“Hmm?” Supervisor Zhang’s eyes lit up.
He immediately set down his thermos and walked over in a few quick strides.
“A Legendary class?
Which war zone?
What’s the specific class?
Melee?
Elemental?
Or is it a rare spatial type?” He spoke rapidly, his face beaming with professional excitement.
Every Legendary professional was a guaranteed traffic goldmine.
If managed correctly, they could bring immense profits and massive prestige to the platform.
The reviewer’s expression became somewhat complicated.
“It’s…
a Beast Tamer.” “A Beast Tamer?” Supervisor Zhang’s excitement froze instantly.
His brow furrowed as he struggled to process the words.
After a few seconds, he asked uncertainly, “Is it that class?
The one that is physically incapable of passing the trial instance without an absolute fortune invested in them?” “Yes, the data shows a Legendary High Grade Beast Tamer,” the reviewer confirmed, nodding.
Supervisor Zhang’s expression shifted from confusion to outright bafflement.
“A Beast Tamer is actually starting a livestream?
And they even had the nerve to apply for traffic support?” He stroked his sparse stubble.
“Looks like they might be a scion from a massive clan or a wealthy conglomerate trying to gamble on the late-game scaling of a Beast Tamer.” He pondered for a moment, his tone shifting into a cold, businesslike register.
“This class is rare enough.
If this kid actually has a serious background and his family spent a fortune buying top-tier pets and endgame equipment, the broadcast might actually pull numbers.
Giving them a baseline traffic boost wouldn’t hurt.
We can just market it as a novelty gimmick.” He paused, pointing a finger at the reviewer.
“However, the exact number of homepage recommendation slots we give him depends entirely on the depth of his background.” If the applicant belonged to one of the premier clans in the Imperial Capital, or if they were backed by one of the five major global mercenary guilds, the platform would grant them full homepage exposure and preferential resource allocation.
“Pull up his student ID and the registration details he submitted,” the supervisor ordered.
“On it.” The reviewer nodded, his fingers flying across the keyboard to bring up the personal identity profile linked to Leon’s application.
“Found it.
Leon.
Graduated from Mountcrest City Second High School.
Status: Orphan…” The lines of text scrolled down the monitor one by one.
As the reviewer read the profile aloud, his voice grew progressively quieter.
As the staff unraveled the stark reality of the applicant’s lack of background, Supervisor Zhang’s face grew incredibly dark.
“What a complete joke!” Supervisor Zhang suddenly straightened up, spitting out a wave of venom without any attempt to mask his disgust.
He jabbed a finger aggressively at Leon’s portrait on the screen—a slightly immature photo taken from his standard high school file.
“What kind of bottom-feeding trash dares to apply for a promotion?
He needs to take a piss and look at his own reflection in the puddle!” “A baseline Beast Tamer is considered utterly useless without a family fortune backing them, and this nobody dares to ask us for traffic?” “This is a complete waste of my time!
A total drain on corporate resources!” He grew increasingly agitated, treating Leon’s application as a direct insult to his intelligence.
“Are you kidding me?
Do you know how valuable my homepage recommendation slots are?” “Giving traffic to a standard Blue Elite combat class would yield a hundred times better return than wasting it on this doomed loser!
At least a Blue-tier fighter can put up a decent show on camera.” “He’s a broke Beast Tamer with zero resources.
He’s going to get instantly slaughtered the exact second he spawns into the dungeon, yet he expects a premium push?” He slammed his heavy hand onto the reviewer’s shoulder, ordering fiercely, “Reject!
Reject his application immediately!” “Move fast!
Don’t let this kind of garbage clog up our backend queue!” “Understood, Supervisor.” The reviewer, his face lightly sprayed with the supervisor’s spittle, didn’t dare utter a single word of protest.
He rapidly executed the command.
A few seconds later, down in the stadium stands, Leon’s phone vibrated.
He looked down at the screen.
[System Notification: Your application for streaming traffic support has been rejected.] “They rejected it?” Leon was taken aback, his brows knitting together.
He remembered the Prodigy platform’s official handbook stating in black and white that all verified Legendary-tier streamers were guaranteed baseline traffic support for their inaugural broadcast.
He opened the platform’s support ticket window and quickly typed a message.
“Excuse me, my account is verified as a Legendary High Grade class.
Why does my stream fail to meet your broadcasting criteria?
The official corporate policy explicitly states that all Legendary classes qualify.” The automated customer service response came almost instantaneously, cold and completely formulaic.
“Following an internal review, your specified class does not meet our active promotional guidelines.” Leon maintained his patience, typing back, “Could you specify exactly which guideline it violates?
What is the objective baseline for this decision?” This time, the response took a few seconds longer, but it returned even more curt and dismissive.
“It does not fit our criteria.
That is all.
No further explanation will be provided.” “Heh.” Leon let out a soft, amused laugh, his anger giving way to cold clarity.
He understood perfectly now.
It wasn’t that the official corporate rules forbade it; it was simply that the bureaucrat enforcing the rules deemed him unworthy of the privilege.
Fine.
Don’t regret it later.
Leon closed the support window, exited the Prodigy application entirely, and swiped across his screen to launch a different app.
Starry Sky Streaming Platform—one of the top three networks in the world and the fiercest direct corporate rival of Prodigy.
He rapidly registered a new broadcaster profile, but he chose not to hit the go-live button on Starry Sky just yet.
Since the executives at Prodigy wanted to treat people like trash, he didn’t need to show them an ounce of professional courtesy.
He planned to generate a massive wave of viral controversy on their own territory first, and then, right when his popularity hit its absolute zenith, abruptly migrate his entire audience over to the Starry Sky network.
He would strip a massive chunk of high-value traffic directly from Prodigy’s ecosystem, dealing them a severe financial and reputational blow.
But there was a glaring, highly practical problem staring him in the face.
Without the initial traffic push from a platform’s algorithm, how was a brand-new stream with zero followers and zero pre-existing publicity supposed to catch anyone’s eye in a literal sea of millions of concurrent trial streams?
Without that critical first wave of viewers, his entire strategy would fall apart before it even began.
Leon frowned, his thumb idly tapping the side of his phone casing.
Suddenly, his eyes lit up as a malicious spark of inspiration hit him.
Sometimes, you didn’t need a corporate algorithm to force people into a room.
You just needed to know how human psychology worked.
Leon opened his broadcast room configuration settings and rapidly typed a single, highly toxic sentence into the stream title box.
Beast Tamers are weak?
I’m not targeting anyone individually, I’m just saying every single streamer on the Prodigy platform is absolute trash.
Perfect.
Absolute, unadulterated ragebait.
In his past life, navigating that information-saturated internet era as a seasoned keyboard warrior, Leon understood the volatile temperament of netizens better than anyone.
If you titled a stream boasting about stunning graphics or top-tier technical skill, people would remain cynical, browsing past without ever clicking in.
But if you dared to publicly declare war on an entire population, casting a massive, sweeping insult across a whole platform, the psychological response would be instantaneous.
A massive horde of netizens would inevitably charge into the room fueled by pure spite.
They would click in with a unified mindset: Let’s see what kind of arrogant idiot we have here, Let’s flame this clown until he cries, and A broke Beast Tamer dares to talk big before a high-difficulty instance?
Let’s verbally blast him off the internet!
He tapped the screen to finalize the configuration.
Leon looked at his new title with immense satisfaction.
It radiated provocation and supreme arrogance, the sheer digital hostility practically vibrating through the glass screen.
His years of surfing the web had taught him a fundamental law of the digital age: weaponized controversy and targeted spite were often the absolute best catalysts for organic traffic growth.
One could easily predict how furious the dedicated fanbases of other genius streamers would be the moment they caught sight of this headline scrolling through the directory.
“Calling my favorite streamer trash?
What kind of stray dog is barking out here?
Sisters, get in there and cancel him!” “Ha!
A Beast Tamer?
He dares to open his mouth?
Let’s go watch this clown get ground into mincemeat by the dungeon monsters!” “Is this guy completely shameless?
Doing anything for a view?” It didn’t matter what their specific motivation was; as long as they physically clicked that thumbnail, Leon’s opening phase was a flawless success.
He checked the clock.
The timing was absolutely perfect.
The countdown digits on his internal transfer panel rapidly dissolved into zeroes, and a crisp, synthetic notification resounded clearly inside his mind.
[System Notification: The countdown for deployment into the Personal Initiation Trial Instance has ended.
Initiating spatial teleportation now.]