Team Designation Ceremony (5)

A sharp metallic click rang out, low and cold.

The flame-charged lance swung its head in search of prey, and from within the heavy armor came a tense, drawn-out breath.

The opponent who should have been visible was nowhere to be seen.

Stealth? Or had they already opened the distance and slipped into cover?

Just as the lance tip began to shift, a voice came from a place it never should have.

Right in front of him.

From the blind spot his own shield had created.

"Hey. Starting to lose focus, aren't you?"

"What the hell—!"

"Let's call it after this round. Going any further won't mean much."

The Lancer's gunlance unleashed a massive explosion.

The blast was so violent that even the one who fired it went briefly deaf.

Closing his eyes handled the flash, but nothing else improved.

A searing heat bloomed at his ankle.

A dagger had slipped past the shield's coverage.

He was under attack.

Which meant the barrage had failed to hit the Assassin—Gawol.

Having completely lost track of her position, Traveler could only guess at the spots she was most likely to strike.

He spun and swept his shield behind him, but nothing touched his hand.

In that instant, Traveler's reason confirmed the loss.

The tendons at his knees severed. Blades bit into both shoulders until holding a weapon became nearly impossible.

Two daggers carved through the enemy without mercy, sealing the victory.

The moment the match ended, Traveler collapsed sprawled across the floor.

His eyes held the look of someone thoroughly fed up—and at the same time, an expression of pure disbelief directed at the petite girl before him.

"You—where the hell did you play pro?"

"I've never been a pro gamer."

"Then… why is your stamina better than mine?"

"It's less stamina and more focus. You don't exactly run out of breath playing a game."

The gap between pro and amateur was vast.

It wasn't just raw skill. The differences outside the match itself were considerable too—how much you tensed up beforehand, how long you could sustain concentration.

Bridging that kind of divide wasn't something a day or two of practice could accomplish.

He'd figured that since he was scrimming with an amateur, he ought to cut her some slack.

The exact opposite result left Traveler thoroughly bewildered.

"In other games too?"

"I already told you I've never been a pro gamer."

"An athlete, then? Or maybe a go player or something? The way you review matches, the whole vibe—there's no way you're just some regular person."

"If you want my life story, bring more money. If you're not doing the review, we can call practice done for today and you can head out."

"Alright, alright. Sorry. Let's do the review."

Traveler snapped back to himself quickly enough.

The two of them walked carefully back through the match they'd just played—where the Assassin had been hiding, why a blind spot had opened in his vision, and on the flip side, the reasoning behind the moments when the Lancer's defense had held.

There were some differences in approach, but the exchange of opinions itself flowed smoothly.

At the end of the conversation, Traveler laughed as if he couldn't believe it.

"How did I only find someone like this now?"

One thing was certain—it wasn't an unpleasant laugh.

Coming out of the dive pod in one piece was something I hadn't done in a long time.

Usually, I only left the game when my body was screaming.

I'd crawl out only when exhaustion had wrung me dry and my stomach was howling with hunger.

I hopped over on one foot and opened a window, then lay down on the bed with a clear head.

To feel something this ordinary as unfamiliar…

My life really had fallen apart more than I'd realized.

Not that I planned on changing anything.

In the real world, there were only two times my mind was fully intact: right after waking up, and when I went out for rehab training on weekends.

The reason I'd logged out this time, though…

"—And the moment he says it, Reme charges forward!"

"Fortification drops at the perfect timing—guard gauge completely drained!"

"There's a bit of damage on the health bar, but the gunlance's energy charge is complete."

"Closing the gap with a shield rush—Burst!"

"The Paladin's shield can't hold, and the front line collapses!"

I needed to analyze my next opponent.

You could watch videos inside the game, sure, but taking notes and gathering materials was a genuine pain.

For this kind of work, it was better to just fire up the computer.

I pulled out an old tablet, strapped it to my arm, and settled into the chair almost lying down.

It was the same chair I'd used since my player days—big enough that, with my current body, it might as well have been a bed.

I'd bought it back when I still didn't skimp on anything related to my health.

The soft cushioning pressed gently against my skin.

The Lancer I'd be facing next was a class that earned the nickname "one-man fortress" better than anyone.

Defense that held its own against most tanks, and burst damage that could stand shoulder to shoulder with dedicated DPS.

Of course, it was also a class that had given up a lot in exchange.

I put Reme's play footage up on the monitor and scrawled notes across the tablet.

— Habit of activating Guard first when the situation is hard to read

— Prioritizes resetting stance over securing vision

— Surprisingly slow reaction speed

But his judgment and combat sense were outstanding.

Calm personality? No. In recent matches, he'd given up points with overly aggressive entries.

That was a misconception born from how high his floor was. His original aggressive nature was just being papered over with experience.

The order he checked his surroundings was basically front, right, left, then up.

This guy left the bottom open too. That would be a point of attack.

With tendencies like these, he must have tried some weird strategies at least once… When am I supposed to dig through this many records?

Even in my player days, I'd always preferred to burn opponent footage into my own eyes whenever possible.

In decisive moments, people fell back on experience.

If you shared in your opponent's experience, your own options expanded.

Some people left this kind of analysis to the coaching staff, but…

I was never that type.

I had to etch it into my own eyes or I couldn't rest—until that person's movements and decisions painted themselves naturally inside my head.

Well. Not that I had a coach to hand it off to now anyway.

He'd been a pro for a long time, so there was plenty of material to dig through.

Once I finished this, I'd have to organize the rest of the opponents too.

Ripper especially—his playstyle was so convoluted it already made my head hurt.

"Uggghhh…"

How many hours had I been buried in analysis?

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

I stretched my arms out wide, gulped down some cold water, and felt hunger start to stir.

I set the tablet down and loosened up my body for a bit.

Then, all at once, energy flooded back into my sprawled-out frame, and the corner of my mouth lifted.

Today was a day to reward myself for all the hard work.

I flipped past the notes screen and opened a delivery app I hadn't touched in ages.

A flood of temptations came rushing straight at me!

But my heart had already found its one true partner.

Only chicken. My pure, unwavering devotion charged straight toward fried chicken without a second thought.

Anyone who set a menu and then swayed like a reed was strictly amateur hour.

That's right. Right now, my wallet had enough room to breathe.

Enough to order chicken I hadn't tasted in a very long time.

All thanks to the revenue split I'd received ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠not long ago from the drinking stream and Elderin.

I wouldn't get broadcast revenue from the main tournament, but prize money would stack up with every win instead.

After that… I'd have to go back to making money through PK, I supposed.

It was a path that gave me some pause, but still.

I still hadn't given a firm answer to this either.

I felt bad for keeping her waiting so long.

It wasn't that I didn't want to do it.

This whole thing had made streaming revenue feel far sweeter than I'd expected, and it was something I'd wanted for a long time.

The problem was sustainability.

If I couldn't keep streaming in the end, it was just a fleeting dream.

Going pro was the same. Fundamentally, it was a problem that wouldn't be solved until ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠my legs were fixed.

I'd tried mapping out other directions recently, but those plans had ended up on hold too.

Nothing I could realistically pull off right now.

While I was lost in thought, the chicken arrived.

I hopped over on one foot again, grabbed the crutches I'd left standing, retrieved the chicken bag, and returned.

Setting it on the table, I felt a flutter of excitement deep in my chest.

Come to think of it, Elderin had said she'd treat me if I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠won the Arena.

An offline meetup in real life. I'd have to give her an answer about that too, wouldn't I?

…If I went, would she buy me something delicious?

The chicken I hadn't eaten in so long was truly, genuinely delicious.

Delicious enough that all my long-standing worries felt like nothing at all.