Wonder If She Can Tough It Out

Chae Hojin was certain his romantic instincts were still alive and well.

Yesterday, when Jin Gyeo-wool showed up late, he'd suspected it might be that time of the month. Now that his suspicion had proven correct, how could he not feel a swell of pride?

"Is noona still in bed?"

"She says she'll be up soon."

"What the hell happened, Gong Je-hyeon? You said noona was fine yesterday."

"She was fine yesterday, okay? And you—seriously, are you trying to eat me alive?"

"Gong Je-hyeon. Yu Min-jae. Stop fighting. She said she'll be right out."

The moment Gong Je-hyeon had bolted from the hotel right after dinner last night, Yu Min-jae's arrows of blame had come flying straight at him. Of course, Min-jae himself had done nothing wrong, so he wore a perfectly untroubled expression. All he'd actually done was trail after Gyeo-wool, snacking on street-stall food, and get his hair yanked at the incense candle shop. That was it.

"The other team's players look pretty pissed."

"If they so much as trash-talk Winter noona, they're dead."

"You kids know you can't use profanity, right?"

"We'll shred their mental game without swearing, Coach."

While Gyeo-wool and Je-hyeon had been gone yesterday, the remaining three players and Coach Chae had done a bit of sightseeing along the Ai River. They'd meant to keep it short, but being overseas made it impossible to contain the excitement. All three of them had walked until their legs ached, snapping night-view photos, before finally coming to their senses and heading back.

If even they had gone that hard, how could Gyeo-wool and Je-hyeon have been any different?

Coach Chae Hojin, still unaware that Gyeo-wool was on her period, had already started assuming the long walk had simply taken a toll on her body.

The suite separated the sleeping quarters from the living room. After lying there for hours, body leaden and aching, Gyeo-wool finally dragged herself out of the bedroom looking completely wrecked.

"Ugh… sorry."

"You okay?"

"Yeah. Feeling human again."

"Will it affect your play?"

"Shoulder’s a little stiff, but… I'll be fine."

Gyeo-wool rolled her shoulders in slow circles, face twisted in a scowl. She crossed the room at a sluggish pace, then dropped quickly into the leftmost seat at the computers set up in the living room and logged into the Recon client.

The Soul Synchronization UI in the upper right corner greeted her. She hadn't played since the last time she'd checked, so it was still sitting at 49%.

Once the tournament's over, the erosion rate will probably push past 50%, she thought, shaking her head.

This wasn't the time to get hung up on that. The hour had come to drag this heavy body into the game and lock in.

From today through tomorrow, they had a brutal scrim schedule packed in from every direction—then straight into the tournament.

According to an article she'd read before leaving Korea, the Korean team's roster was so stacked that people were already calling the championship a foregone conclusion. But that only held true when Jin Gyeo-wool was reigning over the top lane.

She was the central pillar of this team. The other players braced the four corners of the structure, but the moment the center column gave out, the whole building would twist and collapse.

So she needed to stay sharp. Heavy body or not, the work still had to get done. No matter how rough she felt, the second she entered the War Council her condition would snap back to peak form on its own—which left her with zero excuses.

She'd have to burn through what remained of Hon Gyeo-wool's action points, but this was a critical stretch. Hesitation wasn't an option. Jang Jae-hong had already jacked the incense candle price up to a hundred million won, making a replacement nearly impossible to buy.

Handing the body over to Hon Gyeo-wool wasn't something she relished—but what choice did she have? She needed to call her out, both to talk and to recover those action points.

The moment she entered the private custom lobby that had been set up in advance, Gyeo-wool fired off an apology.

In the pro scene, punctuality was a serious matter. CCK actually handed out penalties for lateness—stripping a ban card, among other things.

Yeah… if I'm going pro, I'm going to have to start tracking my cycle…

She'd lived without giving it a single thought until now, but the moment of reckoning had arrived. Jin Gyeo-wool was a woman. And as long as she was Jin Gyeo-wool, once a month her body would simply shut down. That was an unavoidable fact of life.

But she refused to use it as a crutch. She didn't want to rationalize her own weakness behind the excuse of that time of the month. "It was that day, so what could I do?" was the kind of cop-out weak people leaned on. A real pro kept at least 95% of their usual form even with sandbags strapped on.

Between tournament prep and the incense candle mess, she'd simply been too scrambled to remember—so it wasn't entirely her fault. Still, she made a hard internal vow: I'm never forgetting again.

Gritting her teeth, Gyeo-wool set a recurring reminder on a twenty-eight-day cycle.

When Gyeo-wool's lateness pushed the scrim back, a post went up on Recon Gallery almost as if someone had been waiting for it. The author was the top laner from their first scrim opponent of the day.

The comments piled on, none of them particularly friendly. Various fandoms had spent so long using ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Jin Gyeo-wool as their team's human shield that her image wasn't exactly glowing to begin with—so this was more or less inevitable.

But the second a post went up saying Gyeo-wool had actually performed well, the crowd would stampede over to praise her all over again. That was just how Recon Gallery worked—play well and you were gallery royalty; play poorly and you were the punching bag. Even Lee Do-jin himself swung between "God Do-jin" and "Juice" in a single day. Case closed.

Still, almost no one was purely hating on Gyeo-wool. Considering how many hardcore anti-fans famous players usually accumulated, she was doing alright. More than anything, the fact that she was a woman made raw, vicious attacks relatively rare. She'd already shown several times that she could hold her own with a sturdy, no-nonsense style in the men's top lane—and even with clear evidence it was that time of the month, she'd still been flying in scrims.

Whether that toughness had won the fans over or not, the number of people rooting for Jin Gyeo-wool only grew by the day. It never shrank.

Even with Plum Lee Do-jin's terrestrial TV appearance scheduled for the same dates as the Amateur World Championship, and even with the highly anticipated Stove League results about to drop—interest in the amateur international tournament Gyeo-wool was competing in burned hotter than ever.

And not just in Korea. Across the entire world.

November 9th. The day of reckoning.

Since the tournament wasn't a single-title League of Council event, only three matches would actually be broadcast: one from the group stage, one from the bracket, and the finals.

At the venue, a scattering of local spectators and industry figures trickled in—nothing like the year-end CWC festival. The stands were nearly empty. Even so, a handful of die-hard Devil Maiden channel fans had claimed seats in ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the audience, holding up picket ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠signs and cheering for Gyeo-wool. The camera caught them for a brief moment. The devotion of the people who loved Jin Gyeo-wool as a streamer defied imagination.

Team Korea was in Group B, drawn alongside Macau—one of the relatively stronger sides in the tournament—plus Italy and Sri Lanka.

Gyeo-wool's "spell" was nearly worn off, and according to the scrim reports, Team Korea's form was close to peak. Most invested fans fully expected Korea not only to take first in their group but to stroll to the championship.

When the Korean roster appeared at the side of the stage, the Devil Maiden fans waved their pickets and roared. Gyeo-wool, wearing a uniform patterned in the red and blue of the Taegeuk, spotted them and gave a light wave.

The hotel grand hall hosting the stage was so aggressively air-conditioned that most of the players had thrown on white hoodies against the chill. It was an ordinary uniform, but on pale-skinned Gyeo-wool the white hoodie looked like she'd dressed herself in freshly fallen snow—a snowflake fairy. Word of that image traveled by mouth among the live audience, and a new nickname was born: Ulsa, after a certain famous Disney heroine.

As Gyeo-wool checked her keyboard and mouse before the opening match, Gong Je-hyeon spoke up. He hadn't done anything wrong, but after days of everyone telling him he was at fault for failing to take care of her that first night, he was halfway brainwashed.

"How's the body feeling today, noonim?"

"Light as a feather. Peak condition."

"…Really? That's a relief."

"What, the kids keep saying it's your fault so now you actually think you screwed up?"

Je-hyeon looked sheepish and straightened up from where he'd been leaning toward her.

"Tch. Can't even worry about you without catching heat."

"Shut up and focus."

The Memory Erosion Rate still hadn't quite crossed 50%.

Assuming they won everything through the championship, the total games played would come to twelve sets. Even a clean sweep would only raise the erosion rate by 0.12%—so the possibility of hitting 50% and running into trouble at this tournament was effectively off the table.

Even if they lost, it wouldn't reach 50%. But winning every game just felt better, didn't it?

The stifling mood of the past few days had finally lifted; she felt light now. Gyeo-wool leaned into the mic and called out in a bold, clear voice.

"Just so you know—I don't plan on losing a single game today. How about the rest of you?"

Everyone shouted back in agreement.

"If we lose, the salary cut still applies, right?"

"And if we go undefeated, the bonus still applies too."

"Why are you even asking, noonim?"

Ha Jeong-uk delivered the closing line.

"Let's go undefeated. Honestly, nothing motivates like salary, bonuses, and prize money."

Gong Je-hyeon cackled and piled on immediately.

"Facts, facts. Even getting Lee Do-jin's autograph only lasts a second. But money? Every time you check your bank balance, you get a little boost of energy."

Gyeo-wool looked at her teammates—already full-blown slaves to cash—and laughed freely.

"Wow. You've all turned into complete money slaves. Since we're already here, want to throw another bet on the pile?"

If they loved money that much, they might as well put more of it on the line. Gyeo-wool promptly announced a brand-new internal tournament, with prize money on the table.

"Solo kill contest. Two points per solo kill. Minus one per death. Highest score gets one million won."

"One million?!"

"Hey, Gyeo-wool, this is insanely stacked against me!"

Ha Jeong-uk protested that there was no way for a support to rack up points. Gyeo-wool added a rule just for him.

"Bot duo counts as one unit. You two get a kill together, that's four points—but you split the prize. Call?"

"Call."

"Uh, noona, what about my opinion?"

"You were going to agree anyway, weren't you?"

"…Tch. Call."

Coach Chae Hojin, who'd been listening in, decided he wanted a piece of the rule-making too. He was still riding an inflated sense of pride over having correctly diagnosed Gyeo-wool's condition despite her usual stoic front.

"Isolated death, minus five points."

Isolated death: dying after peeling off from the main force and getting collapsed on alone.

It was a warning not to overextend chasing solo kills. But there was no chance Gyeo-wool was going to swallow that proposal whole.

"Minus five is way too steep. Minus three."

She'd already turned her head, eyes gleaming as she locked onto Coach Chae. The familiar scene of hardball negotiation with the US military flashed through his mind—and her voice carried a steel edge that left no room for argument.

Coach Chae reluctantly nodded a couple of times.

"Fine. We'll do it that way!"