The Scammer Became a 33-Win PoChamps Pro (4)

PoChamps has all kinds of moves.

Moves with crushing power but terrible accuracy.

Moves that never miss but hit like a wet noodle.

Moves that sit at fifty percent—until some special condition flips them to a guaranteed hit.

High risk, high return.

You give up that perfect hundred percent accuracy in exchange for raw power. Roughly speaking, a sure-hit move deals ninety damage, while an eighty-percent move dishes out a hundred and ten.

I was more than happy to shoulder that risk—

Correction.

By picking, from among countless futures, only the ones where the move was guaranteed to land, I collected nothing but the return.

Say a move has ninety percent accuracy. It misses on turns one through three—but on turn four, it finally connects. That kind of future.

Ninety percent, and it still whiffs three times in a row? How?

That's just how PoChamps works.

I dug into the data a little. Apparently ninety-percent moves are nicknamed "minus-ninety"—missing is the expected outcome—and a thirty-percent move will always miss when I use it, but land every single time the opponent does.

Someone out there might be wondering.

Why would anyone ever run a thirty-percent move?

Just how massive does the payoff have to be for a move with worse-than-coin-flip odds to even exist?

One-Hit KO!

One-hit KO moves.

Borrowing the term from other games—instant-death attacks.

A thirty-percent shot at dropping the opponent in a single blow, no matter how much HP they have left.

Unless your team is built tanky enough to eat four or five of those and keep standing, most people simply don't run them. Outside of dedicated gimmick sets—Toxic Orb, Poison Heal, Substitute, Guillotine, the whole circus—serious PoChamps players almost never touch them.

Like I said: when I use one, it's zero percent. When the enemy uses one, it's a hundred.

So why does anyone slot them in at all?

Just to fish for that thirty-percent miracle?

To throw every winning line out the window, pray the OHKO connects, and tilt the other guy into oblivion?

They're gunning for a one-shot comeback.

When no clean win condition exists. When trading hits twice would seal it—but the opponent outspeeds you. At that point, pinning your hopes on a 4.17% critical hit in a key turn is somehow less reliable than just rolling the thirty-percent dice.

That's why one-hit KO moves usually occupy a single sub-weapon slot. Important enough to claim one of the four precious moves on a real competitive set—but almost never the main weapon. A coverage option. A backup plan.

Support moves that boost ranks or flip statuses still won't win the game for you, and a sub-weapon is, by definition, just a sub.

So what kind of move usually fills that sub-weapon slot?

Something that lets you win a matchup you otherwise couldn't. Something that can't hit hard with STAB, but can stab the opponent's weakness clean through.

Which raises a question.

If the whole point of a sub-weapon is to kill the enemy—why not just put in a move that kills the enemy?

Exactly like right now.

Two-on-two.

The final fight.

My opponent had landed a heavy blow first, leaving me at sixteen percent HP—and then died to a single one-hit KO from my side.

I won.

They lost. And just like that, I'd climbed into the Hyper tier.

The reason a viewer typed "how do you even lose to that" was simple: they weren't rooting for the streamer. They were projecting onto the player on the other side of the screen.

"If you get cut by scissors, you lose. That's the rules."

A narrow escape.

I said it casually, but honestly, I'd been backed into a corner.

"That's exactly why I run one-hit KO moves. Even when I walk into a bad matchup, they still let me win."

Three-to-two.

A future where, without that final Guillotine, defeat was locked in.

If you're wondering how someone who can read the future ends up pushed to the brink in the first place…

"Chat, I think I've got a stream sniper on me."

Because I was getting sniped off my own broadcast.

"If I wasn't, there's no way all three of their picks would be perfect answers to my team."

I was raising a perfectly reasonable suspicion. Nobody believed a word of it.

Maybe it just sounded like a streamer whining.

If that was the case…

"I'm telling you, they watched me lock in and then picked their three. Look at the Korean username."

They weren't going to believe me anyway—so the move was to turn it into content.

They might not trust my words, but they would trust what they could see with their own eyes, and the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠results that followed.

"Everyone. Run one-hit KO moves. They even beat stream snipers."

Whether it was sniping or not didn't matter.

My opponent had shoved me to a two-on-two, and every worldline that wasn't Guillotine led straight to a loss—so I cut those futures off with a pair of scissors.

"Hmm. What if next game I bring a completely different team and just sweep with OHKOs?"

I floated the bait, casual as anything.

If I'd had a cam, I could've reached toward the lens. If I'd had a VTuber Panttegi, I could've worked the cute animations and run the full donation-farming routine. For now, words were all I had.

"Chat, if I double-kill with one-hit KOs, what are you gonna give me?"

These freeloading maniacs.

When a streamer tees up a mission angle, aren't you supposed to put actual money on it?

How is it that from minute one, my chat is nothing but wallet-welded-shut psychopaths?

Not a single donation had dropped. Subscriptions weren't even open yet and I wasn't set up for them, fine—but a cheap little tip punch? Anyone could fire one of those off.

Nobody had even slapped a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠twenty-four-hour mission on "undefeated to Master Ball." If they had, I could've milked the safe-bet-versus-long-shot debate and filled the tip jar properly…

"Ahh—Anonymous Supporter just dropped twenty-six thousand won for the twenty-six-win celebration!!"

Why would anyone bother with sports betting?

While some bottom-feeder team was still wondering when they'd crawl out of last place, over here you could click one-hit KO and pull in twenty-six thousand won.

Sure, there were platform fees. But that was the recipient's problem. From the giver's side, it was a different story entirely.

I was taught very carefully never to talk fees or taxes in front of people handing you money.

You do not sour the mood of someone who just paid you. Especially not if they looked like the type to keep donating.

"Alright, next queue—ah."

The moment I went to lock in my team, something hazy flickered across my vision again.

Viewers who'd suddenly come out of nowhere.

I'd felt a hint of it before, but this team composition was laser-targeted at my entry—like someone had a perfect read.

For real. I had a sniper.

On a stream that didn't even have ten—

Ah.

I'd broken ten.

I'd been too busy snipping heads off with Guillotine to notice, but on day two of streaming, I'd hit double-digit viewers.

An encouraging number.

Not a number I was about to throw away by losing to a stream-sniping parasite.

"Hmm…"

My blurred vision snapped back into focus.

What I saw was the team select screen.

"Veterans in chat—you can't see what they locked in right now, can you?"

I was mostly saying it so the sniper listening to the stream would feel a twinge of guilt—but if they'd been the guilt-feeling type, my viewer count would've already dropped by one.

Even this kind of person counts as a viewer.

The sad reality of a tiny streamer: even a stream-sniping parasite filled a seat, so you had to keep them around.

Of course, a viewer was a viewer—and I was not about to give up the three hundred thirty thousand won I might (might) collect for hitting a thirty-three-win Master Ball streak.

"What should I bring…"

…Even thirty-three thousand would be fine.

In the end, what mattered was that I didn't lose.

A sniper showing up means word is spreading somewhere.

I didn't even need to dig through past-life memories for this one.

Whether it was a buddy Discord, a community board, or some image gallery—talk was circulating.

Judging by the vibe, it's probably a bunch of elementary schoolers sniping out of a group chat.

Personally, I was hoping for raid coordinates and a flood of anonymous traffic pushing me to thirty, a hundred viewers—but if it was a kids' sniper chat, so be it.

I need to go viral.

Hit thirty-three wins and the buzz would take care of itself, one way or another.

First, secure the win in front of me.

"If they lead with number one, Building Dragon gets blown up on the spot, right?"

Viewer or sniper, I couldn't tell—but unlike before, I was visibly agonizing over my picks, and chat seemed a little thrown off.

Of course, since I'd been the one to bring up sniping first, they didn't actually think I was being sniped…

Three seconds left on the clock.

"Locked in."

Before the timer hit zero, I chose the most certain future available.

"Hoo."

I'd sent out something completely unhinged.

But my opponent… had led with something that looked like it was aimed at a very specific target.

"Came out here to eat a 4x Electric hit and die."

A perfect type advantage on my side.

If I just used a move, they'd drop—but…

"Chat."

I needled the viewers, just a little.

"Mind if I hide my move window for a second?"

"No—I want you guys to try and guess."

I adjusted the broadcast layout so the move window wouldn't show, then clicked a button with surgical precision.

"No switch animation, so I used an attack, right? Which move did I pick?"

One in four.

The better a PoChamps player you were, the more your brain would hurt.

The answer sheet was sitting right there in the open.

A coverage move sniping the switch-in.

A plain attack.

A setup move you'd only click if you were high.

"Looks like the opponent's overthinking it too."

It wasn't PoChamps, but I'd spent some time around rigged gambling tables once. I'd learned a few things.

The tells people give off when they're mid-manipulation and suddenly lose control. The accidents that happen when someone papers over a skill gap with cheating.

"Want me to guess their move instead?"

Beginner or pro—the moment you realize your psychology is being read, you start making bad calls.

"I'll say it the second ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the timer hits—oh. There it is."

If you were serious about making money off PoChamps, studying the game as hard as a pro poker player was just the baseline.

"They're going to switch."

An irrational play.

A brain so scrambled it produced a garbage decision even an elementary schooler wouldn't make—though, granted, they probably were one.

What appeared was their ace.

Fwoom!

Their ace went down without getting off a single action.

The sole remaining mon my coverage move could one-shot.

Out of the five left after the fallen lead, it had to be one of two candidates—and of those, the single one that only took super-effective damage if it came in on a switch.

If a streamer pulled this off, chat would be a tornado of "ARE YOU INSANE???"

"Easy."

I turned the camera back.

From here on, even with stream sniping, they couldn't win.

"Winning streaks are pretty simple, huh?"

Why?

"Once I give this one up, from the next game on I only have to press a single button."

This worldline.

"Now I can just mash one-hit KO moves until I win."

Because all that remained was the Absolute Zero of a promised victory.