Climbing Through Sniper Fire (1)

High in the thick branches of an ancient tree, I sat at ease while a tiny drone-like thing flitted around me. It was a camera drone for the stream—switching, as needed, between the drone’s feed and my own point of view. In short, it was the viewers’ eyes.

I’d left the standby screen up for now, but once the broadcast properly started I planned to lean hard on the drone cam. I’d been told it was better to use the external camera angle than my own first-person view whenever possible. Dumping my raw POV straight to the audience made people far dizzier than you’d expect.

That drone, though—its movements were exactly like a little bird. When I stayed still it drifted in lazy circles nearby; the moment I reached for it, it startled back. The reaction speed was sharper than I thought, so getting a hand on it was tricky.

I stretched my hand out a few times and still couldn’t grab it. Tweaking the settings would freeze it for a moment, but that felt like cheating. I wanted to catch it with pure skill.

The whole process was fun enough that I grinned. I pretended to lose interest, waited until it drifted close, then snatched it out ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of the air and hugged it tight. The camera drone thrashed in my arms.

So that was the trick—wait until it came to me. I’d heard that in stealth mode its physical collision was completely disabled, yet right now I could touch it, hold it, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠everything.

It was putting up more of a fight than expected—like a cat trying to wriggle free of a hug. I locked both arms around it and pressed it against my chest and stomach until it finally settled. Even the way it reacted when I stroked it gently felt like a small animal.

Struggle all you want. I caught you, so I win. Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted to hold you? I always wanted to stream inside the game. Cute little thing.

I must have spent ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠several minutes just petting the drone. Viewer count had climbed quite a bit by then. Time to drop the standby screen, right? Yesterday’s lesson had been clear—touch this spot and it should go live.

“Huh?”

I checked the broadcast overlay late. The place that should have released the standby screen only showed an “Activate” button. In other words it was currently inactive—meaning the screen cover had never been on in the first place.

A chill ran down my spine. When I finally looked at chat, it had already been buried in chest comments for a while.

I had crashed and burned on my very first stream.

I hadn’t started streaming completely unprepared. There had been one tiny… accident, but that was pure inexperience. I’d also learned how to handle situations like this. It was obvious my audience would skew more toxic and troll-heavy than most, so I’d taken plenty of advice from Sulbbang and Elderin.

So I treated it like a game. Instead of fumbling for words, I simply queued into ranked and changed the subject by force. Once the match loaded, the chat that had been nothing but body talk finally got a little air.

I decided to ignore chat. The nonstop sexual harassment? I simply hadn’t seen it. Nothing had happened on my stream.

“Nice start. Winner-takes-all is something I’m pretty confident in.”

That’s what I said, but honestly I was a little nervous. I had to be careful not to let that tremor leak into my voice. The rank wasn’t that high yet, but this was my first time streaming alone. After the opening fiasco, I was determined to at least make the fights clean.

I was still the same shut-in loner who’d lived in the corner of a room—social skills zero, still struggling with people. Flashy banter was never going to be my strong suit, so skill was the only card I could play.

Canu was a name I’d heard at least once. He mostly only streamed ranked, so our paths had never crossed, but I knew he mained gunslinger. Depending on the meta he could even climb into Infinity, the absolute top tier. In other words, he had no business being in this bracket.

Well, fine by me. Fights that were too one-sided got boring. Viewers needed something worth watching; if the opponents were completely helpless it would be a problem.

Class choice was obviously assassin. I picked a balanced build with no real weak points. Since it was winner-takes-all, I was ready to take all five myself if I had to.

“Why I’m not turning on team chat? Well, it’s winner-takes-all. Not much point coordinating with teammates.”

Technically even winner-takes-all had mind-game elements—deciding the order of fighters, choosing classes. At tournament level those little things mattered. But this wasn’t a tournament. Ranked was a pickup team, and at this skill level the whole discussion was irrelevant. Honestly I didn’t even feel tension.

Slot one. Go first and end the game alone. That had been the plan—until the system assigned me slot five, team captain. The fight for early slots had been that fierce.

“Well… since it’s come to this, might as well watch how good they are.”

There are two classic types of ranked sniping. One is sabotaging from your own team. The other is becoming the enemy and hounding you relentlessly. I got both.

On the enemy side: a streamer who’d been dying to meet me. On my side: someone who probably held a grudge.

Yeah, this is the worst.

First match. The paladin who went out as vanguard flopped onto the floor and stayed there. He seemed to be yelling something, but I’d muted him so I couldn’t hear. There was no clever strategy. He simply never stood up again until the round ended, and with zero will to fight the loss was automatic.

The soulmancer who went second did the exact same thing. Just like that the score was already 2–0.

It left a cold feeling. Maybe every reaction I’d seen before had been filtered. Either way, it was proof I’d made some real enemies, and that didn’t sit comfortably. I’d known. I’d steeled myself. Facing it still hurt.

The third match, at least, our team scored a point. After a bloody brawl the berserker won and even shaved half the next opponent’s health. The last remaining teammate put up a solid fight and secured a second win, but then the enemy mid-slot became the problem.

Gunslinger Canu. True to his reputation as a skilled streamer, vicious bullets shredded our side. Three enemies left, all at full health, and then it was my turn. My heart dropped.

What do I do?

Was I going to lose the game? Absolutely not. In winner-takes-all I was stronger than anyone. If the situation lined up right I could even ace a second-string pro team. Streaming or not, there was no reason for me to struggle in a bracket this low.

The real problem was somewhere else: entertainment value. Would viewers actually enjoy watching me kill three players from this rank? The fight with Canu might be interesting, but I honestly didn’t expect much spectacle.

The core of internet streaming entertainment is a constant drip of dopamine. A streamer has to keep delivering sharp stimuli. Getting through this with banter alone was impossible. I needed something fun—anything.

Then one thing caught my eye. On Duelist’s Corridor you can see your opponent the moment you enter. For an assassin that normally kills the first ambush and feels awful, but right now I was grateful. Looking at the enemy loaded down with every gun imaginable, an ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠idea sparked.

“How about we do this match like this?”

I pointed my dagger blade straight at Canu. The sniper rifle locked onto me; the bullet left the barrel. I slapped the glowing red trajectory aside and made my declaration.

“This round I’ll win using guns only. Daggers are for defense.”