Ah, I Really Can't Stand This

Yu Nabi had no dreams.

Or rather, she used to have one, but it seemed she had given up on it.

Both of my parents worked in the legal profession.

My older sister, perhaps finding the family business suited her, had entered law school and was now close to graduating.

I didn't know much about my family's hobbies, but they probably had nothing to do with music.

Thus, the practice room, where a single piano sat in isolation, was a space meant solely for me.

And the dust piled atop its cover was likely the residue of despair.

In my memories, Yu Nabi played the piano quite well.

She seemed to enjoy it, and as luck would have it, she possessed the talent to match.

Teachers who saw videos of Yu Nabi playing all recommended that she receive formal training.

But a pianist does not perform alone in a solitary room.

In the end, Yu Nabi failed to overcome her social anxiety and sank into isolation.

Me, who could do nothing but dream.

Yu Nabi, who had failed at her dream and became unable to do anything.

Could we reach a different outcome?

I wasn't sure. But I wanted to at least try.

I picked up my phone and pressed the call button.

"Nabi?"

"M-M-Mom..."

"What's wrong, Nabi? Is something happening at home? No one is there right now, right?"

For me, this was my own declaration of war.

I had called because I wanted to say it properly with my own voice, rather than just tapping out a text message.

What I hadn't anticipated was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠my mother's reaction.

Yu Nabi's conversational skills were not just lacking; they were catastrophic.

Combined with her communication disorder, she normally had absolutely no reason to make phone calls.

I had called because it was a matter of grave importance to me, but my mother was misinterpreting this as an emergency.

"Did... did a stranger break in?"

"T-that's, well..."

"Nabi. Don't say a word and stay right where you are. I'll call the police and head over immediately."

"N-no. That's not it..."

If she actually called the police, things would get out of hand.

And worse than things getting out of hand, the police would enter the house!

The police would come in and bombard me with questions like, Are you okay? Are you hurt anywhere? We received a report from your parents, what happened?

No.

Absolutely not that.

Fortunately, my mother knew me better than I knew myself.

She knew that for me to utter a single sentence required a great deal of resolve and time.

Regaining her composure, she gave me space to speak.

"It's not? I'm sorry. Mom got a bit ahead of herself, didn't she? Take your time. I'm listening."

"I... I want to buy a gaming console. But it's too expensive. I want to... try becoming a pro gamer."

"A gaming console? Ah... I see. Let me look into it and get back to you. Can you send me a link to where I can buy it?"

"Yes."

I had become a son—no, a daughter—whose sole reason for calling was to beg for a gaming console.

And even then, I couldn't speak properly, nearly causing a police dispatch.

Though my mother readily agreed to buy it, my dark history wasn't going anywhere.

I kicked my blankets in frustration and lamented.

Ah, I really can't stand this.

Infinity Realm was a full-dive virtual reality battle game.

The moment a match was made, the battlefield and rules were decided; the only thing a player could choose was their own character.

Once the game began, they had to enter the fray as their customized character.

The crucial part was the very fact that I became the character.

Since every movement was realistically rendered, handling weapons and using one's body depended entirely on the user's actual physical skill.

This meant I had to personally execute the kind of combat one would only see in martial arts novels.

Because of this, combat in Infinity Realm was visually spectacular.

Even those who knew nothing about the game could enjoy watching it through videos and commentary alone.

Infinity Realm had held a tight grip on the esports market since its predecessor's days, producing numerous stars along the way.

The pros I had become a fan of while in the hospital room were players of this very game.

I wanted to become a professional gamer in this game.

And the first gateway to becoming a pro was clearly defined.

That gateway was none other than Ranked Match points.

A high rank didn't guarantee a good performance in the professional league.

However, if ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠you couldn't prove yourself in Ranked Matches, you wouldn't even get the chance to enter the pro league.

Debates over whether Ranked Match performance translated to league success only mattered once you actually made it into the league.

An aspiring pro starting from the absolute bottom like me had to, at the very least, excel in Ranked Matches.

To be blunt, if you hit a wall here, it was better to give up on the dream of becoming a pro gamer.

Even so, I was breaking through this first gateway at a dazzling speed.

My vision darkened for a moment before brightening along with the system messages.

The first thing that came into view was a night sky embroidered with starlight.

The distinct salty scent of the sea drifted past the tip of my nose, and a cool breeze fluttered through my clothes.

This game, with its realistically rendered five senses, never failed to make my heart flutter.

The main thing to watch out for on this battlefield was the shipwreck terrain itself.

The debris floating on the water was already waterlogged and fragile.

Consequently, any strong impact during combat would destroy them.

They would sink into the ocean, taking the player standing on them down with them.

And right now, a school of ferocious sharks was swimming beneath the surface.

If you fell into the water while bleeding, it was practically a death sentence.

The sharks, catching the scent of blood, would swarm you and punch your ticket to the afterlife.

It was a battlefield that demanded constant focus on positioning.

In that case, the very first thing I had to do in this game was already decided.

Playing a game while hearing other people's voices?

As if I could ever do that.

You're all muted.

Combat, by nature, is a noble act.

True warriors should clash by pouring everything they have into their weapons.

When we are already sharing a conversation of souls as man to man, what reason is there to babble with others?

Anyway, after silencing all my teammates, my mind felt much more at ease.

Communication via pings was more than enough, and if push came to shove, I trusted my own judgment.

Besides, in high-tier queues, the game usually worked itself out as long as everyone read the map well.

Especially in the Graveyard of Shipwrecks, players rarely grouped up due to the nature of the terrain.

My class, the Berserker, was strong in solo combat.

Knowing I had a sniper who could support me in a pinch, I boldly dashed toward the north.

An opponent will probably head this way too.

In any game, a 'meta' develops over time.

While this meta isn't always correct, it's best to follow it unless a better strategy exists.

Especially in Ranked Matches, where you have to coordinate with strangers, it was hard to choose any other option.

On this map, a melee combatant like me had to hold the northernmost entry point.

And there was one merit to following the meta ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠here.

It made it easy to deduce who my opponent would be.

My match would likely be another Berserker.

Since we played the same class, our thought processes would be similar, and the battlefield itself encouraged a mirror match.

As I sprinted across the map, an enemy appeared from the opposite side.

Oh... as expected!

My prediction was spot on.

A solidly built, muscular man. His sharp dual axes gleamed under the starlight.

Looking at that valiant figure, my own blood began to boil.

There was a long-standing tradition among us Berserkers.

To show one's weapon once we were close enough to see each other's faces.

After showing respect as warriors, we would channel the power of lightning and fight with everything we had.

I really loved this moment in the game.

It was a form of communication that even I, someone who couldn't exchange a single word with others, could participate in freely.

Raising both arms as if cheering, I proudly displayed my weapon and called upon the lightning.

This ritual allowed us to feel a sort of bond without a single word.

I shouted in silence.

The beauty of this ritual was that there was no need to make an actual sound.

Greetings, brother! Let us clash with everything on the line!

Since I had initiated the tradition, it was now the opponent's turn to respond.

The opponent stared at me with eyes as fierce as his valiant character model.

And soon, his answer arrived.

A thrown axe flew right past my shoulder.

Why, you son of a bitch...

The warrior's ritual had just been insulted.