Jua's Brutal Lecture

"Ao, can't even take this? You call yourself a caller?"

In the world of BattlelandsKill Bets, this level of trash talk was nothing. It was practically Confucian politeness. The epitome of courtesy, you could say.

Kill Bets were a realm for grizzled veterans only. Hundreds to thousands of bucks rode on a single match. The FPS nature made every moment frantic. If you didn't catch ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠orders right, you died. If you didn't call them out clear, you died. There was no time for gentle, detailed briefings while playing.

To win, you had to brief fast, loud, and simple. Mumbling incoherently? Death. Not getting it even when spoken clearly? No choice but to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠crank up the volume with some profanity.

Think soccer. Even the greenest rookies get called by name with casual speech mid-game. Captain or vet, doesn't matter. Banter on the field is tacitly allowed.

Same went for streamers in Kill Bets. At that level, it was basically a tournament. Battle-hardened streamers who'd rolled in the mud before sniped at each other nonstop—an implicit WWE brawl.

So Yura had a dilemma. 'Jua hasn't even played a match yet, but she's in the Kill Bet scene for real.'

Play it polite and flowery? Or go full throttle with the swears for that spicy Battlelands vibe?

Yura pondered briefly, then steeled herself. Lee Jua was the hottest potato in Battlelands right now. Clashing head-on was pure broadcast gold—for both of them.

Build a solid narrative beef, and they could WWE anywhere, anytime. No pre-arranged excuses needed—just barge into each other's streams yelling, "You bastard! Got the guts? Enter my service!"

Of course, that hinged on Jua playing along. But after talk like that, refusing would scream bad blood. No worries there.

"Alright! Jua-ya! No, Director Lee! Grind me hard today. I've got a thousand hours in Battlelands too. Can't always be meat shield!"

Yura ditched the aegyo whine, shed the social mask, dropped the streamer pretense. Time to face Battlelands Kill Bet streamer Lee Jua straight-up.

"Oho, guts approved. Then, Yura hyungnim. From now on, absolute obedience to my calls. Hit ready first."

"...Hyungnim? My image is getting weirder by the second... Whatever, hyungnim or unnie, same diff. Loosen up your speech too, Jua."

"You got it."

Yura pouted but hit ready without a peep.

Chats flew by as they waited, and matching locked in seconds. Map: Nirana, the desert one.

"Uh... Nirana's my weak spot."

"What? All maps are the same... almost said it."

"...Did I make the wrong call?"

Jua laughed. A cheeky heh heh. First giggle from her since the collab started.

Future-focused, productive, overflowing with ambition—a killer thumbnail. Self-proclaimed female FPS god Lee Jua's masterclass? Anyone who'd seen Yura play, watched a Kill Bet, followed Prism Battlelands, or just loved the game couldn't resist clicking.

But.

"What, head too heavy? Wanna ditch it?"

"...Huh?"

"Saw you spacing out by the window picking loot. Figured that noggin's obsolete now."

"...I was just sorting inventory!"

"Feels good getting shot from behind?"

"W-what the hell!"

"Enemies crawling around, door wide open."

"...I hear footsteps fine?"

"Social worker dreams? Charity gig?"

"...No!"

"Ah! Delivery boy then! Haul full-loot corpses, pristine rides—how much? Lemme order one."

"...Shut it, Jua."

"Whoa, what was that? Thermal scope?"

"...That's Bakendi... no, thermals got patched ages ago!"

"Hide your sightlines, dummy. Thought you were solo thermal-scoping. Remember that pro who god-plays in smoke? Your role model?"

Yura bit her lip. No comeback. Jua's barbs, twisted as they were, hit dead-on.

'Still... isn't this overkill?'

She grumbled inwardly but knew it: fix these pointers, and she'd improve. She'd sat through basic drills from high-tiers before—Zeus's Battlelands Kindergarten content even. But habits from a thousand hours died hard. Learned ten tips, remembered three, applied one—best case.

Jua hammered every slip. Unforgettable.

But this style of "abuse" was new. Brutal. Bones cracking.

High-tiers gave post-match feedback, sure, and trash-talked in casuals. Never like this.

"Cover allergy?"

"What the fuck!"

"Sprinting open field, no cover. Thought you hives out on contact."

"Rushing circle. Phase 6 now."

"Ah, so you dash circles but collect body holes as a hobby? Respect the kink."

"Haa..."

Yura's heavy sigh echoed in Discord, chat exploding.

Viewers were hyped watching Yura get verbally bodied.

'...This won't do. Gotta counterattack.'

Two-year streamer vet. Jua might lead in skill, but Yura had the tenure. Couldn't just be punching bag. Seize control—or at least balance the banter.

Deep breath. Preempt the next roast.

"Jua! Instead of spectating, show your screen and demo? Hard to get just from words."

"Haa... If you can't grasp this, it's terminal."

Jua sighed too. Cramps reignited at Yura begging for a demo on basics.

"Jumping in now."

"Huh? I'm mid-game? Exit too?"

"Nah? Foe'll send you soon."

"...Fuck. Regretting this lecture."

"No, this time I'll last! Circle's good, snag that rock and... Gah!"

Bang!—

Before Yura finished, an M24 from the ridgeline flopped her flat.

Mouth shut. Jua pounced.

"Eager for lecture? Came to greet me."

"...Goddamn Jua, you hexed me!"

"Hex? Warning a tap-dancer on Asiba it's dropping—that's advice, not curse."

"...What's Asiba, shit."

Yura pouted back to lobby.

Phase 7 survivor? Pathetic.

Jua muttered the nail in the coffin. "...How you even 5-Tier?"

Yura ignored, pivoting. "Your turn! Demo step-by-step, I'll catch it!"

She alt-tabbed to Jua's stream at the screen-share ping.

"Hmph, let's see your skills."

"...Pardon?"

It was fun. Yura's plays, reactions, viewer hype.

That's why, despite cramps, headache, nausea tag-teaming her guts, she humored the request and queued up.

"Hmph, let's see your skills."

"...Pardon?"

Almost burst laughing at the cute sulk. But noise would spike the pain. Barely held it.

Yura, who'd whined under my roasts moments ago, now arms crossed in critic mode: 'Show me what you got!' Laugh suppression: expert level.

"Hoo... Wasn't planning to play today."

Positive spin: Dragged in by Odin and Zeus like a parachute drop, facing backlash. "Only duoed a couple—no proof!" Whatever. They vouched, haters' problem.

Proving skill on bigger-streamer Yura's show? Flip the narrative.

Like handcam nuked aimbot claims. Skill silences haters.

'Cramps easing at least...'

Wait, pisses me off. Hackbot cuz good? Prove it, they ghost. Invited by pros? They nay-say?

'Rage rising.'

Pain down, mood swinging wild.

Plane away. Map: ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Arangel. Pinged dead-center Pochinki, the honey pot.

"Hiiik!"

"Two, four, six, eight... Leak-proof drop."

Ants from the hill—fifty-plus plummeting same spot. Half the lobby.

Shwooo! Perfect glide into second-floor window. Parkour in.

UMP45 at feet. Aggro in bathroom.

"But saw the chutes? Closest foe? First-floor guy. Grabbing aggro gives him loot time or escape. Snag UMP, rack it."

Clack! Down stairs gun-ready.

Foe finally looting in sight.

Tat-tat-tang!

"See? Just amp the tempo, snag a quick kill. Sweet, right? Teeth rotting? Battlelands? Easy peasy."

"...You always beat me to guns when we drop together."