Paradise Regained (3)

Even with the sync rate lowered, the wind inside the game still felt refreshingly cool.

I made a circuit of the area, offering light greetings to some streamers and death to others.

My kill list was still very much in effect.

Contracting with Sigma had improved my situation a great deal, that much was true.

The thing that had been draining my account like water poured into a bottomless jar was the enormous cost of treatment for my legs. With Sigma's support covering that money, my finances were no longer so tight.

Of course, the place that money ultimately went was Sigma itself — but still.

Either way, I could finally spend the money I earned on myself. I no longer had to scrape by on instant ramen and nutritional supplements.

Naturally, that also meant I no longer needed to take subcontract work from siege guilds just to keep field PKing.

And yet… call it inertia, maybe.

Killing streamers had always been closer to a hobby than a job. Why would I quit something I was good at and enjoyed?

"Hi there."

"No, seriously, how long am I supposed to—"

I'd decided to kill them, and they were someone I could kill. The real mistake was theirs for ending up on my notepad in the first place. I felt not the slightest reason to let them live.

The ambush landed cleanly, carving open their side.

They were a streamer of decent skill — reaction speed wasn't bad. Dagger met dagger, and metal rang out.

I feinted right and went for the opposite side. A thrust into the hand reaching for a hidden weapon. I ripped my blade free as if tearing the steel out of the flesh itself.

One attempt blocked; the next move was obvious. They'd go for the spare dagger at their belt, wouldn't they?

My ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠hand was a fraction faster, so I lifted it first.

It worked… but stealing is still a bad habit. No matter how real this place felt, it was still a game. Without ownership rights, a momentary theft didn't make it mine.

I should give it back, right? I wasn't the type with sticky fingers.

While the man's hand fumbled at the empty sheath, I flung the blade so he could see it clearly — straight between his eyes.

"Here. Yours."

I hadn't actually expected that throw to land.

Had my ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠standards gotten too high? Watching them crumple so pathetically drew a snort of laughter out of me.

I'd been a little worried after the break, but all I'd done was stay off the main game — I'd kept practicing PVP the whole time. My field instincts didn't feel dulled at all. If anything, they felt a touch sharper than before.

The lower sync rate made pain easier to endure, and lately I'd been sparring constantly with pro gamers. I could read an opponent's movements with almost painful clarity.

I got so carried away that I looped the entire platform and snuffed out every live broadcast in sight.

With KimchiNinja finished, the circuit was done. Being back in the game after so long left me a little thirsty.

I wanted to see a bit more blood.

And then something caught my eye.

Right now might be a pretty good time for it, no?

My hand moved on impulse and pressed the button hard.

In any game with ranks, tier is a matter of pride. The way most arguments between gamers eventually collapse into "So what's your tier, then?" — tier is a gamer's social class.

And in every game, the highest tiers that only a tiny fraction of players ever reach become objects ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of pure envy.

But winning ranked matches doesn't put money in my pocket. Reputation among gamers is strictly a matter of honor. To me, a single coin had always mattered more than hollow prestige.

That didn't mean I'd never queued ranked at all. From the day I started this game, I had never once dropped out of the top tier — Infinity.

The reason was the end-of-season rewards. The company dangled decent prizes to encourage ranked participation, and those rewards were my only real goal. In common parlance, I was a master of "parking" — just keeping the tier nameplate intact.

But anyone who's actually played at the highest ranks feels one particular truth.

To ordinary players, that tier was simply the sky. But above that sky, there was another sky still.

Until now I'd never bothered climbing higher because it felt like a waste of time… but right now, time was the one thing I had in surplus.

Besides, it's already confirmed I can't participate in the upcoming international tournament.

The temporary access period was fifty days. Even if everything went perfectly, it would take at least fifty days before I could join the pro scene. By then, the spring international would already be winding down — depending on the schedule, it might already be over.

Either way, putting my name on the roster at the submission stage had been impossible.

If I raised my ranking while I had the time — wouldn't that make for a decent statement when I debuted?

And while I was at it… planting my name in first place at least once didn't sound half bad.

The player under the nickname ChainSickleAndIQuit was a fairly ordinary sort of user. Main class: Assassin. Sub class: Paladin.

The moment matchmaking finished, an anonymous teammate locked in Assassin, and a sigh escaped him almost on reflex.

He already had a bad feeling.

He ran Assassin as his main too, but the class's reputation in ranked was poor. The high ceiling only applied at the pro level. In the realm of ordinary players, it was a liability class — weak health, weak damage, pure freeloading.

His personal doctrine was simple: never trust any Assassin who wasn't himself.

But ranked was a place where the person who wanted to win more was always the weaker party. What came out of his mouth was far milder than what he actually thought.

"Hey, Assassin. Our mains overlap — would you mind switching? Two Assassins in a deathmatch just isn't ideal, you know?"

No answer came back.

That was all he needed. This one had zero intention of talking to teammates. Looking at how they'd hidden both nickname and avatar before the match even started, they clearly had something to hide.

His head was already throbbing. He wanted to just forfeit — but he couldn't. For someone this obsessed with points, victory mattered more than anything.

Then the game actually started, and he couldn't help scowling.

Chain-Sickle? That meta died ages ago.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

There had been a time when Chain-Sickle Assassins flooded ranked and turned it into hell. His own nickname — ChainSickleAndIQuit — was one he'd changed out of sheer inability to endure that era.

But he didn't actually have the spine to throw a game, so he quietly took up his shield.

The Assassin holding the Chain-Sickle was already nowhere to be seen. Their avatar looked like a Ga-wol cosplay, too. That type was always the biggest headache.

Fine. Better this way. He'd just pretend this match had one fewer teammate.

Swallowing the simmering irritation, he surveyed the battlefield.

"We're down a body, so let's play defensive. We've got a Hunter — lay down traps and…"

Their composition wasn't suited for aggression. Better to dig in around the Hunter and build a fortress. As for their Assassin, wherever they were and whatever they were doing was none of his—

"Oh. Okay, they got one. They were holding a Chain-Sickle — how did they even…?"

Well. Good news was good news. The Paladin's mouth curved into a smile.

That joy turned into confusion almost immediately.

"?"

In a six-player deathmatch, the kill log was climbing at a suspicious rate. The main force, still trying to lock into a defensive posture, scrambled toward the enemy side.

They finished off the two who'd been fleeing in a panic, and then the game ended with almost anticlimactic emptiness.