Struggle (1)

“Daeun, do you know specifically which clause they used as grounds for the connection ban?”

“The problem is right here. ‘Connection methods that raise concerns for the user’s safety shall not be recognized.’”

“It doesn’t actually say which connection methods are forbidden, though.”

“What if we collected a massive amount of data as evidence, and Sigma kept refining the connector from there?”

Limp. Limp.

As I made my way forward, bracing my ankle with each step, stares pinned me from every direction. None of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠them were particularly kind. I couldn’t put names to faces, but some of them had surely run into me in-game. It wouldn’t have been a pleasant experience. Back then I’d been a far more clinging, festering sort of person than I was now — the kind who smeared that dark, damp bitterness of mine all over everyone I met. There was no reason to find it strange if the feelings coming back at me were rough.

“Stability issues with connectors vary wildly from person to person.”

“So for you specifically, Daeun, there’s room to carve out an exception.”

“As it happens, Sigma already has a research-model brainwave connector in-house.”

“It can’t connect to the live game — practice server only — but still.”

Of course, there was no need for me to shrink into myself over any of this. In Infinity Black, one-sided PKing was considered bad manners, but it wasn’t an illegal act that violated the terms of service. I had never crossed the line from what the system allowed into outright harassment. So I hadn’t done anything I shouldn’t have. It was a game of the strong eating the weak, after all. The weak one was the one in the wrong.

I kept my head up, stiff and unbowed. This was reality, but I hadn’t come here as Han Daeun. I had come as Gawol. I clenched my fist until the blood drained ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠from my knuckles.

Silence hung over the practice room until the connector was unlocked.

“Let’s go with collecting combat data with us. Coming from Sigma, it should carry real weight as evidence.”

“And while we’re at it, you can practice with the team, get a feel for each other’s rhythm?”

“What do you say? Want to try it with us?”

The price I had to pay was the connector sitting at home. They would tear out the internal hardware, decompile the software, and use it to develop a new one. Terms like that — my parents wouldn’t hold it against me.

Your son just wanted to try something. Please understand.

Anyway, the only “combat data” you could really get on a practice server came down to one thing: fighting so stupidly hard your mouth filled with the taste of metal and you traded blows until your nose bled.

As the connector’s door opened, I forced a smile onto my face.

“Looks like you’ve all got a lot you want to say. Want to settle it in-game? You’re pros, aren’t you?”

Don’t be cheap about it and give me dirty looks in real life. Let’s see some actual skill.

The dead wailed across a bleak and desolate field. Rotting heads swiveled blankly, scanning their surroundings — and through the gaps between the corpses, a single arrow came flying.

Short, but fast. None of them carried much force on their own, but batting every one of them aside was a pain. I kicked a convenient zombie into the line of fire and cut off the shooter’s angle of view.

The Swift Archer was a class that traded away an archer’s trademark long range for raw speed. In league play, they were drafted as brawl specialists. Against a conventional ranged DPS they came up short in a pure distance fight, but in close-quarters exchanges with melee fighters they performed far better.

Which was another way of saying: this cocky bastard.

You dare send an archer out in front of me?

Apparently he didn’t know that an honest self-assessment was part of being a pro.

This guy had the gall to assume I’d go for stealth. Some nobody who wasn’t even Kelberos, and he was looking down on me that hard.

You think I’d waste stealth on the likes of you?

This wasn’t a free-for-all field crawling with players. It was a one-on-one arena. And in a winner-stays-on format, the victor went straight into the next challenger. If you wanted a high ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠score, you had to know how to conserve skills and resources.

I let myself be seen once among the undead, then vanished down the slope of a hill. If you could read an opponent’s line of sight, you didn’t need a skill for concealment. The heart of an ambush was breaking the other person’s expectations. If you could drive a spike into the blind spot of their thinking, you could pull off a surprise attack without stealth at all.

While he was busy watching the spot where I’d disappeared, I took the long way around — silent footsteps, without sacrificing speed — and claimed his back.

He wasn’t a complete idiot. When I didn’t reappear from the edge of his watch zone, the Swift Archer released his hawk. If even that couldn’t find me, there was only one answer left. He spun to cover his rear and managed to lock onto me.

Fine. I’ve closed enough distance already.

Two arrows came flying straight at my body, with a spray of extras aimed at predicted dodge points. True to the name, his fire rate was no joke. The intent was clear — land fewer hits, but make every one of them count. His predictions missed cleanly. The arrows that should have struck Gawol’s body passed through without the slightest resistance.

Meaning the Gawol he’d just seen was a substanceless clone. No hit-effect message had appeared either, so I wasn’t hiding behind the clone.

— And that was exactly the thought that lost you the fight.

“Hey.”

“Wha— huuuh?!”

The clone dissolved and my real body came into view behind it. But the distance was already close enough. Drawing a bowstring now was a waste of motion. As if I was going to just stand there and let him.

Not a chance.

I drove a dagger into his wrist and ripped it free. Shoulder to shoulder, I carved him open from heart to gut. Two arrows jammed into the back of his neck left him essentially defenseless. Only when he saw the shafts sticking out of his own throat did the Swift Archer’s face finally register what had been done to him.

“Whoa… wow…”

Pure, unfiltered awe spilled out of him. There was something so genuine about it that a snort of laughter escaped me.

Among ranged classes, archers alone had one particular weakness: their projectiles were relatively large and slow. It was the built-in flaw of a class that loaded physical arrows with mana. Hunters with firearms had muzzle velocities far too high. A mage’s attacks didn’t have physical form to begin with. But an arrow? Catching one wasn’t out of the question. Impossible for most people, maybe — not for me.

“This is why archers put way too much faith in the hit message.”

“No, that feels like a bit of a stretch…”

Stretch? What stretch. I just did it.

The first win came easy. Everything after that did not.

A Berserker’s indiscriminate assault left me wounded in the left arm and thigh. To a Kunoichi I surrendered my left leg and lost my mobility, and because of that I couldn’t dodge a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Blood Mage’s self-destruct — my health bottomed out. By the time my final opponent, Camellia, arrived, I was already past the point of being able to fight. I couldn’t even stand, let alone hold a dagger. I just sat there, coughing up blood in thick, wet heaves, waiting for the enemy Camellia to show.

A small mercy, if you could call it that. Sigma’s brainwave connector had lower sensitivity than the one I used at home. It still hurt like hell — but a little less than what I’d taken at home.

And yet. What was I supposed to do with this?

This felt good.

In the middle of that searing pain I coughed and coughed, and still the laughter came. The moment I started thinking How do I win next time?, my head spun clear and sharp.

“Ah, damn it. League and Arena really are different.”

The skill gap in one-on-one was obvious. I’d figured handling five of these guys wouldn’t be hard. Living it was a different story. In a winner-stays-on format, the gap between a regular player and an ace was only natural — so the whole approach had evolved away from trying to win at all. You threw yourself away as a sacrificial piece for the victory. You left injuries behind so the next person could win, and trusted your teammate in the following round to finish the job. Aces strong in duels didn’t only exist on the enemy team, after all.

In actual first-string pro league play, five-or-more-person winner-stays-on matches had a grand total of zero all-kill records. If my opponents today hadn’t been second-string rookies — if a first-string-caliber pro had sacrificed themselves against me — I would have hit my limit after barely taking two.

Camellia had arrived at some point and set her blade against my throat. Hesitation trembled at the tip of the knife. Felt bad about killing me, did she?

“What are you doing? Just kill me already. That’s how the data piles up.”

“…Yes.”

A dizzying spike of pain boiled up through my heart — and my vision blacked out.

Again.