The Genius Programmer Turned Wizard - GPW Chapter 1: Bug Report (Part 1)

Tap tap tap.

Fingers danced nonstop across the keyboard.
Despite the flurry of movement, the task itself was fairly relaxed—just a straightforward bit of coding based on the given specifications.

For someone like me, a developer with five years of experience, it was as routine as breathing.

“Hmm…”

Still, even my fingers knew when to stop.
The first instance was when I needed to ponder the specs.

“Instead of doing it this way…”

A better approach kept catching my eye. But…

“Eh, it’s fine as long as I follow the specs.”

Taking liberties could lead to complications later.
Besides, this was the second situation where my hands always stopped moving: quitting time.

“I already ran the tests and committed the code…”

After one final check, I stood up and threw on my coat.

“Alright then, I’ll be heading out.”

Just as I was about to leave the office, a voice called out behind me.

“Got somewhere important to be?”

It was the new team lead.
Supposedly a master at scheduling and productivity—which, in other words, meant he was great at squeezing devs dry.

Anyway, if he was asking whether I had something important planned…

“No, not really.”

Because, truthfully, I didn’t.
The only thing waiting for me at home was a game.

“In that case, why not stay a little longer? With your level of experience, you should know this: if you fall behind, it doesn’t just affect your schedule.”

Of course I knew.
I’d had delays before because of some colleague across the room pulling his hair out.
But me? I was always on time.

“What would you like me to do?”
“What do you mean? You still have tasks left for today, don’t you?”
“I finished everything. Please check if you’d like.”
“Huh? That can’t be right…”

He clicked his mouse skeptically, his expression slowly shifting—from doubt to surprise, then disbelief.

“You did all this today?”
“Yes.”
“And the tests?”
“I ran them earlier on the dev server. The logs are backed up too, if you want to check—”
“No, I’d better check it myself.”

Holding a USB stick, the team lead turned to me.

“Well? Aren’t you coming?”
“Do I need to?”
“Of course. I want to verify it with my own eyes.”

Click.
With no choice, I followed him into the server room.
It was always cool in there, filled only with mechanical noise.

“Baek In-wook,” he said, plugging the USB into the server.

“Your resume says you were the first Korean to win the International Collegiate Programming Contest.”

“That’s right.”

“I don’t know how you’ve spent the past six years, but if you think you can just coast on that achievement… it won’t fly with me.”

He wiped the test environment I had prepared and set up his own.

“I’ve seen my share of programming competition champions. They’re fast with tough algorithms, but when it comes to clean, bulletproof code? Most don’t have a clue.”

Just then, the code began executing.
Test values started streaming out.

“I’ll admit, you’re exceptionally fast, even among that crowd…”

Logs scrolled rapidly across the screen.
While waiting, he suddenly proposed something.

“Wanna make a bet? That your code has zero issues.”

A bet, huh…
Well, I already knew the result, so I had nothing to lose.

“Sure, let’s do it.”

“If there’s even a single mistake, you’ll report to me for inspection every day—and you won’t go home until it’s fixed.”

“And if there’s nothing wrong?”

“Then I’ll use my authority to let you leave right after finishing your tasks. Not that that’ll happen.”

…Now that was tempting.

If it had been some lame offer like, “I’ll buy you dinner,” I would’ve passed.
But this? Genuinely appealing.

Right at that moment, the test ended, and the results popped up on screen.
I quickly spoke before he could review them.

“I accept the bet.”

“You said it—don’t come begging to back out later.”

The team lead scanned through the test results.
Then suddenly, he chuckled and pointed at the screen.

“Knew it. Look here. Everything else is printing ‘True,’ but this one line says ‘False.’”

He was right.

“I just followed the specs as written.”

“What?”

I opened the spec file, also saved on the USB, and pointed to the relevant line.

“If you implement this part exactly as written, then ‘False’ is the correct result. If anything’s wrong, it’s the spec.”

I had a good guess where the mistake was.
But that wasn’t my concern.
My job—as defined by my salary—was strictly coding.

“Well… I guess that’s true…”

The team lead reread the specs multiple times and pored over the code, looking for any errors.

“There’s no way… You actually coded this whole thing without a single flaw in one day?”

But in the end, he found nothing wrong.

“I’ll give you that. You really are something else.”

“So… can I go home now?”

“Today, yes. And starting tomorrow—just finish your work and you’re free to leave.”

Then, he turned back to my code with intense focus.

“You implemented it like this…?”

He was already too engrossed in analyzing it to notice anything else.

—

—

Bus ride home.

After finally finding a seat, I pulled out my phone and instinctively launched a game.

[Welcome to the Chronicles of Terrasia.]

The Chronicles of Terrasia—a game that had been running for three years now.
Its standout feature was its insane level of freedom and polish, as if it were a real world.
It was also the reason I obsessed so much over leaving work on time.

People often asked me, ‘What’s so fun about that game?’

And to be fair, it was pretty divisive.
It’s almost obsessive detail and punishing difficulty turned off a lot of players.
But that wasn’t why I played.

“How the hell did they develop this?”

Normally, I can break down how a game or software was made within a few days at most.
But this one?
After three years, I still had no clue.
It had become a matter of pride.
No one else might care, but I didn’t want to give up.

So I kept “playing” the game—no, “analyzing” it—for a third straight year.

Translatin_Otaku

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