Just Flame Me Already
I felt a brief surge of kinship toward this pro gamer who had repeated the very same blunder as me, but the sentiment was fleeting. Without hesitation, I flipped the stream chat to manager-only mode.
My channel had exactly one manager, which meant it was time for a little one-on-one consultation.
TG's APE. Real name: Choi Seongmin.
Right about now, having clocked out of the tournament arena, he was most likely in a van heading back to the team gaming house. To think he had actually sought out my stream in the middle of transit.
"Hmm."
For any professional esports team—especially an undisputed titan of TG's scale—there was zero chance they hadn't run through an immediate post-match debrief the second they tasted defeat. Yet here he was, scouring the internet and dropping into my stream to solicit advice.
They must have run completely out of answers.
Even against ATG's rough, unpolished execution, TG had been dragged around by the nose for the entire match. The expected blowout had been flipped right on its head. If only they could master this new meta for themselves... There was no way TG hadn't entertained that exact thought.
"Heheh."
Despite my question in our private consultation, the chat window remained stubbornly quiet.
Well, his hesitation made sense. Voicing their internal team analysis in what was still technically a public setting had to feel uncomfortable. It carried the risk of leaking trade secrets, not to mention tarnishing the dignified prestige of an elite esports powerhouse.
Still...
If you were that worried about appearances, you should've logged out first.
Prodded by my prompt, APE finally squeezed out a reply.
His answer was music to my ears.
In competitive gaming, it wasn't uncommon for pros to seek out high-tier one-trick specialists for advice on specific strategies. Even if an artisan player lacked professional-level fundamentals or macro, their mastery over one niche build was often unrivaled. Knowing that full well, the only reason I was deliberately grilling him was, well...
I couldn't deny there was a petty ounce of vengeance driving me.
Here was one of the prime culprits who had stretched my matchmaking queues past two hours and straight toward three. What an agonizing eternity of humiliation and oppression that had been! Getting flamed and used as an emotional punching bag was great and all, but surely I was entitled to an outlet for my own grievances too, wasn't I?
Fanfare chime!
Right as I waited for his reply, a triumphant donation jingle rang out over the stream.
As expected of a public figure, the guy certainly knew the proper way to apologize.
The weight of money was universal. One hundred thousand won. How many packs of instant ramen could that buy? That value—equivalent to roughly one hundred steaming bowls of noodles—held the exact same sacred worth whether to a penniless scrub like me, a pro gamer pulling in six figures, or even the head administrator of the United States server.
In other words, it was more than enough cash to purchase absolute absolution. And naturally, I was far more generous and open-hearted than a certain Berserker who had refused to grant me a shred of forgiveness despite my profuse, all-directional apologies.
Watching his polite gratitude fill the box, I booted up the Path of Knight client with the other hand.
...Hm.
As established, the value of money was identical for all souls. If a thousand won was a precious lifeline that could extend my survival by another day, it had to carry that same urgent weight for the donor who sent it.
I promptly switched the chat mode from manager-only back to public.
Just as expected, the moment public chat unlocked, the window descended into a boiling cauldron of pure chaos. Rival fandoms tore into each other, savaging the losing team. With no mods in sight, trolls seized the golden opportunity to stir up drama, desperate to snag even a crumb of attention from an active pro gamer. It was entirely within my calculations, so nothing surprised me—except for one thing.
"Why isn't anyone flaming me?"
That part deviated entirely from the plan. It was deeply, profoundly disappointing.
"Hmm."
I racked my brain to figure out why. The mob that had stormed into my channel seeking vengeance against the creator of the build that crushed their beloved team was now walking on eggshells simply because the pro player himself was standing in the room. That had to be it.
I flipped the stream back to manager-only mode to resume our little private debrief.
Whenever a problem arose, eliminating the root cause was always the smartest play.
Seeing as this was a time-honored administrative process traditionally executed by the armed forces of advanced democratic nations, there was no reason to doubt its flawless wisdom.
Since he paid good money, I made sure to provide impeccable after-sales customer service. Once the manager chat fell quiet, I slid my mouse over and toggled public chat back on.
Now this was the glorious landscape I had been craving.
"Heheh."
Beaming with deep, genuine satisfaction, I clicked the queue button to start a match.
As the title 'professional gamer' implied, their entire existence revolved around playing for the sole purpose of victory. Having suffered a shocking upset and an unceremonious early tournament knockout, the atmosphere was suffocating.
"......"
There was no world in which the van returning to the team house would be buzzing with cheerful banter. Everyone kept their heads down, walking on eggshells as they silently replayed the recent catastrophe over and over in their minds.
"...What did they say?"
Breaking the oppressive silence, the coach sitting beside TG APE, Choi Seongmin, turned to him with a quiet query.
"Told me to leave."
"Sigh... That's why I told you not to log in with your official account."
Despite the coach's muttering reprimand, Seongmin kept his gaze glued to his phone screen. Right after their debrief, he had intercepted the coach's intention to inquire and done it himself, making this entire debacle squarely his fault. On top of that, his sudden appearance had set the streamer's chat ablaze.
I'm such a nuisance...
To hide the burning flush of embarrassment and self-reproach coloring his cheeks, he buried his focus even deeper into his phone. Having voluntarily departed the channel, Seongmin had whipped up an unregistered alt account to tune right back into 'Person Doing Their Best's stream.
Not a single sound came through his earphones. A no-mic stream—a personal broadcasting format that had long become an archaic relic of the past. Yet paradoxically, for Seongmin, whose sole objective was to observe and dissect pure gameplay, it provided the ideal study environment.
"...Whoa."
Seongmin lost all track of time, completely spellbound by the play unfolding before him. It was the exact same playstyle as before. Even though a full month had passed since he blocked her, those bizarre, signature movements remained indelibly etched into his mind.
She spammed emote teabags at every conceivable opportunity, yet slipped past enemy attacks with an eerie, baffling evasion. Simultaneously, she rained down precise support and disruptive crowd control toward the Plaza below the ramparts.
Regardless of how the other seven players performed, the game tilted relentlessly toward one side until the stream's host snatched an effortless victory. That shameless teabagging, and the sheer helplessness of watching the match spiral out of control the moment you queued into her...
In the past, those grievances had been more than enough justification for Seongmin to block her. But now, having tasted a humiliating defeat on the tournament stage at the hands of that very build, Seongmin viewed her gameplay through an entirely different lens.
"We were the idiots here."
At Seongmin's hollow mutter as he slumped back against his headrest, his teammates leaned forward from their seats, craning their necks to peer at his screen.
"What? What is it?"
"This build... it's just completely broken."
On screen, 'Person Doing Their Best' wiggled her mouse across the empty display before clicking through to the post-game results screen. The record glowing in the match summary was dazzling: 146 Wins, 61 Losses.
I thought it was just a cracked player stubbornly sticking to a troll pick...
With his jaw slightly slack, Seongmin absorbed every minute detail of the Watchtower Priest setup. From major pillars like primary weaponry and talent masteries to the subtlest minor attributes, he scrutinized it all. It was an analysis made possible only because the streamer, for whatever reason, lingered on the post-match summary for an unusually long time.
"...Assuming the other three teammates are on equal footing, it's virtually impossible to lose with this."
Looking at it with open eyes, the conclusion was inescapable. The strategy completely erased one enemy player from the match while fulfilling its own role to perfection. It wasn't a 4v4; it effectively transformed the game into a 3v4. In fact, given the Priest's global influence, it functioned more like a 3v5. That sheer numeric disparity was an insurmountable wall.
"We need to practice this too."
Seongmin quietly gave voice to his regret. Why hadn't they recognized it sooner? Even as self-reproach gnawed at his battered pride, it was a conclusion any true professional had to acknowledge.
In the post-game lobby chat, there was nothing but effusive praise from allies and begrudging respect from opponents. Thanks to ATG's tournament victory and TG's defeat, the build had finally received the recognition it deserved. But...
"What, did they go to the bathroom?"
Just as the coach observed while watching over his shoulder, the streamer's cursor sat frozen on the results screen, not budging an inch for an eternity.
"Looks like it."
It was only natural to assume the player had stepped away from their desk to grab a drink or use the restroom.
However...
"Ah, come on, why?"
Their assumption was dead wrong.
"Just flame me already."
A heavy, dejected sigh spilled from the figure who had never left her chair—a thick, sticky sigh drenched in pure disappointment.