The Rebound
The game sound piercing through my earphones was drowned out by the pounding of my own heart.
Right in the heart of Military Camp—the graveyard of Korean Battlelands noobs—I racked up 4 kills with a single AKM. Hell, even I was shocked. This was super play territory, the kind that only happened on days when my condition was peak back in my Lee Jinsu days.
But with these slender hands? Under the watchful eyes of dozens of viewers? This insane shot luck exploding out of nowhere?
My ancestors must've pulled some strings for real.
Er… though I gotta wonder if the ancestors from my male days are the same as this female body's.
I steadied my trembling hands as best I could and kept on looting.
"It's not shaking… my mouse is just cold, giving me hand tremors… uh, never mind. Anyway, this rooftop's my turf now, right?"
I tried to make excuses but sounded too much like a lame dude, so I switched gears and headed down the stairs.
Tatata— tatang— BOOM—
Gunfire and explosions echoed from the building across the way.
"They're too busy fighting to notice? Time for a sneaky kill."
I crept into the warzone, grenades popping off amid the chaos.
Tatatatatang—!
They're blasting each other, lobbing frags, popping smokes—too distracted to hear my footsteps.
I shoved my iron-sighted AKM—no red dot—right into the thick of it.
Tatatatang—
A subtle flick downward on the mouse. Vertical control like firing a hydraulic cylinder—steady speed.
> LaborPro's AKM eliminated LoneHouse.
> LaborPro's AKM eliminated RedGinsengTon.
"Cut. 6 kills. Easy peasy, right? That's why I'm the manly Lu Bu meta."
The gunfire died. Silence blanketed the once-noisy Military Camp.
The chat exploded with viewer shock. Meanwhile, I was breaking out in cold sweat.
What the hell? Why am I playing this good?
I played Battlelands a lot. Gaming was my one and only hobby.
But that play? Even I knew it surpassed my skill level.
How does the mouse stop exactly where I think, zero error? How does no-parts AKM recoil go out like a laser?
Of course, I kept looting while pondering—multitasking is Battlelands basics.
I glanced at my handcam in the bottom-right corner. Slender, pale, delicate fingers.
A hypothesis flashed in my mind.
Lee Jinsu's hands were thick and heavy. Optimized for hauling 50kg materials, but too clunky for precise mouse control—friction, weight differences? Nah. Like a dump truck. All power, no finesse.
But Lee Jua's hands? Lightweight frame, flexible joints, peak delicacy. I could feel micro-movements. 1600 DPI sensitivity flows from eyes to brain to hands with zero delay.
Like upgrading from a beat-up sedan to an F1 racer.
Combine that with my brain, experience?
Dump truck driver turned race car pro?
The body change meant more than just gender swap. Lost strength and stamina, gained insane reflexes, dynamic vision, micro-control (?).
Built-in bio-hack. That chat line nailed my theory.
…Huh? When did I stop?
Multitasking might be shot too. I cleared my throat casually and got moving again.
"Ahem, nailed that Military Camp night shift, huh? Time to take orders and haul ass to the safe zone."
The rest was a one-sided slaughter.
Loaded up from Military Camp, I drove toward the zone center.
> LaborPro's M24 eliminated KindlyExplainsHowToDoIt.
Snipe from the ridge while peeking.
> LaborPro's Beryl M762 eliminated KodakPodaTok.
Scratched a ride with a Beryl from Milcam corpses.
My handcam hands danced rhythmically nonstop.
Praise poured in like crazy. My lips twitched up, nose flaring, but I held back the grin—some viewers still suspected hacks.
And finally.
Phase 7, survivors down to 3. Just me and two others, duking it out behind those rocks ahead—smokes, frags, molotovs flying in a messy brawl.
"Bosses, I'll wrap this up clean and proper to the end."
Pulled the pin on a spare frag and bolted up the ridge. One, two, two-and-a-half—now!
Timed it perfect, chucked the grenade at the smoke behind the rock.
And right then—
> HoldTheLineWins's grenade eliminated TooExpensiveChickenLover.
1v1 winner emerged.
BOOM—!
> LaborPro's grenade eliminated HoldTheLineWins.
He ate my frag right after. Perfect timing.
Chicken for dinner tonight!
Glittering golden text announced the win. Final kills: 13. Total damage: 1857.
I leaned back in my chair, all smug and cocky. Camera wouldn't catch it, of course.
The donation popped on screen. The electronic girl's dry voice read it out.
"Whoooaaa! A hundred… 100,000 won?!"
My hands, steady killer hands that'd headshot without flinching and frag-bombed fools, started shaking like leaves.
Smug pose fixed in a flash. Handcam broadcast my 100k-punched tremors live.
"N-no, it's not shaking. Static from the chair. Yeah."
I rubbed my hands frantically and coughed. "Anyway, thanks for the 100k, Homeprotector bro! Knew it was your setup to make me big. For real! Never resented that dude for calling me a cheater."
Apology dons from yesterday's doubters and simps for my shots flooded in after.
13-kill chicken. 1800 damage. Tough score, but I'd pulled it off as Jinsu sometimes.
But.
Money's pouring like water…
13 kills? Donate. 1800 dmg? Donate. God physicals? Donate.
Weird feeling. Emptiness? Loss? Nah, not some full-belly sob story.
This was facing capitalism's raw face. Like getting hit by lightning.
Pretty voice, pretty hands, decent game skill. Mix in the flashy labor vet concept everyone thought was a gimmick, and boom—basement gamer prints money.
One game. 30 minutes tops. A full day's logistics wage in hand.
Life's finally blooming.
I got why folks eat, sleep, dance, game on camera. Even with few viewers, dons exploded—'cause I'm a girl, probably tops the list.
Better Battlelands streamers didn't get this. Top pros like Odin, Zeus, Poka, Swing or kill-bet folks rake in hundreds of thousands daily, sure.
But I meant streamers like me—rookies.
Watched those way-better-skilled, fun-talking, high-viewer streams like textbooks, never saw dons like this.
The Creator stealing my clone body? Starting to feel grateful.