, then build a stable structure to recover shards without mission failures. For now, I’ll refrain from tampering with the system. Let’s watch.
‘At least until Grand Halldal finishes his analysis.’
The quiet popup blinked again.
[I will do my best...!]
Thanks.
‘I’ll pay you well.’
[Hyung... but I actually have more money than you right now...]
“.......”
[So sorry. I mean, since you made this system, just feel free to use it...]
It’s fine.
With the popups, we reached a dramatic resolution—an invitation to a concert’s VIP seats.
By the way, Cheongryeo watched excitedly, asked a few questions, then belatedly checked on my news.
“By the way, your group is filming a reality show, right?”
That leaked too?
“Yeah. But the director you used to work with belongs to a studio under T1.”
“Right.”
All the reality-show crews from travel diaries to carrot coin schemes are under T1. We had a lot of trouble.
Cheongryeo smiled and spoke gently, “Shall I introduce you to someone good?”
Oh.
This guy really wants to fleece me.
“We’ve already booked someone.”
Use your paid behind-the-scenes platform, buddy. Because the person we booked is...
“...Hello.”
“Wow, greetings, writer!” Great Sejin stood across from TeSTAR’s table, energetically greeting the main writer of our reality show.
“Long time no see!”
“Ah, yes.”
Ryu Seorin. The very writer from . Also my university senior and twin home-ma—Ryu Seojin—but more on that later.
She was one of the key staff we secured for our TeSTAR reality program, for two simple reasons:
First:
“It’s great to work with you again.”
“Yes, very.”
She’d been dropped by T1 too—the insider who made the series a hit. She was pushed out by internal politics after we and others who debuted on that show all left to go independent.
Second:
“So, about this reality show...”
She knows how to craft a program—whether by using contestants as sacrifices or building emotional arcs from 1 to 10. She’s great at variety. She even has a good eye for talent. No better partner for TeSTAR.
“You’re not looking for those cute little idol reality programs most groups do, right?”
Her tone said, “Find your own.” Ryu Seorin nodded once.
“Yes. We’ve always preferred spending more time to make true, fun reality shows.”
“Exactly.”
“Then let’s pick a PD with that style. I know their production team too.”
Her confident voice left no doubt—they’d recreate that vibe: teasing the cast, pulling pranks. And since we’d worked with that PD’s team before, the public would accept it as TeSTAR style.
But I said, “No.”
“Huh?”
I didn’t want a copycat. Ryu Seorin’s specialty was a different style. There’s no need to sacrifice originality.
“So please do it your way.”
“...!”
We each stick to what we do best. Ryu Seorin narrowed her eyes, asking in disbelief, “You mean... like your previous work?”
“Yes.”
“.......”
We all know the prime example. This TeSTAR reality will go...
“Like .”
Ryu Seorin looked stunned—as any sane person would. But investors hold the power.
A few days later, TeSTAR’s reality filming began as planned.
I opened my eyes. Above me, the familiar ceiling of my old dorm room.
“.......”
It felt natural—waking up and seeing a familiar ceiling. But there’s a catch: TeSTAR moved. This was the pre-move dorm.
“What the hell.”
I sat up. The dark room, and something resting on my abdomen.
“...?”
A yellow file. Squinting for clarity, I read the cover aloud.
“Your profile file.”
I opened it.
[Your occupation is doctor.]
Below, its description and features were listed.
Hmm.
‘So that’s how it is.’
TeSTAR had intentionally avoided detailed briefings on the reality-show’s internal settings—to preserve authenticity. They only knew the format and purpose.
“What’s it for?” I mused aloud, rising from the bed. In my head, I replayed the group meeting when we hired Ryu Seorin:
– We’re veterans, so we already know how it goes.
The concept for this TeSTAR reality program:
– That writer’s survival shows are fun.
A death-survival format.
