I Gain Infinite Gold Just By Waiting-Chapter 256: Episode 51_Preparation (6)

7.

The moment hardcore fans of novels, movies, and dramas despise most—the moment that makes them abandon a story—is when its internal logic suddenly collapses.

The author may create the story, but for the readers who live and breathe it, who paint that world in their minds, it no longer belongs to the author alone. So when an incomprehensible event shatters a scene they were more immersed in than the author themself, their immersion is irrevocably broken. Once they recognize the world is fake, a construct of an imperfect author, they stop investing in it emotionally.

Kim Buja was one of those people.

He was the one who went around breaking games and destroying their internal logic, but the protagonists in the novels he read were held to a higher standard. If a character like that appeared, he would immediately curse them out in the comments. He’d stopped reading novels after starting the game due to a lack of time, but to him, the situation unfolding now was the very definition of “makes no sense.”

By all rights, he should have been disgusted with himself.

“This is insane. As if succeeding on a 10% chance nine times in a row wasn’t enough, I pull a usable refinement effect in just two attempts? This is the kind of trash writing that makes you drop a novel instantly.”

In a way, it was an extreme stance. In real life, you could just say you’d burned through a lifetime of luck. But in a novel, luck was always part of someone’s plan, a narrative device.

“If this were a novel, anyway. Heh.”

So instead of hating himself, Buja offered a prayer to whatever god had granted him this fortune.

“So the reason my life has been so pathetic until now was because I didn’t believe in God. I repent. I will pray. Amen.”

Relying on luck to boost your stats was, in truth, the number one thing to be wary of.

Planning and design were paramount. The moment luck intruded on the careful plans that became increasingly important at higher levels, you’d start chasing higher peaks, wishing for things beyond your actual ability. If that piled up, you’d start factoring “luck” into challenges you had no business attempting, only to be slammed by cold, hard reality and buried.

That was why you had to accept luck as just that—luck—and be happy with it. Like finding a fifty-dollar bill on the street.

The truly foolish mistake—in reality or in a story—was to think, ’This is my luck, which means it’s basically my skill. I’ve gotten stronger.’

“Is an option like this even allowed?”

In any case, he had it now. And since he was more than wary of relying on luck, Kim Buja humbly began to study his new refinement effects. He couldn’t afford to get drunk on his good fortune, but that didn’t mean he should reject what he’d gained.

[Sleep Lv. 6: While sleeping, Health and Mana recover at a rapid rate and wounds are healed.]

The first effect he obtained wasn’t something he particularly needed. Health and Mana recovery while sleeping. Given that his total stats had grown so high that it took a long time to refill them once depleted, he couldn’t say it was completely useless, but it was hardly a combat skill. Besides, in major battles, his gear was already stacked with so many recovery options that he didn’t need to rely on natural regeneration. In practice, this was just an option that let him sleep more comfortably and wake up refreshed.

Other players would probably drool over it, but for an option worth five million gold, it felt a little underwhelming.

However, that vague dissatisfaction was completely blown away by the second option.

[Shadow Partner Lv. 6: On attack, there is a 60% chance to deal an additional 60% damage.]

The first thought that crossed his mind was singular.

’Jackpot. A level 6 option.’

He had hit one of the five level 6 options, which guaranteed it was a major win, no matter what it was. The only question was which of the five he had pulled.

From his perspective, Shadow Partner was easily top-tier among top-tier options.

“I’m absolutely taking this to level 10.”

The words escaped him the moment he saw it. It was that good. It had to be.

At level 6, the additional damage had a 60% chance to trigger. If the chance went up by 10% per level, then the expected damage output would rise proportionally. This wasn’t an option whose efficiency dropped off at higher levels; in fact, its value would only shine brighter.

Why was this even categorized as a level 6 option?

His curiosity turned into a reasonable suspicion.

’Just how good are the level 7 and 8 options?’

To be honest, he hadn’t tested it thoroughly yet, but Shadow Partner was basically a balance-breaking skill. It cost nothing, activated just by being slotted in, required no attention during combat, and, as a passive, guaranteed free, risk-free damage.

There was no need to be disappointed that the additional damage was only 60%. The greatest strength of Shadow Partner was that it triggered when neither he nor his enemy even realized it.

“I need to test this.”

He may have been a penniless beggar now, but his eyes were shining brighter than ever as he bolted out of the house.

* * *

In any game, players inevitably hit a wall. That wall exists in every game; no matter how much “infinite freedom” a game claims to offer, it can’t escape it. If a game is made by humans and run by a company that has to consider its entire player base for profit, it has to prevent a tiny handful of players from completely dominating that world.

The concept of a damage cap came from that. No matter what gear you assembled, you would eventually hit that ceiling, and further stat upgrades would become meaningless. Naturally, when that happened, the frontrunners would start to leave. It was the game company’s job to maintain that balance. In that situation, what players looked for was not bigger “numbers” that had already hit their limit, but “methods” that let them hit that limit more often.

—Dungeons aren’t a game, so whoever hits hardest wins. But in Rune Terra, the class with the most hits wins.

—Isn’t that the game where you hit max damage if you whale for like, a few hundred grand?

—It’s still number one on the charts.

—Yeah, no thanks. Total hits-to-win trash game. You can drop a hundred grand and still lose to a class with high hit counts.

—If I could rack up hits like that in real life, I’d be a ranker too.

—As if. That’s not how it works in reality. If you dump everything into Agility to attack fast, your damage will be pathetic.

It was a conversation completely detached from reality. In a world without hard caps, where how hard you hit mattered more than how many times you hit, trying to apply game logic was absurd. Especially when people tried to project game skills onto rankers for vicarious satisfaction.

—What do you think would happen if Kim Buja had a clone skill?

—What do you mean, what would happen? Stop with the fanfiction, go touch some grass.

—If a busted skill like that existed, Fly would’ve cleared all the level 10 dungeons ages ago.

—Exactly. Why would Buja get it? If Fly had a clone skill, his spells would be firing twice.

—If a skill like that existed, it wouldn’t matter if it was on Buja or Fly. I’d already be running dungeons with them, gg.

No matter how magical the world had become, it still had its own “common sense.”

The common sense of magic.

The “limits” of the abilities granted to humans.

The results you could produce with those abilities were endless, but those limits still existed.

—You can’t split your body in two or transform or anything like that.

—But Kim Buja already does that, though? He can transform into a dragon.

—Huh? Oh. Right.

There was always a reason people made the pathetic mistake of applying those “limits” to reality.

The tiniest sliver of possibility.

The moment they saw even a 0.01% chance, people would start spinning their fantasies and living vicariously. That was how they soothed their frustration over realms they could never reach.

And for those people, a new video was uploaded.

“I turned on the camera today to show you a new passive I got. Honestly, I was hesitant because this thing is so busted, I wasn’t sure if I should even show it. But if I keep making videos, you guys are going to notice anyway, so I might as well reveal it now.”

At first, most people had no idea what he was talking about. They just got hyped because Kim Buja himself said he had learned an insane skill.

—Meteor?

—I hope it’s something like Inferno.

—Dude, go bother Fly if you want spells like that.

With everyone’s expectations on him, Buja entered a dungeon and drew his sword as usual.

’When’s he going to show it?’

Holding their breath, they watched as the dungeon run began. It was a standard ant-nest-style dungeon. He cut down the monsters that appeared, and the occasional spell exploded here and there. The sense of stability that came through the screen made it obvious why he was the kind of player who could solo an 8-star Legendary dungeon.

The problem was that this smooth, uneventful run continued from the start of the dungeon all the way to the end.

—Huh?

[You have cleared the dungeon.]

Even in the final moment of the clear, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. To the average viewer, it was just another run. Even if they rewatched the twenty-minute video to see if they had missed something in the flurry of spells and sword strikes, the only thing the dead monsters had in common was that they all went down without a fight.

—So where was the new skill?

Most players flooded the comments with complaints.

But a few did not.

—Did I see that wrong?

—Holy shit.

—What the hell was that?

You see as much as you know.

The players who could see—whether in games or in reality—had all seen it. Of course, no one instantly recognized a phenomenon they had never witnessed before.

—Anyone else catch it?

—Me. I did. I really hope I wasn’t imagining that.

—Focus on the spells, especially the explosions. That’s where it’s easiest to see.

—Wow, I almost missed it, it was so fast.

—If you watch the sword slashes, you can see it there too.

When people in the know started chatting among themselves, others began to feel left out.

—Why? What is it?

—Please tell me too T_T

Those who had seen it were more than happy to share. They wanted others to feel the same chill they had.

—It’s not every time, but it feels like there’s an extra hit about every other attack. Slow down the playback when he uses Fireball and watch at 23:14. It definitely explodes, and then a fraction of a second later, it explodes again. Once might be a fluke, but it keeps happening. And every time it does, sometimes the mob just dies in one shot. I’m pretty sure that’s it.

—If Buja isn’t saying anything else, that has to be it, right?

—This is insane.

—Please nerf the Gold Maker class already. It’s too OP.

* * *