Guest Commentary (2)

Traveler had been pathologically obsessed with winning since he was a child.

It was a past he had even shared with Ga-wol — the kind of childhood where he would cheat at a bet just ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to come out on top, money on the line and all.

There was no deeper reason. He wanted to win. And he refused to lose.

"Whoa, that's actually kind of messed up. Wait — you put money on it too?"

"Of course I did. If I won, I gave it back. If I lost, I handed it over without a word."

"You absolute psycho. Why the hell would you do that?"

"Because stakes make a match matter. And if I returned the money, they'd be willing to go again. Besides, I got plenty of allowance growing up. Winning mattered more than cash."

On the surface, it was a ridiculous story.

Some people laughed it off as a joke, cackling at the absurdity. Others looked at him with open contempt. Most seemed to think he was airing out some embarrassing black mark from his past.

But Traveler never found that history particularly shameful.

He would say it plainly: he was a madman.

He had simply learned how to socialize, how to keep himself in check. That was all.

The core of him had never changed — a man who loathed defeat with a visceral horror, who loved victory above all else, a madman with an endless, bottomless obsession for competition.

And so, today as well, Traveler wanted to win.

He had lost yesterday, which made him want it more. Today would be even harder to win, which made him want it more still.

Even knowing the odds were vanishingly slim, he could not stop.

The moment he sensed the game tipping against him, Traveler threw his body into the fray for the sake of a decisive clash.

It was a decision handed down by instincts refined for one purpose alone: finding victory.

He raised his shield and blocked the arrows. Thanks to the blessings plastered all over him, his guard gauge drained far less than it looked.

Blocking one volley meant nothing. He fired his gunlance toward the Shrine Maiden without hesitation. Whether it would hit was uncertain — but it was better than standing still.

Heat surged up through his hands, accompanied by a vibration that shook his entire body. Using the rising smoke as a veil, he ducked his head — and an axe whistled past by a hair's breadth.

I ought to thank Ga-wol for this one.

It was a technique he had learned from watching that bastard's matches.

When someone's senses are suddenly cut off, they tend to rely on the most recent sensory information still lingering. Just like now — unable to assume their target had already dodged, they swing their weapon at where the head used to be.

Approach from that angle, and you can gauge the most efficient point of evasion. And minimizing your dodge is synonymous with optimizing your counterattack.

He drove forward, using his own massive bulk as a weapon, and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠slammed into the Berserker's body. A clean hit. He did not stop. Shouldering the Berserker, he charged on, using the Shrine Maiden's barrier as a wall — CRASH! — and left a considerable impact in his wake.

"Yes! Now if the Fighter comes in—"

"Huh? I'm marking Luce right now."

"…Why? What's our Mage doing?"

"Marking with me. Should I head over now?"

It'd be too late by then, you idiot.

Traveler barely swallowed the words that had risen all the way to his throat.

They were mid-match. There was no telling when the in-game voice chat might be broadcast to the audience. That meant every word, every phrase, had to be chosen with care.

That was what it meant to be a pro. That was a condition of competing at this level.

But the heat rising in him was another matter ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠entirely.

"Forget it. I'll handle it. Just make damn sure you take down Luce over there."

He could understand their Priest completely erasing his own ego. A Lancer with exceptional solo combat power paired with a support-specialized Priest was a combination with history and tradition behind it. In this game, the Priest's objective was, without exaggeration, little more than "don't die."

But what about the rest of the team?

The Assassin had tucked his tail between his legs without even fighting. And the Fighter and Mage, apparently, were busy pressuring Luce. True, it had completely pinned Luce's feet in place — but think about it carefully, and it was a meaningless play.

At sufficient range, a Mage held the matchup advantage over a Paladin. Clear the surroundings, and the Mage could hold Luce alone. If the Mage had locked Luce down solo and the Fighter had reinforced Traveler instead, this fight would have gone far better than it was going now.

Of course, those bastards weren't ignorant of this. Morons like that didn't make it to the first-division pro league — and they certainly didn't stick around on a powerhouse team like Q Prime.

So there was another reason.

Sparrow couldn't stand the idea of losing to Camellia again. More precisely, he couldn't stand the idea of his own defeat being cited as the cause of the loss. Avoiding a fight could, at a glance, look like a rational decision — a way to minimize risk and scrape together even a small advantage. It left room to make excuses: disappointing, sure, but not the worst outcome.

The Mage and Fighter were the same. The Mage wanted to avoid a scenario where he failed to hold Luce alone. The Fighter wanted to avoid being blamed for abandoning the ADC he was supposed to protect and running off to freestyle.

In other words, his teammates' eyes were no longer fixed on the match itself. They were already looking past it — toward whatever waited on the other side of victory or defeat.

And why wouldn't they be?

Because this is already enough. Money, fame — all of it.

In this team, the only one who shouldered the disgrace and the responsibility was Traveler.

One teammate was preparing for marriage. Another needed money for family matters. Q Prime's front office valued the numbers on the ledger more than results in the league. They prepared for matches diligently enough — and that was all. If someone made a risky play and "decisively" threw a game, their pro career took a hit. At this stage of their lives, they had too much to lose for that kind of gamble.

We've done well enough. Even if we lose here, it's not exactly dishonorable. Just don't lose too ugly. And dressing up the match to look spectacular — well, Traveler will handle that on his own.

I hate that!

His spear lashed out in a thrashing swing and found the Shrine Maiden's body. Before visual or auditory information could even reach his senses, the hand closest to the gunlance reacted faster than his conscious mind.

He poured out enough firepower to turn his weapon glowing red in an instant. Shield or guard, he would smash through all of it. He gave no thought to what came after.

This strike would dull the edge of Traveler's own spear — but the Shrine Maiden's life was worth that much.

Before the recoil had even faded, the Berserker's axe buried itself in his shoulder.

Fine. He had expected that much.

Ga-wol would have dodged it. Kelberos would have caught it on his shield. For Traveler, "prediction" was still the limit of what he could manage. Put another way — that meant he had already prepared a countermeasure for what came next.

He discarded his shield and seized the axe handle lodged in his shoulder. Not to steal the weapon — to keep it from being pulled free.

Before long, a severance judgment registered on his left arm. A red line traced across his armor, and the arm went dead. But he had bought enough time. Enough for an overheated spear to punch through a Berserker's heart.

"AAAAAAARGH!"

A sound tore from Traveler's throat — half roar, half scream.

Without a shield, there was no way to stop the Archer's arrows. Mana-charged shafts battered his entire body, shredding his health bar in an instant.

Driven this far, death was all but certain. In that case — take at least one more with him.

Traveler hurled his gunlance with every ounce of strength he had left. The massive weapon flew hard and true—

—and struck the Archer's leg.

"Ha. Shit. Of course it misses."

A black speck appeared at the center of his vision and grew larger by the second. The speck took the shape of an arrowhead.

The Archer's arrow found the space between his eyes.

Traveler's vision went dark — but he was already preparing to grip his spear again.

Every time the deathmatch respawn cooldown ended, he fought like a rabid dog.

The match: a loss.

Traveler had been involved in fifty-three percent of his team's total score contribution — and still failed to seize victory.

When he finished the first match and stepped out, a lovely, refined voice was ringing through the arena.

A voice so refined, so pure, that the mere first note of it summoned the word beautiful unbidden — and yet laced with a cold, cutting fury.

Traveler thought, What the hell is that crazy bitch saying on broadcast? — and at the same time:

"Puhahahahah!"

He laughed. Freely, joyfully — more than he had in a long, long time.

Light returned to a face that had been dead and dark for ages.