The Bunny Suit Pledge

Rank 1.

And a Kyeo-Wang marathon until I hit it.

Given my strict refusal to turn on either a webcam or ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a microphone, this was the absolute best content I could offer. And in Path of Night right now, the title of "Rank 1" carried immense weight.

The game had barely been out for a year. In any title's infancy, the line separating professionals from amateur high-rankers is wafer-thin. A quick look at the rosters of active pro teams revealed that the vast majority were simply competitive transplants from other games in similar genres.

Naturally, I had anticipated this level of skepticism. Solo rank at this tier served as a modern proving ground—a blood-soaked colosseum where aspiring prospects and reigning world champions staked their ratings on every single match. And into that frantic meat grinder strode someone who seemingly refused to take anything seriously, spamming emotes and deploying utterly bizarre builds. To them, I must have been an absolute eyesore.

It made sense that they found a sudden Rank 1 marathon dubious. They probably wrote it off as cheap viewbait.

And yet...

I only made the pledge because I knew I could deliver. I had complete confidence that I could reach Rank 1 before the day was out. Defying all medical logic, my physical reaction times in this body had climbed right to the outer limits of human capability. If anyone could pull it off, it was me.

Refusing to dignify the useless chatter with a response, I pressed Alt+Tab to minimize KiKik and return to my desktop.

Despite the tempting financial offer, I had no intention of cracking open Pandora's box.

"A-Ahem."

...Next time I stream, I really need to hide that.

Flustered, I fanned my overheated cheeks with both hands and booted up the client for Path of Night. The familiar login theme surged through the speakers, solemn and grandiose. Humming along in a desperate bid to drown out my lingering embarrassment, I hit the matchmaking button.

Solo rank, of course. Position: Watchtower.

If there was a single obstacle that could derail my pledge, it was queue times. But even that wouldn't be an issue anymore.

— Clang!

As if proving my theory right on cue, the queue popped in under two minutes. The pros and high-tier ladder grinders who had blacklisted me were bound to recognize the strategic brilliance of my build by now. While perhaps not all of them had swallowed their pride, a significant portion unblocking me was only natural.

"Whew..."

Even though I played every single day, the very first match of a session always brought a jitter of nerves. Would my fingers feel stiff? How was my condition today? Chewing over those routine anxieties, I clicked the accept button, and the client shifted smoothly into the pick-and-ban lobby.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.

Four summoner names populated my team's side of the screen. Myself, one regular high-ELO player, and two active professionals.

TG APE.

The very same pro who had so embarrassingly forgotten to log out of his custom lobby, granting me an impromptu private tutoring session, was now locked in as my ally. Even in hindsight, it baffled the mind. How could an active esports competitor forget to log out of an open lobby? Pure foolishness.

"Hmm..."

Stroking my chin, I scrutinized the remaining names on the roster. The other pro played under an overseas banner, while the non-pro user was someone I vaguely recalled encountering a long time ago. They had likely blacklisted me back then and only lifted the ban yesterday—or perhaps even earlier today.

My gaze lingered on the tag 'TG APE' for a good while longer. Brief though our previous encounter had been, fate was fate. Placing my fingertips on the keyboard, I tapped out a message in the lobby chat.

...Frankly, it felt a little disrespectful. I had addressed him with full honorifics, typing out a courteous greeting complete with proper spacing and punctuation, and all I got back was casual slang? 'Sup sup'?

"Tsk."

Knowing full well it was petty to take offense, I swallowed my irritation, refrained from adding anything further, and glanced back at the stream chat.

I swiftly muted anyone throwing unprovoked toxicity at innocent third parties. Seriously, if you're going to fling abuse, aim it at me. I'm begging you.

"Ahem."

Regardless, the chat carrier pigeons had delivered their intel: the opposing squad also harbored two professionals. Chief among them was Zero.

He was APE's teammate, TG's starting Watchtower laner, and a world champion who had hoisted the trophy just two months prior.

"Now this will be fun."

It had been nearly a month since I last faced him—which meant, in practical terms, I had only ever matched against him once since waking up in this body. He must have blacklisted me too. That gave me one more reason to win, beyond just taking Rank 1.

Seeing his inquiry pop up in the lobby, I deliberately withheld ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠my response. If I poured effort into typing a thoughtful explanation only to receive another curt dismissal, I'd just annoy myself all over again.

Taking my silence as confirmation, APE used his ban phase to eliminate one of the Rogue class's primary traits and weapon selections. Once the ban phase concluded, locking out specific class kits and armaments, the selection timer began ticking down.

My allies locked in standard competitive archetypes without a moment's hesitation. APE took the mechanically demanding Assassin for the Waterway, while our Plaza duo secured a Priest and a Paladin. While picking an Assassin over a utility Rogue required exceptional execution, it remained entirely within the bounds of standard orthodox play.

I held the Watchtower role. His comment made zero sense to me.

Who ever said I was playing Priest?

I locked in the Berserker.

How dull would life be if everything unrolled strictly according to expectations? Much like a novel or a film robbed of tension by spoilers, the lack of surprise drains all joy from the experience. That was an indisputable truth of life.

Judging by the chat, my viewers shared the exact same sentiment. Question ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠marks were the universal symbol of utter bewilderment, and bewilderment was the natural emotional byproduct of shattered expectations. Therefore, their frantic spam could only mean one thing: they were thrilled, vibrating with anticipation for the clash about to unfold. I held not a shred of doubt regarding that obvious deduction.

"Tsk."

Still, calling this my 'first game' was an outrage.

"...It's not my first game."

This was blatant defamation. A textbook Berserker build had been one of my most dependable core staples for years.

Hoping to dispel the slander while the match loaded, I typed out a quick message to engage with the audience.

Come to think of it, the raging bonfire of hate that had characterized my chat at the broadcast's start seemed to have lost some of its heat.

"...Hmm."

It was deeply disorienting. And honestly, a little disappointing.

Glancing at the viewer count as I pressed send, I noticed the tally had climbed to a staggering three hundred. Three hundred people. An utterly surreal number. I was caught between feeling bewildered and slightly grateful. What on earth did people find compelling enough in my irregular, mic-less, cam-less stream to spend their precious time watching?

The traffic sources lined up with my expectations. In fact, that community was the precise reason I had fired up the stream today in the first place.

"Hmm."

Filled with quiet anticipation, I tapped out another query on my keyboard.

I sincerely hoped they were. If so, I could spend the next few days vanity-searching every vitriolic post and drifting off to sleep wrapped in pure bliss.

My viewers seemed to have tragically misinterpreted my intent.

— BOOM!

Before I could clarify, the thunderous war drums reverberated across the speakers, signaling the start of the battle. To hit Rank 1 before the clock struck midnight, I couldn't afford to drop a single match from this moment forward.

"Let's do this."

Cracking my slender wrists against the empty air, I fixed my eyes on the display.

The primary map of Path of Night: the Twilight Battlefield.

For this match, our squad had been assigned to the siege faction. Our primary objective was to smash through the ramparts and obliterate the colossal core fortress anchoring the opposing base. As I rolled my neck from side to side to loosen the tension, the in-game team chat flared to life.

The match had barely begun, and my teammates were already second-guessing me. They whined when I locked in the Watchtower Priest, so I graciously accommodated them with an orthodox combat bruiser. What on earth was there left to complain about?

Placing my hands back over the keys, I fired off a message. Did my handle not spell out my entire gaming philosophy in plain letters?

I always do my absolute best. Once we're queued onto the same side, would it kill you to have a little faith?

Why couldn't my teammates be more like that foreign pro, broadcasting a lonely 'good luck, have fun' into the void? Shaking my head at my squad's complete lack of camaraderie, I turned my character toward the stone ramparts and marched forth.