The Weight of Confidence

Normally, Phantom didn't get involved in the trainees' scrims.

Under normal circumstances, Hero only had to manage the first-team players.

The trainees were usually managed by the other coaches on a rotational basis.

Even in this vast industry, talent like Phantom and Hero was hard to come by.

While it was true that a great player didn't always make a great leader, the two of them possessed outstanding abilities as director and coach.

In fact, having someone of Hero's caliber take time out of her schedule to look after third-tier trainees was quite a burden on the team.

That was also why the director had increased Hero's workload when she started coaching Yu Nabi.

Regardless of the director's personal feelings, they needed to fill the void left in the first team.

If Phantom still had his personality from his prime, he would have nagged her in various ways.

Asking if she wasn't overinvesting in a trainee who had barely learned to walk.

Objectively speaking, it was a criticism that made sense.

In other words, the third-tier players weren't the only ones on trial today.

The only reason Phantom had remained silent until now was because the hierarchy in their marriage was too firmly established.

It wasn't because he had seen the same potential in Yu Nabi.

If Nabi failed to prove herself, Hero's position would also become awkward.

Regardless of that.

Hero, however, seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the situation.

"I'm sure at least one will show up."

"What will?"

"Someone trying to show off and acting reckless. That's exactly how kids that age are."

The first requirement to make it big as a pro gamer is confidence.

A game-changing play inevitably carries a massive risk.

Success yields a clear return, but the backlash of failure is equally devastating.

Such plays are impossible to even attempt without what people call the 'courage to be disliked.'

I can do it.

No. That's wrong. Only I can do it.

Only ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠with a level of self-assurance that might seem reckless to others can one even take the first step.

Yet, paradoxically, one of the virtues of a rookie pro gamer is shedding some of that confidence.

Knowing exactly what Hero meant, Phantom let out a chuckle.

"It is a time when they tend to be arrogant in many ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠ways."

Having one's name on the IKL roster was, after all, proof of being a genius.

They perform brilliantly in the second division, carry the public's expectations, and enter the stage as dark horses.

Since they had likely cruised through victories ever since they started gaming, they probably felt like the protagonists of the world.

But there was one fact they tended to forget.

Once they reached the first division, every single enemy around them would be a genius just like them.

It might go well at first.

It wasn't impossible for a player to display overwhelming power from the very beginning and show glimpses of stardom.

Unprecedented monsters who rose to the top of the league in that manner certainly existed somewhere.

But for most, their momentum broke halfway through.

A long tail is bound to be stepped on eventually.

High-risk plays are bound to fail at some point.

The moment the team slips up because of their own mistake in a crucial match.

That is when the genius learns of their limits and fear for the first time.

Would the third-tier trainees be any different?

They believed they were good at the game. That was why they had made becoming a pro their life goal.

They must have indulged in fairy-tale delusions at least once.

Hero spoke quietly.

"I believe you should play with confidence, but you also need to know your place beforehand."

The confidence of top-tier players wasn't handed to them for free.

They had experienced failure, felt where their limits lay, and learned the painful consequences of what they had to endure afterward.

A confidence sharply honed through all those hardships was the true treasure.

After some minor adjustments, the scrim began.

As he watched the match, Phantom suddenly looked at his wife.

She had retired as a competitor long ago.

Yet, her fearlessness in the face of a challenge remained unchanged.

The confident gaze that had once captivated him had never faded.

It seemed Hero was using today as a preview.

Phantom suppressed his numerous doubts and condensed them into a single question.

"Is she... really worth that much anticipation?"

"My eyes are never wrong."

"If you say so."

For the first time, he focused on the nickname on the display.

SnowWitch Nabi.

It felt like he would be seeing that name often in the future.

In more ways than one.

Finally, it was my turn.

My vision was enveloped in a bright light.

The enemy's silhouette appeared as a faint blur of light before quickly taking solid form.

It started with the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Swordmaster's signature sword wind flying straight at me.

With a sharp screech, the oncoming wind collided with my axe and dispersed.

I scanned my surroundings while blocking, but the enemy was nowhere to be seen.

In a winner-stays-on match, the incoming player is always summoned facing the direction of the opponent.

There was no way the enemy could have gotten behind me in this split second.

Since Swordmasters didn't have stealth skills, there was only one place left.

The sky.

An attack packed with the player's own mass and the full acceleration of gravity came crashing down.

Not at me, but at the ground.

There's no need to take such an obvious attack head-on.

There is an absolute truth in this game.

Strong attacks carry strong risks.

Since he attempted a leap attack just to seize the initiative, it was time for him to pay the price.

Having stepped back significantly, I rushed toward the enemy once more.

The opponent was currently in a low stance, absorbing the impact of his landing.

In times like this, you have to target the upper body to break their posture.

Using my left foot as a pivot, I thrust my leg forward and kicked the enemy hard in the chest.

The Swordmaster, as the name suggests, was a class specialized in handling swords.

Its characteristics were fast attack speed and an almost broken level of defense penetration.

While it could be considered the most aggressive melee swordsman in the current meta, it naturally lacked in defensive capabilities.

Most notably, its defense was pitifully weak.

And it lacked any means of long-range protection.

The axe I drew from my waist was imbued with crimson mana.

The blade, carrying the full weight of my strength, sliced through the air and flew straight toward the Swordmaster's upper body.

No matter where it hit, the impact wouldn't be light.

Even if he managed to block it with his weapon.

The fact that the enemy focused on speed meant I held an overwhelming advantage in raw power.

Just as it was difficult for me to block all of those rapid attacks, it was hard for the enemy to fully absorb the weight of my blows.

Even for a throwing attack, when combined with an active skill, the impact was on a different level.

He should have blocked that last one with both hands.

His longsword faltered heavily.

There was no reason not to seize this opening.

My axe swung in a wide horizontal arc toward the enemy.

"Whoa...!"

Ah, right.

I forgot.

That was close.

Sorry.

I'll unmute you after the game.

Although the opponent had screamed, my attack hadn't actually sliced through the Swordmaster's body.

Everyone here today was a trainee aspiring to become a pro gamer.

If they were unskilled enough to just take hits helplessly, they wouldn't have even been invited to this scrim.

Besides, the rules of this match were winner-stays-on.

Since he had sliced through our team's starter, he was now fighting me.

Even in that urgent situation, the opponent raised his sword to guard and defend.

He absorbed the impact with his entire body while maintaining a stable posture.

Though he must have lost quite a bit of health due to his low defense, it was now my turn to play it safe for a moment.

Wait, why should I?

Did I pick up a bad habit in a different sense from focusing so much on solid defense lately?

A Berserker takes hits when necessary.

They only take hits when necessary.

Therefore, they must conserve their health under normal circumstances.

But if there is a guaranteed benefit, they can afford to take a hit.

Now was that moment.

The Swordmaster's blade slashed my right arm.

Normally, it would be a critical wound that severely reduced one's combat capability.

But I was a Berserker. And ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the most aggressive build of a Berserker at that.

You know who I am.

You've seen what broadcast I appear on.

Yet, did you not know how I actually fight?

I took the enemy's attack directly with my body while delivering a cross-counter.

Unlike me, who possessed a superior base class weight, the opponent was a speed-oriented swordsman.

If we fought without caring about our own bodies, I would always win.

Once. Twice. Three times.

With the final blow, the Swordmaster drew his last breath.

Perhaps because my predecessor had already chipped away at his health, taking him down was easier than expected.

I shouted boldly.

"Next!"

Of course, in reality, I stuttered a bit.

"N-Next..."