Guest Commentary (1)
(Attached photo: Sigma vs Q Prime guest commentary ‘Gawol’)
Is this even official?
She's not a pro or anything—can she just show up as a guest commentator?
Quite some time had passed since my leg was ruined.
Once I got involved with Elderin and Luce, I found myself facing all sorts of situations. If there was any wisdom I had gained from it, it was this: avoid people who might recognize my face whenever possible. My leg had a way of drawing other people’s pity far too easily. Keeping up the lie that the injury was recent was a hassle in itself, so I simply minimized the number of people who knew me at all.
That was why I had arrived at the studio hours early and planted myself there. Of course, there were still people I had no choice but to show myself to—the broadcast team I would be sitting with for the match.
“This is the first time seeing you in real life, right? I’m In Ho-eun.”
“Ah, I’m Han Daeun. Looking forward to working with you today.”
“I’m Hwang Yul, handling commentary. You’re even prettier in person than you look on stream.”
“Oh, you’ve watched the stream… That’s a little embarrassing.”
“There are fewer people at the arena today who haven’t seen you.”
It was the kind of consolation that offered no comfort at all. Still, after exchanging greetings with the rest of the broadcast crew, I managed to brush off questions about my leg with a vague “It’s just… a little.” Successful adults, it seemed, instinctively knew when to stop prying. Honestly, that made things easier. If someone dug too carelessly or, conversely, was so kind they started meddling, it only put more pressure on me. The ones who simply let it go without making a fuss were far easier to deal with.
“Anyway, since you got here early, I can walk you through a few things beforehand. Do you watch the pro league much?”
“I only really follow Lu—Sigma’s matches. And a bit of the overseas stuff?”
“That’s more than enough. Guest commentators get a fair amount of leeway with tone and wording, by the way.”
Ho-eun explained it all in a calm, even voice. When it came to the match itself, you could speak pretty freely. Using internet memes was fine as long as you didn’t go overboard with the spice, and you could be fairly blunt. The one thing to avoid was outright attacking a specific player. He asked me not to lean too hard into blaming one team over the other.
Obvious enough. Both sides would be watching this match. Some pro gamers were “one-club players” who stuck with a single team, but most were freelancers hopping between contracts. Run your mouth carelessly and you might end up sharing a roster with the very player you trash-talked. Anyone aiming for the pro scene needed to keep that in mind. Even the pre-match trash talk before big games was all scripted theater. I wasn’t so clueless that I didn’t understand that much.
“Got it. I’ll be careful.”
What I didn’t know then was that a match so wretched would unfold that I wouldn’t be able to hold myself back.
“We’ve kept you waiting long enough! This is caster Ho-eun greeting you for the first match of the IKL semifinals.”
“And this is commentator Hwang Yul. A lot of you are already looking for her—yes, that’s right. Joining us as guest commentator is the inaugural Arena champion, Gawol.”
My face flickered briefly across the broadcast monitor. The left side was the feed that would go out in five seconds; the right was the live recording. I gave a quick, abbreviated bow of greeting.
“Hello, I’m… Gawol. I didn’t expect to be invited. It’s an honor to be here.”
“You’re a little different from the image people had of you. I think a lot of viewers were expecting something more… mischievous.”
“I’m not that toxic, you know.”
“Haha. Still, with so many people looking forward to today, we’re expecting great things from you.”
What was with these people? Expectant eyes kept landing on me. Ho-eun’s gaze in particular was hard to ignore. Even back in the Arena days, he had always seemed to be quietly hoping I would slip up. Was this really the same guy who had just finished teaching me how not to cause an incident?
Anyway, once the match began, the information came up.
IKL Semi Final — Match 1
Sigma eSports vs Q Prime
Battlefield: Boiling Lava Zone
Rules: 5-Player Deathmatch
“And there we have it—the first match of the Sigma eSports versus Q Prime quarterfinals is underway.”
“People are already calling this a preview of the finals. Q Prime tasted defeat in Round 2, but you can bet they’ve been sharpening their blades ever since.”
“The clash between these two teams. What do you make of it, player Gawol?”
He was calling me a player. The Arena image must have stuck hard. I almost said I thought Luce would win, then held myself back.
“Hmm, hard to say. We’ll have to watch how the flow develops.”
In Infinity Black, a standard deathmatch ran until a team hit a combined thirty deaths. Beyond that there were no special rules—just the usual gimmick of hunting neutral monsters for stat buffs. That mechanic had been stripped out of the solo Arena, but it was still a staple in team play. The whole point was to force a strategic choice: force early fights, or play for late-game growth.
What mattered in a deathmatch was that the respawn cooldown wasn’t exactly short. If the main force collapsed before a dead teammate came back, the rest could fall like dominoes and the game would end in a limp, helpless mess. At the first-team pro level that almost never happened, of course.
“From Sigma, Camellia’s Warrior is moving as a detached unit; from Q Prime, Sparrow’s Assassin is doing the same.”
“High mobility and easy neutral clears—generally considered solid, safe picks. How do they look to you, player Gawol?”
“Hmm… It’s already tilting a little. At this rate Sigma looks better. I wish they’d made a bolder call.”
A “safe” choice only worked when both sides were equal. The two teams I had watched in Round 2 had not been equal. There was a clear strong side and a clear weak side. When that was the case, the underdog was the one who had to show something. Play it safe and you simply lost safely. Or maybe this was confidence that their strength had changed since Round 2? I hoped that was it.
On screen, Sparrow and Camellia were heading the same direction. Of course neither of them knew what the other was doing. They were just both going after the reptile monsters that spawned on the eastern side of the lava zone. Pure coincidence. But turning accidental luck into inevitable difference—that was what skill was for.
“Assassin—Sparrow spots Camellia first.”
“Two options here. Open with an ambush, or stay hidden and pull back.”
“Sparrow falls back toward the rear. Heading west across the map.”
Safety-first. Not an incomprehensible choice. Earlier, in the winners’ bracket, Camellia had taken a perfect win over Sparrow. That skill gap hadn’t magically vanished. Even a successful ambush wouldn’t have guaranteed the kill. Still, this was exactly why people said Korea’s Assassin line was thin. In that situation a real Assassin would have gone for the ambush. Spotting the opponent first and getting to decide the next move was an Assassin’s privilege. And the routes on the Boiling Lava Zone were never short. Pulling back here cost far too much.
“That’s a lost point. Better to have forced the fight so neither of them could touch the neutrals.”
“Gawol’s point is fair. Maybe the earlier one-on-one with Camellia is still weighing on him.”
“Five minutes in, and Sigma’s growth is already edging ahead.”
If I had been in Sparrow’s place I would have engaged Camellia without hesitation. But Camellia wasn’t an idiot either. If I had been the one in Sparrow’s spot, she never would have started hitting the monsters first. Even in the Arena’s pure one-on-ones, an Assassin’s opening ambush was hard to answer. Trying to react while already fighting neutrals was even worse. So she would have prioritized finding me. The fact that a Warrior was calmly farming monsters at all was already the problem.
The bigger problem was that Sparrow was nowhere near the bottom of the domestic Assassin rankings. It was a complete mess from every angle.
“And the moment I say that, both main forces collide for the first time.”
“The Mage’s Bind locks down Luce, and Traveler surges ahead.”
“He’s fast. His skill has jumped a lot since last time. Growing this quickly at that level isn’t easy.”
A Lancer buffed by the Priest tore into Sigma’s backline. In the Arena he had run into Kelberos early and dropped out fast, but Traveler’s individual ability was world-class by any measure. Clean close-range trades, firepower delivered exactly where it needed to be. Watching him pressure two—no, three—opponents alone was the pure romance of every knight-class player.
And my personal reaction to that dazzling fight was this:
“Ah, his engagement style has gotten even trashier. What the hell is he even doing?”
The pro league was not a solo queue. In a team game, why was Traveler fighting alone?