Struggle (4)

It's a well-worn observation, but tteokbokki is about as nutritionally catastrophic as food gets.

A mountain of carbohydrates drowned in aggressive seasoning and sugar. Anyone serious about managing their body would be wise to stay far away from it. Naturally, back when I was still a player, I never so much as glanced at the stuff.

But the worse a food is for you, the more people seem to love it. And in mukbang streams, dishes like tteokbokki are practically mandatory.

Having tried it myself, I had to admit it was delicious. The problem was just one thing — my body absolutely could not handle spicy food.

"Ugh, hwaaack. Hoo, hoo. Hic—"

The real trouble had started after the first few bites, when I'd fallen into a state of wait, why is this so good? I'd been shoveling tteokbokki down for barely any time at all when the aftershock came roaring up.

The devil that had been hiding behind that sweet flavor found me. And the devil's assault was merciless.

"Water. No — milk? Juice? Is there any?"

"Is it that spicy? I didn't even order the really hot one."

"Ahhhngh… haa— ha."

"Hold on. I'll grab something right now."

It hurt. Tears were threatening to spill. Clear saliva kept flooding my mouth, and my head was spinning. I panted like a dog, sticking my tongue out to cool it in the cold air, and barely caught a string of drool with my wrist before it could drip.

"Here. At least drink some milk for now."

"Th-thank you."

Even after drinking the milk Elderin handed me, my tongue kept burning. Only after fanning my open mouth with my hand and downing an apricot juice on top of that did I start to settle, bit by bit.

The red sauce on the tteokbokki looked like deadly poison to my eyes.

"I'll just… stick to the fried stuff."

"Mm, sure."

"This is good too…"

Why did this greasy food taste so incredible? I'd expected my newly sensitive palate to reject it, but no — it slid right down like my body had never heard of such a thing. Not that I had the stomach capacity to eat much of anything.

I'd only challenge the tteokbokki once in a very long while. Once the heat fully faded, just one piece at a time. It'd be a shame to never eat it again.

Maybe this was the true terror of spicy food — that even after ending up like this, the addiction was still hard to give up.

"Ah, so what were we talking about again?"

"The international tournament… right. That's what we were talking about."

I'd gotten so absorbed in the tteokbokki that I'd completely lost the thread of conversation.

This playoffs, Sigma was going to take the championship with high probability. Traveler was still in peak form, but the skill gap between him and the rest of his teammates had grown far too wide. So running predictions about the domestic league was basically meaningless.

What mattered was what came after the postseason. The first-half international tournament that the champions would advance to. Timing-wise, eyes were just starting to turn in that direction.

"I'm guessing everyone's curious about how Korea will do?"

Traditionally, three regions dominated the international stage. Europe, China, and North America — those three were usually named as championship contenders. The mid-tier line typically included Japan, India, and West Asia.

Korea had once been counted among the title favorites. The Korean league's career high had even reached a runner-up finish at an international tournament. Then it tasted the power of population numbers and international capital, and naturally collapsed. These days, it wasn't even considered upper-tier among the mid-tier nations.

Especially with Japan — the two countries had developed a genuine rivalry, trading wins back and forth. An ancient tradition of the sports world, you could say.

"I think… you can look forward to it a little. At the very least, we should put on a better showing than ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠previous years, don't you think?"

Because I was here, after all.

Whether I could actually enter the pro league was still unknown. First the brainwave connection method had to be approved, and then its use in the pro league had to be authorized as a separate step. With procedures to work through one by one, it wasn't something I could be certain about just yet.

But the current Sigma was growing with me as their reference point. When they engaged enemies in combat, memories of fighting me would naturally surface. Korea's chronic weakness — the thin Assassin line — had been patched up to some degree.

International-league Sigma might still get dinged for a lack of Assassin firepower. But the quality of their anti-Assassin play had clearly changed. At the very least, they wouldn't collapse as helplessly as last year.

Ripper of the UK. Phantom of North America. Hashashin of West Asia. Unless the opponent was a world-class Assassin worth discussing at that level, it wouldn't be easy for them at all.

"I don't really have anything to announce yet. I'm just… taking a break from the game for health reasons."

"That's pure speculation. Sigma's skill level is already completely different from last year, isn't it?"

A few of them were sharp. Still, as long as I didn't give a definitive answer, it all stayed in the realm of speculation. And of course, I had no intention of saying a word. If it turned out I couldn't return to the game by any means, the contract itself would fall through.

Luce seemed to want me on the coaching staff at least, but… I wasn't sure. What I wanted to prove didn't seem to lie in that direction.

Well. No need to think about it now. Right now, this was a stream.

A slight smile tugged at my lips.

"Camellia, huh. While we're on the subject, want to break down last match a bit?"

One of the most entertaining things in the world was giving ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠unsolicited advice on someone else's games. Especially in a situation like this, where the person in question was probably watching. And even more so when they were in no position to talk back.

"Surely Camellia isn't watching right now? No way, right?"

Knowing your personality, you'd pretend you weren't even if you were.

I believed I was doing everything I could.

Steadily accumulating combat data by clashing with active pro gamers. At Sigma, they were continuously refining the equipment, and the synchronization rate was dropping little by little.

The first device I'd used at Sigma had a synchronization rate of 65.8%. At best, it dropped about 0.1% every few weeks. Even so, it was far better than the research-grade equipment that had been stuck at 70%.

Building recognition through streaming was going smoothly too. Slowly but steadily, more people were seeking me out. Elderin had even started suggesting I make my own streaming account.

Yeah, I really should make one. But freeloading on other people's streams had gotten so comfortable that I kept putting it off.

At the same time, I was diligently stacking multiplayer experience at the pro-league level. The team play I'd been exposed to was mostly ranked matches and sieges, after all — and those were a different beast from pro-level team games. The more capital poured into a game, the more active the tactical research became; that was only natural. The gap between ranked matches where you got matched with random teammates and the pro league was beyond words. Sieges might as well have been a completely different game, so there was no point even discussing those.

Yes. I was diligently sharpening my blade. Over the span of several weeks, I had fought hard enough that I could face myself without shame. I'd received a great deal of help along the way.

But there was exactly one assignment left that no one else could help me with.

The sword.

Still the reverse scale I had yet to overcome. The beloved weapon that held every last scrap of my lingering attachment and pain — the one I could no longer bring myself to lift. The time had come to properly face the thing I'd been avoiding all this while.

The sword in my hand hummed with a cold, desolate cry. The grip was familiar to a terrifying degree. The hilt weaving between my fingers was lighter than anything, and the texture of the black martial arts uniform was more comfortable than any clothes I'd ever worn. The wind slipping through the V-shaped gap at the collar felt especially cold.

"Haa…"

I had to put a little more strength into my hand than before. My physical condition was different now. To keep from losing the sword in a woman's body, I needed a firm hold locked in at least up through the forearm.

And… what was it again.

Before my mind could recall it, my body started reacting first. As the generated dummies closed in, a slick, unpleasant sensation began rising from my right hand.

I closed my eyes for a moment—

And when I opened them.

The training dummies were all sprawled across the floor. Beneath ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠my kneeling body, I caught a glimpse of the blade. A posture as if I'd pressed the edge against my own throat and was pushing down on it with one hand.

Before I could even do anything — shhk — a dizzying spike of pain, and my vision went black.

…Not yet, huh.

Still. I had to keep fighting.