Bad Teacher

"…The weather's nice."

In reality, it was August, but in-game, the weather was winter.

No snow fell—just a cold wind that struck the body and swept through the map before vanishing. But today, one element had been added to the corner of my vision that wasn't there before.

Thirty thousand viewers. That was it.

Logically speaking, maintaining this momentum indefinitely was impossible. But conversely, it meant that for now, I held the reins of this force.

Which is why, suddenly, Harmony came to mind.

Had she always faced scenes like this? The thought flickered through my head, but that was all. In the end, the one who had to handle this situation was no one but me.

I'd just show what I could show. Honestly, calling them "viewers I held in my hand" was a stretch to begin with.

But first…

It seemed like the priority would be dealing with this chaos that was erupting over donations or whatever they were.

How should I put it? A moment ago, it felt like I'd mounted a wild horse. Now… it was more like looking at an aquarium filled with a few hundred starving fish.

Of course, I had to factor in that I was the one clutching a jar full of bait.

I sat down at one corner of the base and fiddled with the settings, and I quickly figured out what donations were. A feature that let people send money along with messages or missions to the streamer. The minimum unit could be set freely, but most people used 1,000 won as a baseline… and if you sent more money, many streamers would show their gratitude with something called a "reaction," apparently.

Did I really have to do that?

"…I've found how to open it, but I'm not going to react much regardless of how much you donate. Please keep that in mind. The same goes for missions."

It was half a self-indulgent stream, so that much should be fine, right?

I pushed the chat window—visually resembling a single lump rising up—to the side and turned on the donation function. It would be announced through the notice at the top of the chat soon enough.

After briefly inspecting each part of the firearm, I checked once more for anything that might not be working. The sight seemed largely fine, but I couldn't just trust it outright.

It would be far more accurate to fire it myself.

So today's schedule would also begin at the shooting range. The idea was to confirm the sight at various distances before moving into actual combat shooting.

Once donations opened, things started pouring in like a flood.

Or things like:

But I headed toward the shooting range without much thought. After all, it was my first stream, and I hadn't even decided whether I'd do regular broadcasts going forward. So wasn't it fine to just do whatever I wanted?

My motto was being established.

"I haven't pushed the main quest yet, so I'll warm up at the shooting range and head over after that. As for the missions you've set, I'll decide after evaluating them."

To summarize that roughly… it meant: I don't want to do what you say.

I couldn't help but think how casually it had all been decided.

"CQB is fundamentally not a performance. It's a systematic killing art designed to minimize your own damage and maximize the enemy's."

Muzzle flash erupted, and a deafening roar tore through the air.

Acrid smoke thick enough to make your nose ache invaded the atmosphere.

Amid it all, a quiet, gentle voice rang out.

"Depending on who your opponent is and what the terrain looks like, everything from the weapons and explosives you should use to the type of armor changes. If possible."

After clearing one room and before moving to the next—like explaining to students, she spoke carefully, drawing on the experience she had accumulated.

Words accompanied by concrete action carried far more persuasiveness than mere statements, and those gathered for Eugene's first stream were quickly swayed by her words.

And to be blunt, those who found it boring had already moved on to other streams.

"…It's a kind of evolution and adaptation. Or you could think of it as a higher-dimensional game of rock-paper-scissors. You consider the enemy's condition, armament, and armor, and make the appropriate choice. You already know this. Against an enemy with heavy armor, high-penetration rounds become mandatory, but with light armor, there's no need for that."

And then the next room.

Like slicing a cake bit by bit, she eliminated every enemy visible from outside the doorway as quickly as possible, then checked the room's blind spots.

If needed, she used the flashbang she carried. If a malfunction occurred, she naturally switched to a sidearm and confirmed the kill.

There was no wasted movement in the process, and naturally, the time needed for room clearing was reduced.

"But once you enter combat, from ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠that point on, the only things you can trust are your own skills and your teammates'. In a way, you could say CQB demands both your brain and your body."

Then she reached the end.

On average, there were ten or more rooms with three or more enemies each, and she had played through all of them while providing countless supplementary explanations—yet it took barely three minutes to finish a single killhouse.

That was because clearing a single room took at most nine seconds, and on average, about seven.

And as expected…

"…Ah. I can't really help with that either."

She had easily hit a wall.

There are said to be several types of geniuses in the world.

What's certain is that among them are simple geniuses, but in a way, the genius of education might be the most extraordinary person of all. Teaching what you've learned to others comes with its own difficulties.

Anyway, what was clear was… I didn't think I had much talent for teaching anything.

I had plenty of experience spitting out ideas that helped with operations and being ridiculously favored by my seniors, but that was different.

Back to the topic.

It wasn't certain yet, but I was starting to think I wasn't very good at teaching people.

But when I thought about it more, it made sense—I'd survived and grown stronger from Manhattan to Operation Chariot by patching together combat methods with rough intuition, things that should have been learned through countless experiences.

When Shark once said, "You might end up as an instructor someday," I wondered if I should have at least skimmed some related curriculum.

Anyway, I'd think more about this part later.

For now, I'd dig through my memories and tell them something that could work in a short amount of time.

"It's hard to say exactly what you should do, but first, improving your basic accuracy is the most important thing. I'll teach you one good exercise for that."

I waved my fingers to set up a target, and the moment it materialized, with a flash of light, a terrorist appeared twenty-five meters ahead, holding a hostage by the back of the neck and using them as a shield while running away.

I took proper aim at the head.

And at the same time, I continued my explanation.

"They say you need precise aim tracking to hit a moving target, but that's actually just one method among many."

I continued explaining.

If the enemy moved irregularly, the story would be different, but in most cases, enemies tended to maintain their existing direction and speed while moving.

It was similar to a rhythm game. Rather than moving my body to place the enemy's head on my crosshair, I laid my crosshair along a path they might move and fired at the right timing.

But said easily, it required countless trials, errors, and practice to make the bullet's drop and velocity your own.

Not every special forces operator was born that way—they could do it because they had fired their weapons until such an absurd thing became possible.

After holding my breath briefly, I confirmed the enemy's head had moved to the dead center of my crosshair, and reflexively pulled the trigger. The hologram shattered into pieces and scattered.

I half-ignored the chat complaining it was too easy. Compared to killhouse training, this was so easy it was almost a yawn.

"Ultimately, all of this is practice for putting bullets where you ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠want them when you want them. Just keep in mind that this is one method. Since every user watching my stream right now may have different goals, I'd suggest first considering what specific area you want to improve."

"At first… I thought it would be tough, but honestly, she's above average. Her mental fortitude and persistence are definitely superior to ordinary people. Watching her keep up with my pace even while complaining about how hard it is…"

…Maybe that was the mentality and stubbornness honed by being a streamer, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠not a master of trash games. No, a streamer.

And as if supporting my mischievous stray thoughts, the chat continued.

The chat was getting a bit unusual, but I hoped she wouldn't recommend me a game that difficult.

Praying that such a future wouldn't come, I stood up from my seat.

"…Anyway, it's not like I can say much when I haven't even pushed the main mission. But assuming I keep streaming, I'll talk more after achieving some in-game accomplishments that match up."

The next destination was West Point—the United States Military Academy.

A place I hadn't been to in a very long time, and the place where I had first carried out a nine-line in my life, and where I had received healing from Owl for the pain that resulted from it… a place that was slightly awkward to call a "place of memories."

Originally, I would have had to infiltrate by boat up the Hudson River, but fortunately, while pushing side quests with Harmony, various means of transportation including helicopters had been unlocked.

…Of course, back in the day I used to ride Valkyries instead of helicopters, but this game strangely didn't seem to have tilt-jet aircraft.

I called a helicopter and added:

"I need to push some missions. For PVP ranked games, I'll climb after deciding on a category."

There were still countless things I hadn't tried yet.