Their End

Their end. The moment Shin Jaehyun grabbed me by the collar and that betrayal-filled shout echoed through the entire practice room, my sanity snapped in an instant. I hated that cry—it made me feel like a coward. I hated that resentful expression—it made me feel pathetic. Even while clutching my collar, he wasn’t looking at me. It was as if the whole world disgusted him; his tightly clenched fist simply trembled without pause.

Why did I have to become the repulsive one? Why did I always end up as the disgusting bastard while he remained clean? I couldn’t understand it. So I threw a punch, intending to drag him down from that high place. Because I despised every single thing in that moment—the stares of others, all of it—I swung without mercy.

When I regained my senses, the director and coach had already pinned me down. Strangely, I felt no pain in my face or body. I assumed a surge of adrenaline was numbing everything, but then—

Ah.

Shin Jaehyun’s fist was still trembling exactly as before. That pale, bloodless hand showed no trace of having struck anything. In the end, the fact that he had refused to become as ugly and worthless as me was unbearably unfair.

Someone in the middle introduced themselves as the new arrival to STD, but none of it registered. Selfishly, I had already ruled out the option of apologizing to Shin Jaehyun, so all I could do was wonder how to untangle the complicated, murky emotions swirling inside me.

In truth, STD hadn’t always been this twisted. The bot duo, famous for their stable laning, used to dictate the team’s entire strategy. Top and mid possessed solid champion pools and the aggression needed to play flexibly. Back in the 2039 VKC Spring regular season, the standings looked like this:

They had secured third place in the regular season with a relatively stable and peaceful atmosphere. Although they stumbled in the playoffs and finished fifth overall, it was still an achievement. While ZX’s eight-man roster dominated the All-Pro Team, Shin Jaehyun earned a spot on the All-Pro Second Team, proving his worth in real time.

And that was exactly when STD began to crumble.

One day, a director from an STD affiliate named Shin Ho-jin appeared before us. He whispered sweetly that he would deposit a billion won into our accounts if we simply interfered with CSkiller. Of course we refused at first. A billion won might sound tempting, but there was no guarantee he would actually pay it, and the risk of being branded as lifelong bullies within the team was too great. Rejection seemed like the only rational choice.

But the top laner Jeon Kang-hyuk and mid laner Choi Min-jun thought differently. They accepted the offer without hesitation. Once we learned they had truly received the massive sum, the thought crept in: Am I the only idiot missing out on this opportunity?

I didn’t have a sick family member who urgently needed money, but I wanted to use it to build a happy life with my family. So when even I—the last one who had stood by Shin Jaehyun—joined the harassment, he began to break.

Until then, even when top and mid kept overextending and feeding kills to the enemy bot lane, our support would calmly brief the team and absorb the pressure, mitigating the damage as much as possible. But now the support’s calls and briefings had vanished. The once-stable bot lane style transformed into something excessively aggressive.

Every time Shin Jaehyun struggled to adapt, another several billion won appeared in our accounts. Rumors even spread that he was a nepotism hire, and the talk grew so severe that people predicted he would quit being a pro gamer soon.

The reality that I was destroying one man’s life with my own hands buried me in guilt for a while. But Shin Jaehyun endured. He mastered both macro play and aggressive styles, overcoming the ordeal. His strength was no longer stable laning and CS leads—it became proactive, ferocious teamfight execution. Although top and mid ignored him, the in-game calls he made grew remarkably clean.

And from that exact moment, inferiority replaced my guilt. Why could he endure and prove himself no matter how hard we tried to ruin him? How could he possibly turn every artificially created weakness into a strength? More than anything, the certainty that I could never endure the way he did made me feel even more pathetic.

So I clenched my teeth even ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠harder, tormenting him with more malice just to see if he could withstand this as well. I played against his calls on purpose. In situations that clearly demanded an engage, I would throw the ADC in alone and do nothing. Finally, even Shin Jaehyun—who had endured everything—lost completely in scrims and grabbed me by the collar.

The instant he seized me, I felt a pathetic sense of relief, thinking that he too was only human and would fall to the bottom like me. But as if openly mocking my wretched comfort, he endured once again. The moment I saw that, it felt like a hammer struck my skull. Everything I had done flashed before my eyes like a panorama.

After that day, the inferiority I had felt ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠toward Shin Jaehyun transformed—astonishingly—into admiration. Yet the mountain of karma I had piled up was so immense that even when I wanted to apologize and atone, the chance never came easily.

By the time I came to my senses, I had been reduced to awkwardly hinting to the new mid laner, Oh Sera—who was already helping Jaehyun indirectly—that I wanted to help too. She coldly replied with a laugh, “If you really want to help, why don’t you just leave with Jeon Kang-hyuk?” I took her words seriously.

When Choi Min-jun bribed the first- and second-team players to protect his mid lane position, I pretended to accept the bribe while secretly isolating ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Choi and dying for Jaehyun so he could grow. I made tiny adjustments so the games would lean slightly in Jaehyun’s favor.

After the main mid laner was replaced by Oh Sera, she began tearing into Jeon Kang-hyuk and me mercilessly after every match. Jeon eventually snapped back once, but afterward he would tremble whenever he saw her. A few days later he vanished without a trace.

Even so, I tried to change. In scrims I accommodated Jaehyun as much as possible and practiced normally for the first time in ages. There was an incident where we had to return all the money Shin Ho-jin had promised, but I endured it, viewing the process as reclaiming my pride as a pro. As a result, Jaehyun slowly began to open his heart again, just like before.

But when Oh Sera—the one who had expelled both Jeon and Choi—suddenly summoned me, two thoughts collided: that the inevitable had arrived, and that even if I was going to leave, I should at least give Jaehyun one last apology. I stepped into her personal office.

“Uh… yeah. I know it pretty well… ma’am.”

Even though she was clearly younger, the overwhelming pressure she gave off made it impossible to lift my head. I kept my gaze fixed on the floor, waiting for her next words. She clicked her tongue in clear displeasure and continued.

“Of course, I have zero intention of using someone like you as a starting player. Still, your game sense isn’t terrible, so I was thinking of trying you out as a coach. Well… will you do it?”

What…?

So Shin Jaehyun—no, Jaehyun—had given me a second chance?

Honestly, I was a man who hadn’t even properly atoned yet. I wasn’t sure I deserved an opportunity like this.

“Understood…”

It was a day filled with two simultaneous resolutions: I would support the team with everything I had from now on, and I would be extremely careful around Oh Sera.