Arena Finals (5)

My entire body throbbed with the lingering phantom pain.

My heart, the last place struck, pounded faster than usual.

Back then, this would have been dangerous.

How long had it been since I last died inside a game?

A defeat after so long. It stirred old memories, and left me a little bitter.

…No. I was furious.

If anything throwable had been within reach, I would have hurled it at the nearest wall just to watch it shatter. Something boiled and churned in my chest with nowhere to go.

If I had been paying attention, I would have noticed the signs.

I had been so careful not to grow impatient.

In the end I was only human. The moment I decided I had to force a decisive play, my vision may have narrowed.

“What am I supposed to do. I really want that championship.”

One unanswered question still sat in my heart.

If I win this tournament, will I finally be satisfied?

As a player I never managed to prove myself to the world. Whatever the reason, I never reached the World Championship, and with that accident the clock inside me stopped for good.

Like a land-bound spirit chained to the wrong ground, I still live in the same frozen moment.

Help me.

I want to live too.

Saying it changes nothing.

I know I have to quench this thirst myself. The gap between stopped time and the real world has grown too wide.

If I take this title, will that gap close even a little? Will the frozen clock start ticking again, and will I someday catch up to everyone else?

Will I—who lives not for tomorrow but for regret—finally be able to cast that regret aside?

No answer came.

Even so, I still hated losing enough to die for it. Pride remained even when I was already rolling at the bottom. I could not bring myself to clear the screen in front of me.

My choice is…

Infinity Arena’s official caster, Ho-eun, delivered the lines in her usual calm cadence.

On either side of the broadcast monitor the players’ build information appeared. There was little time left before it went public. Analyzing those details was the job of the two color commentators; meanwhile Ho-eun studied Ga-wol’s face.

It was a more common sight than people liked to admit—a player everyone expected to become the next generation’s star crumbling after only a handful of losses. The first defeat always hit hardest.

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

Is she rattled?

Except for the private-streamer broadcast ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of the first preliminary round, Ho-eun had cast every single one of Ga-wol’s matches. The way a player carried herself before a game contained a wealth of information: attitude, condition that day, even work ethic and confidence. That was why Ho-eun knew better than anyone what kind of competitor Ga-wol was.

Ga-wol was a player whose obsession with victory bordered on the extreme. Strong enough that you wondered why she had never gone pro. Her competitive fire against powerful opponents and her hunger for recognition stood shoulder-to-shoulder with any top-tier professional.

The color commentator beside her would probably sum it up the same way today.

Martial Assassin was a build that leaned heavily on raw physical talent. It offered little tactical flexibility, but if you trusted your pure skill it was a choice worth making. At a glance, Ga-wol looked like a high-ego player with nerves of iron.

Ho-eun saw it differently.

What drove Ga-wol so hard was never her own ego—only victory. The physical talent even active pros acknowledged, the psychological warfare Kelberos himself had once called “fox-like”—all of it sat beneath the single goal of winning.

So again: it was a common story. A player burdened with enormous expectations collapsing after a single loss.

Before a match, truly confident, relaxed players wore their emotions openly. Those who could enjoy the game even allowed a faint smile. Ga-wol had never once smiled in the waiting room. Once victory was secured she might show the mischievous side people expected, but that was a different matter. Alone, Ga-wol was always the cold, clinical competitor.

Since the previous game her expression had grown markedly darker. The psychological balance had broken.

The match was tilting. As the structure collapsed, the audience began to notice as well.

Ga-wol’s signature physical talent was still there. The flashes of brilliant sense, the fakes that went past clever and into outright dirty—skill that no one would ever believe belonged to an unknown. If news broke tomorrow that Ga-wol was a secret prospect raised inside some pro team, Ho-eun would simply nod and think, I knew it. The same if a powerhouse organization came calling the moment the tournament ended.

Even so, none of it reached Kelberos.

In this match Kelberos had adopted a more defensive build than usual. Ho-eun herself had once been an active player. These days she worked more as caster than analyst, but she could still read the intention clearly.

Meeting Ga-wol’s speed and technique head-on was impossible. Concentrating on defense, however, could force choices. Break through if you can. I’ll take whatever you throw at me.

The Dark Knight’s natural long-game strength layered with Kelberos’s own sense had become an impregnable fortress.

The collapsing game drew toward its end. As Ga-wol’s strength drained, Kelberos threw the decisive blow—a heavy, deliberate first strike. Even under pressure the counter was sharp. Desperate resistance followed, yet the winner was already clear.

Kelberos’s blade pierced Ga-wol’s throat. Even as blood sprayed, the dagger that had been driving for his heart fell limp, its purpose unfinished.

To claim she felt no regret would have been a lie. But Ho-eun had cast matches for a long time. Personal ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠feelings never entered the broadcast.

Both players returned to the waiting room. Ga-wol’s expression was darker than before.

Is this the end? Of course not.

Suddenly interest returned to Ho-eun’s face. Those eyes. That expression. They did not belong to someone who had given up. They belonged to someone who would pay any price to win.

The monitor displaying the Assassin build information flickered. Every detail vanished, overwritten by new data. Surprise crossed the faces of Ho-eun and both commentators.

Then came the moment a player had to decide. Ho-eun raised her voice and shouted something across the arena floor.

As always, dry system text appeared over the stage.