I Want to Play Tuhon, Teacher (3)

Right after the match was set ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and the game started. Even though she should have been focused solely on early-game pressure, Ppase's chat popped up.

She'd never seen anyone so boldly admit to proxy gaming. She could have reported him right then and turned him into mincemeat, but she held off. Draining his health first wouldn't make the game any easier anyway. And he wasn't that tough an opponent to require going all out.

She kept a safe distance with a casual backdash and waited for his chat.

It was a way more tempting offer than "teach me the game."

Honestly, she was a bit jealous of Ppase's charisma. Her past self hadn't been all that fun or sociable. She'd stuck to regular lecture streams, chatting only with viewers who came to learn. As the top player, it was her one way to draw more people into the game.

Some criticized her for pandering rationally, but the trial ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠group's feedback was solid. Free matches didn't affect ranks, so no smurfing drama.

She hated how stagnant the game felt. So she'd shared know-how to arm newbies with fresh tools. Industry secrets? Who cared. Ruling the top alone had few perks. Better to raise the average skill floor and hook more players.

Why else did League of Consil, the era's top game, succeed? Losses weren't solo blame. Plus, it was intuitive: four QWER skills, two council spells. Move, attack—that's it. Even slow learners adapted fast.

But Tuhon? Memorizing one character's kit took ages, and dozens intertwined. Matchups spawned new patterns, tripping up beginners from the start. Fine, skills grow with time, and same-level foes weren't torture.

The real killer for newbies? Smurfs and abuse on the other side. Save/load exploits on local data to preserve ranks, abusers dodging bans, undetectable cheaters.

Surprisingly, Tuhon in this world where she'd become Ren had fixed all that. No wonder it was a god game.

One account per ID, no exceptions. Resets possible, but MMR persisted—high-MMR users glowed red in low ranks post-reset, dubbed "reseters" in the community.

Match a reseter in low ranks? Your RP stayed safe regardless of win/loss. Reseters got no gains from wins, losses etched on the official site. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Hajeong Soft called it praising underdog upsets, but players saw it as shaming failed smurfs.

Saves on servers, killer anti-cheat, even pattern-based proxy detection. Rumors flew that Hajeong Soft abducted aliens—everything but balance was god-tier.

No time to even respond. Can't a girl think it over?

"Looks like Ppase really likes you," she muttered.

I fucking don't. Tangling with this guy would just breed headaches. Still, she'd take the bet. No way she'd lose, and she could slap him with an embarrassing nick.

As she rolled her shoulders to prep, crack. Her left one felt stiff. The patch should've helped, but apparently not.

###

Ppase charged in with gusto, but the result was brutal.

It looked like she'd taken one set, but the first was a draw from time-out during bet talk. Effectively 2-0 since the bet.

"Good call on best-of-three. One set and I'd have lost without doing shit."

"Guys, don't sleep on me. I can totally do this? Just learning phase rn. Right, Ppase?"

"What if I win?!"

She tried to win, but victory stayed distant. From the second match, she eased up, stuffing tight punishes into Ren's big-move recovery for no perfects. But as time dragged, she wasn't grasping Ren-mom—she was getting toyed with.

"Something's... off."

No patterns. Even pros showed gaps in 60-second brain wars. But Ren-mom?

"Fuck. It's pure random. No patterns? Just mashing buttons? Unreadable."

"And seriously? I'm thinking hard, but low kicks land five outta ten when I guess. How's he reading me?!"

Confusion mounted as time passed, defeat from the bold bet looming.

Straight sets to match point in a flash. Mind games? Nah, opponent silent since start. OP char? Ppase had the OP one. Mixer? Asked pre-game—nope. Cheon No-ah and Mixer were calmly spectating via stream.

So what was this play? Like facing Mixer himself. Smashing an impenetrable wall.

"Back to basics. Basics, Ppase! Snap out of it!"

"Haven't changed yet, bastards! Miracle PPWWS incoming."

The unified chants doomed him like dogs to slaughter. Pre-final set, no one expected Ppase's win anymore. Just how much more he'd flail before obliteration. Viewers craved that despair at nick-change time.

Ppase in the game was dying inside. Just once. Win once... Lose all three? Fine. But zero sets and she'd lose interest.

Facing celestials like Mixer taught her: they eyed potential. Mediocre foes? No investment.

Mixer too. Now they collabed and ate together sometimes, but it started with Ppase's miracle move in ranks.

"With effort, you could beat me too." Acknowledged skill, but nailed the gap. Could win—with full-time grind like him.

Once. How? What's the play? Down 2-0 in five sets, he'd chased patterns futilely. Ppase wasn't Mixer.

Mid/high tiers climbed on physicals. Celestials? Invisible mindgames. Ren-mom dictated choices, exploiting habits: left jab, low kick, backdash crouch-guard. All baited perfectly—whiff jabs into cut kicks, flow low kicks, mid shin at crouch.

Can't poke—gets stuffed. Idle? Endless pressure. Cornered. Poke-retreat loops with irregular lows unreadable. Block low? Mid overhead. Left hand wizardry. God at stick or keys—movements felt unnatural.

Streamer's voice gone, just stick clacks—editor panicked.

As everyone snickered cynically—

No choice. Ppase clung to his last hope: hyperfocus physical bursts that fueled his entertainer soul.

Once. Miss once, stingy heavens that aid the lowly. Help this Ppase!

Chat, dons, Arnold-Ren grunts, thuds filled the stream. Then Ren oddly hopped at Arnold—a basic jump useless outside new char Arnold, a pro mistake.

"...!"

Sole chance for a hit. Ppase pounced with air jab starter—jump-react aerial combo only elites pulled.

"Yaaah!"

"See that, bastards? That's meeee!"

Arnold finally, after nine sets, juggled Ren midair. Stunned viewers watched silently.