Team Games and Feedback
"Nice."
"Seoha's carry was absolutely insane. That was crazy."
"Han Byuri noona watching this from up above has got to be loving it..."
"Are we actually in the main bracket?"
Cheers from my teammates poured through the headset hooked over my ears.
We'd dropped one game along the way for a 2–1 record, but winning the final match had punched our ticket into the main tournament.
Game two was a real heart-stopper, though.
The enemy top we'd drawn from the winners' bracket was a Challenger 900-LP product, and he'd dismantled ShenSaeng from laning phase onward. Then Pressure had swung top to relieve the lane, only to get reverse-ganked and die — and just like that, the game slipped away before anyone could do a thing about it.
Winning the final match was the only reason we were still breathing. If we'd lost that one, championship talk would have been a joke. We'd have been out in prelims.
"Still — we made the main bracket. Want to do a quick feedback session at least?"
As the call started drifting toward a casual breakup, Pressure, our jungler, floated the idea of feedback. Maybe he felt bad about how hard top-jungle had inted in game two.
Doesn't sound like a bad idea.
We were a pickup team. Getting on the same page at least once was probably necessary.
"If hyung wants to, we do it."
"I'm down."
"Then let's do it, even if it's quick."
"Works for me too."
It was a Worlds winner making the suggestion, so everyone agreed — and I said I was fine with it as well.
"Alright, first up — top lane matchup."
"Why am I going first..."
"They say it's better to take the beating early, right?"
Pressure's feedback for ShenSaeng came down to one thing: he couldn't find his timing. Maybe it was the habit of playing roaming-oriented Shen, but even in situations where he needed to stay in lane longer, he'd recall and bleed resources for nothing.
It was fair. Refusing to recall until you snap was a problem — but in a winning matchup, you also had to squeeze every drop of advantage out of it.
"And bot — picking carry champs is fine, but our mid is strong, so you might need to bend a little."
Next came bot lane feedback: too stubborn about only locking hypercarry champions.
"What, you want me to play spoon champs?"
"Look at Fpot. Guy used to only play damage supports, and he ground out Rakan and Nautilus."
"Those still aren't spoon champs. I've got pride, you know."
Yujin had once been so good on hypercarry ADCs that he'd caught a scripting controversy over it. The downside was how often he crumbled in laning phase.
"Then how about this. If Zeri and Kai'Sa get banned, you lock Ashe."
"That much I can live with..."
A full two hours of feedback — which was really just everyone tearing into each other — finally came to an end.
From the outside it might have looked like a fight, but in team games this was ordinary. In my past life, I'd even had sets that ended with us screaming at each other in the waiting room.
We'd fight, then win that same day, which made it even weirder.
From my pro experience, as long as it didn't get too vicious, a certain amount of friction was necessary.
"Alright. See you Tuesday."
"Good work, everyone. Let's make semis."
"We are making semis."
"Tuesday, I'm carrying."
"Hey, Seoha."
As the teammates started dropping out of Discord one by one, ShenSaeng called me in a careful voice.
"So... the main bracket starts Tuesday."
"Yes? Go ahead."
"Will you be able to play?"
"Huh? Of course I— wait. No, I won't."
It hit me. I was still a middle schooler. Which meant that on weekdays, I had to go to school.
"Hold on. I've got the schedule notice — let me check the times."
My usual routine was school, academy, League. Those three. Tuesday was at least a day I didn't have academy.
"Tuesday's at seven in the evening. Can you make that?"
School usually let out and got me home around five, so the timing wasn't bad.
"And if we win, semis are Friday at eight. Finals are Saturday at six, offline."
Friday at eight would be tight, but if I bolted the second academy ended, I could make it. Saturdays I had nothing but free time.
"I might run a little late on Friday — is that okay?"
"Hmm... since you're in school, about thirty minutes should be fine. I'll give the organizers a heads-up."
"Then the schedule should work."
"And if we reach the finals — can you do the offline match on Saturday?"
"Yeah. Where is it?"
"The stadium in Sangam."
Sangam Stadium.
I'd only ever played at the LCK arena in Jonggak, so I'd never been, but it was the old stadium they'd used for Star League before League of Legends even existed. These days I'd heard it hosted FPS events and streamer tournaments.
"Saturday should be fine too."
We hadn't made the finals yet, but just having the chance to go was exciting.
If we reach the finals, should I invite Mom and Dad?
Dad had always said he'd been obsessed with Star League back in the day. Inviting him to Sangam Stadium would probably make his whole year. Mom... well, I'd just tell her it was a date with Dad.
"Hah..."
On the balcony of the practice room belonging to ARK — not an LCK team, but a CK organization in the second division — a middle-aged man was chain-smoking.
Every sponsor contract runs out at the end of this year... and if we don't promote again...
His name was Kim Hanseong: former pro gamer, now owner and head coach of ARK.
"Should've just not finished first."
They'd topped the regular season and gone into the promotion tournament as the first seed — and lost. But the regular-season form had been so dominant that the rookies he'd worked so hard to develop had been poached by other teams.
"It's the money. Always the money."
He exhaled a long sigh and pulled his phone from his pocket.
Playing on Kim Hanseong's screen was a VLL match — specifically, one featuring a female player named Para.
Even on a losing lane matchup, she held even at worst. On a winning pick, she applied pressure from the opening minutes and blew the game open with her jungler.
Easy to say. Doing it every single game without a single mistake was an absurd level of play.
Just looking at the playstyle, she'd fit our team well.
Kim Hanseong had always been aggressive about scouting talent out of streaming. Other coaches and directors fretted about the team's image taking a hit, or insisted streamers couldn't play team games — but he saw it differently.
Streaming has a low barrier to entry in the first place.
Plenty of young broadcasters had real potential. Most of them simply never even considered the pro path, or started streaming first because the door was easier to walk through.
Fifteen years old?
CK's age minimum was fifteen full years — sixteen by Korean age. It was December now, so if she joined, she could play starting next year.
Rank one in solo queue... and the mechanics are monstrous.
To Kim Hanseong's eye, Para was a thoroughly attractive prospect. Other CK teams were surely watching her too.
The problem is that she's a girl...
Female pros weren't unheard of, but most of those appearances had been event-match flavor. Before Para showed up, no woman had ever hit Challenger on a non-support role — so of course that was how it went.
...Put a middle-school girl in a dorm full of guys?
Even if Para's parents signed off, the public backlash would be brutal. And Para was already doing decently well as a streamer on top of everything else.
In every direction, it was a mess.
I'll at least watch through the finals.
Para was the one who stood out most, but the other players overall weren't bad either. There was no guarantee someone who could replace her wouldn't turn up among them.
Watch for now — and if she makes the finals, I'll at least talk to her.
This VLL was an off-season event match officially sponsored by the LCK. That meant LCK and CK staff got complimentary tickets. He'd planned to go to the finals anyway.
And if Para made it there, he figured it was worth having a conversation.