Kayack Highlight Edit AVI

The stream had just ended.

Yet instead of flopping onto the bed the way I usually did, I stayed planted in front of the computer, lost in thought for a while.

A tournament. A tournament, huh.

The reason a single offhand comment from some nameless viewer had snagged my interest so fast was simple: I had always been into tournaments.

And if we were talking tournaments, it had to mean an Abyss tournament.

From way back, I had been the kind of person who went crazy for tournaments, scrims, friendlies—anything of the sort. Watching six heroes on each side slam into one another was something that made my heart race just by looking at it.

I had loved Abyss so much that there was a stretch when I even ran Abyss Gallery Cup friendlies myself. I put up prizes out of my own pocket, sometimes entered, the whole deal… all of it had turned into distant, bittersweet memories now.

I loved playing in matches myself, of course, but I also just loved watching the game even when I wasn’t the one on stage. There had been no pro league back then, so the only matches worth following were high-elo solo queue or the occasional event games that ran before the whole thing collapsed.

If a proper pro league had existed, I probably would have become one of those die-hard fans who shows up to every single game in person. You know the type—the people who basically live at the baseball stadium, tearing into fried chicken while never missing a game of the team they root for. If Abyss hadn’t died and a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠league had actually been running, odds were high I would have turned out exactly like that.

When all was said and done, Abyss had been my only hobby and the engine that kept my life moving.

Which made me wonder: now that the game had, for reasons no one could explain, become a certified god-tier title… had a pro league finally appeared? The thought flickered through my head, and a quick search confirmed it. Every season was packed solid with matches.

“Hiek.”

And the ticket prices for watching those matches in person ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠were steep enough to make me click my tongue. Still, the feeling was a good one. Ticket prices that high meant every seat sold out, every single time. Ticketing itself was probably a bloodbath.

I did want to go at least once. Maybe I ought to start checking the ticketing schedule starting today.

Anyway, I had always held a soft spot for tournaments—whether they were pro matches or just scrims between friends. The one the viewer had mentioned on stream a little while ago was no different.

An event-style tournament hosted by the streamer Taker. Open to any streamer regardless of rank. But according to the viewer, most of the people who signed up were either no-name small-timers, streamers who didn’t even main Abyss, or people who had zero interest in the tournament itself and just wanted to siphon some free clout—and those types quietly got cut.

Was I safe, then?

Did my stream at least clear the bar for not getting cut? The moment the explanation about Taker running this tournament finished, most of chat had started screaming at me to enter. My channel had been on a steady climb, so the number of people watching today’s stream hadn’t been small either.

Roughly… a little under a thousand.

Having that many people yelling “sign up, hurry and apply” at me was quietly stressful. So I had ended the stream. I had already hit Master, and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I had played enough for one day. I left them with a “I’ll think about it” so I wouldn’t get swept along by the crowd, then hit the end-stream button.

But the more I thought about it, the more my heart kept leaning toward applying.

There were plenty of reasons, but the biggest share by far was simply: it looked fun.

I still remembered those days. Concurrent players slowly bleeding away, the unmistakable feeling that the game was dying. Running tournaments and event matches just to try to keep it alive, racing around in every direction with the gallery people like the eldest son of a house whose fortunes were collapsing.

The stated goal had been to get more people playing Abyss, but the games themselves back then had been so much fun that they still lived in my memory. Of course the game’s status and the players themselves had changed a lot since then. Even so, some things stayed the same.

Like me, for instance—the living legend of Abyss Gallery, still the same as ever—

…Or not? My entire appearance had changed overnight, so “the same as ever” was a bit of a stretch.

Regardless, my heart had already tilted toward signing up for the tournament.

I moved the mouse, followed the link the viewer had given me, and carefully read through the rules, the application form, the deadlines.

Twich account name, streamer name, Abyss rank, peak rating, main heroes, and so on. Hmm. More fields than I expected.

When I used to run tournaments, all you needed was a gallery nickname and a rank—no this kind of hassle. Then again, a slapdash gallery friendly and something like this were different in every way. Comparing them was almost embarrassing.

I kept reading down the form, filling things in as I went, until I hit this line:

The sentence sat right next to an email address. They wanted a highlight video?

“I don’t have anything like that…”

I scratched the back of my head and tipped the chair back. It felt like the organizers had suddenly piled on extra paperwork. What now? Queue up ranked right this second, record, and edit?

That would take forever, though.

I was spinning the chair in slow circles with my toes, stuck in a mild fog of helplessness, when—

“Ah.”

One thing flickered through my mind. Would that even work? I should still have it somewhere.

“I stuck it around here, didn’t I…”

After a few minutes of digging through the miscellaneous junk on the C drive, I found what ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I was looking for.

A video file with a title that told you exactly what was inside. In other words, this was a highlight reel some self-proclaimed fan from the gallery had made for me years ago. Of everything I still had, it was the highest-quality video—good enough to upload straight to VTube.

There was a reason the word “highlight” had made me think of it instantly. The only problem was—

“It’s old, though… does that matter?”

The footage itself was from several years ago. The graphics alone were a clear step down from now. Even with solid editing, you could feel the age of the game’s visuals. Still, it wasn’t unrecognizable. My plays stood out in a nice mad-movie way, which I liked. The only real sticking point was that it was old footage. After a short internal debate, I made the call.

“I’ll send this plus a few fresh solo-queue recordings.”

Might as well send multiple videos. Better too many than too few.

So I launched Abyss again and started queuing solo rank, recording new clips to bundle with the highlight reel.

“Let’s see… Nikang applied too… and next is Hangang…”

A few days had passed since the announcement of the event tournament. Taker was logged into his email, sorting applications and roughly locking in the final participant list. Whether it was because his own stream had grown larger than before, or because word had spread that the game company Ionix was involved, the number of people wanting in had more than doubled compared to last time.

That meant more sorting work for Taker, but he hummed under his breath as he worked. One way or another, his content was rolling along smoothly—and as long as nothing major went wrong, his streaming life would keep rolling just as smoothly. Which meant he had to be careful with this sorting.

Weed out anyone with controversy or the potential to cause an incident. Slot in people who would guarantee a decent viewer count just by showing up…

“Hm?”

His mouse stopped over one particular application. A name that felt familiar and unfamiliar at the same time sat on the form.

“CamillaIsWeak, Kayack? Has this person been streaming?”

A quick sweep of Twich and the communities confirmed it: she hadn’t been streaming long, but she was already riding a serious wave of fame. He had felt it during the previous shoot as well—she had a real knack for drawing people in.

Taker nodded, satisfied.

“Nice, nice… a new face people will still recognize, solid skill, solid performance…”

Reaching for Kayack’s highlight videos was only natural after that.

“She sent… a ton of videos. Let’s take a look.”

He opened the first one—the largest file—and hit play.

“This is…?”

A puzzled sound slipped out of him.

Right in front of his eyes, footage from the legendary era known as Abyss Season 2 was playing—plays from that time, captured on video.