Sniper Rampage: The Climb (3)

Was this just another kind of constitution?

When I'd first started the stream, I'd been worried sick about freezing up from nerves. About making stupid mistakes, about failing to show my real skill. But instead, these past few days had felt more invigorating than anything.

Vitality hummed through my veins. The sensation in the hand gripping my weapon was razor-sharp, fully alive.

It hadn't taken long to realize all my fretting had been for nothing.

What had I even been so afraid of?

This — right now — was the moment I'd dreamed of. People pouring into my stream, chattering away, pouring every scrap of their attention onto me. Just watching it was enough to make my lips curl into a soft little laugh of pure delight.

How could I not love them?

The language was a little rough, sure. But… this much was fine, wasn't it?

When affection ran high enough, people tended to get a little coarse. That was just how it worked.

Still, stringing people along wasn't my style. Better to show them before the next game started.

"That curious about what I prepared for the penalty?"

Was it because the viewer count had jumped so much higher than before? Chat was scrolling so fast that reading a single sentence took real concentration. A few of the messages looked like they could use some moderation, too.

I had no intention of shaking my ass on camera. I had even less intention of doing any kind of sexy dance. And whatever "acting like a bitch in ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠heat" was supposed to mean, I genuinely had no idea.

Sulppang and Elderin had told me to pick a few trustworthy people and make them managers. The problem was that the requirements for a stream manager were stricter than I'd expected.

A manager needed to know the streamer well, of course — but they also needed to know the internet broadcasting scene. You had to understand viewer culture to manage things at the right level. And if a manager caused a scandal, the fallout hit the streamer too.

You had to choose carefully, and they needed to spend a lot of time watching streams. More precisely, they needed to spend a lot of time parked in my stream. Even the most capable person was useless if they weren't around when you needed them.

Even if I set out looking, someone like that wasn't just going to appear in front of me out of nowhere… wait.

Come to think of it, there might already be one.

One of the nicknames on the donation list was deeply familiar.

San-sae was even more of a ghost haunting the internet broadcast scene than I was. She probably knew how to manage a chat better than I did. And since we'd met face-to-face a few times already, I could trust Kim Sin-ah.

…Or maybe not?

The history I'd opened out of curiosity was exceeding every expectation. I hadn't known San-sae unnie was this kind of person online.

But she already knew what was on the penalty roulette. We'd made it together.

…She looked like she was having fun, so I didn't bother ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠saying anything.

Anyway, I decided to hand the manager role over to San-sae, just as I'd first thought. Managing this many people mid-game was physically impossible for me alone. For all the noise, there was no one I trusted more than her.

"I put together a penalty roulette before the stream started. If I set a challenge and fail it, I'll spin it."

Unnie. I appreciate the support, I really do. But honestly, you're being a little much.

…I couldn't bring myself to say it out loud.

Because even while spamming every kind of thirsty nonsense, her chat-cleaning skills were on full display. She had her own standards — anything that crossed into "okay, that's a bit much" territory got cut without exception. At this level, she'd clearly done this a few times before.

Given the size of the stream, I'd need to find a few more people eventually, but for now the immediate fire was out. I could take my time looking for other manager candidates.

"Queue popped. Shall we finish the game first? The penalty only kicks in if I fail a challenge. Just losing doesn't count."

The world needed bait that would never, ever be taken. I felt a little bad for my sweet, lovely viewers, but that roulette was never going to spin. I'd only set challenges I could actually pull off.

I'd filled the thing with penalties I had zero intention of ever doing in the first place. Me, who didn't even want to wear a skirt — like I'd put on some weird outfit. Even if the sky split in two, I was never going to be caught looking like that.

The moment I checked the battlefield and the rules, a hollow laugh slipped out of me before I could stop it.

I almost felt bad about this one.

Duel was just another name for a one-on-one annihilation match. It didn't come up that often, but it popped out just often enough that you never quite forgot about it. It was the reason support players like Priests kept a one-v-one build on hand, or practiced a combat-capable subclass.

The rules weren't much different from what I'd faced in the Arena. Which meant… at this rank, there was nobody who could beat me in a duel.

No — was there even anyone who could make a real game of it?

"Mmm, I feel a little bad setting a challenge for this one. It's just too easy. Want me to wrap it up quick and queue into the next one?"

"Alright then. This match: don't take a single hit. Challenge locked in — finish at 100% remaining HP."

No pro used Qi Master as their main in the Arena. It wasn't that the class had some absolute performance flaw, but in a one-on-one environment, Qi Master simply didn't have any standout advantages. If you had the skill for it, you were better off pulling out a subclass for duels.

The opponent almost certainly knew this… and yet they'd still walked onto the battlefield as a Qi Master. That meant the skill gap between their main and their subclass was too wide to switch. The opponent was probably a one-trick — a so-called "artisan."

So I stayed confident without getting careless. Go in with a "how good can an artisan at this rank even be" attitude, and you might eat a single perfectly timed critical hit.

Winning was a given. Perfect play was not.

Finish this fast.

Mistakes came easiest when a fight dragged on. Focus was a consumable resource — sooner or later, it always ran dry.

I opened aggressive from the start.

Most of a Qi Master's projectiles had wide hitboxes but moved slowly. Plenty of them only detonated on a successful hit, which also made them vulnerable to parries. Deflect just one or two with a dagger and closing the distance wasn't hard at all.

I rode the shadows with my survival skill, Shadow Step, and tracked. The instant I swung my dagger in a wide arc — a strange sound reached my ear.

"Uh, uhh?"

For a moment, my brain simply stopped.